“Will not,” Illbane noted. “Not can not.”
“Will or can, what matter?” Culaehra was angry now. “You say the Ulin are not gods, but they can kill us at their whim, they can blast mountains into gravel, they can fight wars in the skies! Whether you call them supermen or subgods matters little— they are what they are, and if they are not gods, they are certainly so close as to make no difference! Gods' powers they have, so gods they are!”
“They are dead,” Illbane said, “most of them. Only a few still live.”
“So you say!” Culaehra jumped up, pointing at the sage. “You say they are—but no one ever saw the Ulin more than once in a lifetime, and most never saw them at all, so how would we know if they are dead or not? Myself, I will refuse to believe they are not gods, or are truly dead, either!”
“I will, though.” Yocote still sat, eyes glowing. “I will believe they are only an older race, giants endowed with magical powers, created by the same Creator who made us, the younger races.”
“You will believe this old wives' tale?” Culaehra spun to stare down at Yocote.
“I will,” the gnome confirmed, “for magic makes so much more sense if all its power proceeds from a single Source.”
“Only one?” Culaehra scowled. “What of evil magic, eh? What of necromancy, what of the raising of demons?”
“Anything good can be twisted to a bad use by bad people,” the gnome replied, unruffled. “That does not change the fact that it was good at the outset.” He nodded. “Yes, that even makes it clear how such evil magic can be untwisted, can be defeated.”
“And just incidentally will make your own magic stronger,” Culaehra accused—but he shivered inside at the thought.
Especially because Yocote nodded placidly. “Any increase in understanding will make me a better shaman, yes.”
“So you will believe Illbane,” Culaehra said in disgust and turned to the sage, his sarcasm heavy. “Is there anything you do not know?”
“Too much,” Illbane told him, “far too much,” thus beginning the cry that would echo down the ages, and that scholars would repeat ever after.
Northward they went, as the autumn grew colder and the altitude higher. At night Kitishane brought out her collection of animal pelts and showed the others how to stitch them into coats. Illbane told them that the people who lived in the northern countries attached hoods to their collars, much as southern people wore cowled robes.
“The nights have not grown longer, Illbane,” Yocote pointed out. “How can that be? It is high autumn!”
“Yes, but we are traveling northward,” Illbane told him. “The farther north you go, the longer the days—so as the autumn lengthens, the days do not.”
It made no sense to Culaehra, but Yocote seemed to understand, nodding and smiling, pleased. The big man's hatred for the gnome had been receding, but this brought it back full-force.
The land rose beneath them; in two days' travel they looked back and saw the plain spread out below them, the trees already small enough to seem like curving lines of weeds. Looking ahead, they saw mountains rising up to fill the sky.
“We have to climb those?” Yocote stared up, appalled.
“Someday, you will be able to sit cross-legged and rise from the ground in your shaman's trance, Yocote,” Illbane told him. “Then you will be able to fly over mountains such as these. But for now, you must climb, yes.”
Lua shivered, staring. “We shall fall off!”
“No, it is only walking,” Illbane told her, “for there is a pass between peaks, high above. There is only walking, but a great deal of it.”
Culaehra was tempted to ask how he knew, but thought better of it.
Climb they did, and it was heavy, wearying work. The sky was overcast more often than not, and with the shadow of the mountains, the light was gloomy—but the gnomes still wore their goggles—until they met the stranger.
Now it was Lua who occasionally stopped to pick up a rounded rock and admire it, and a very few of them she saved. Yocote watched her, frowning, but said nothing. But it was quite a surprise to all of them when one of the rocks said, “Ouch!”
Lua leaped back, staring, and Yocote was by her side in an instant. The others stopped, frowning, but Culaehra and Kitishane could see nothing other than rock.
“Your pardon, Old One,” Lua stammered. “I did not realize that was your toe!”
“Are you blind, then?” a gravelly voice said, and some of the rocks moved. Kitishane gasped, because that movement suddenly revealed a human form!
Not completely human, of course. It stood only as high as a man's waist, and was the color of the rocks around it, even having skin of the same texture—but the shoulders, arms, and head were the size of a grown man's, a very strong man's. The torso was short and the legs shorter.
It was a dwarf.
“Of course you are blind.” The dwarf answered himself. “You are gnomes, and you wear masks that block out most of the light!”
Lua yanked her goggles up to her forehead and winced at the sudden brightness. “Yes, now I see you—and the daylight is dim enough that it does not pain me. Foolish I was not to raise them sooner!”
“Foolish indeed,” the dwarf grated. “What do gnome-folk do in the company of humans?”
“We learn from a sage,” Yocote answered, lifting his goggles. “What do you do abroad in daylight? I know dwarfs gather minerals from the surface now and again, but always at night!”
“Our eyes can bear the daylight,” the dwarf growled. “Get along with you now, though if you had sense, you would stay with your own kind.”
Yocote's face darkened; he readied a scathing retort.
Illbane forestalled it. “He will say anything rather than ask for help.”
“Help?” Lua looked the dwarf up and down—and gasped. “His foot is caught!”
Culaehra looked, then stared. “A wonder that it is not flattened!”
“You do not know how hard dwarfs are,” the stranger returned, but his eyes were on Illbane, and he showed no surprise as he said, “So you are awake, are you? The world must be in far worse condition than it seems!”
“Only the part of it that lives,” Illbane assured him. He nodded at Culaehra. “Take the crowbar from my pack, lean it over a small stone, and lift that boulder enough for the dwarf to free himself.”
Culaehra reflected that the dwarf would thereby scarcely be freeing himself, but was wise enough not to say so. He took off the pack, found the crowbar, and pushed its flattened end under the boulder, placing a small stone for a fulcrum, reflecting that perhaps he really had learned something about people, after all.
He leaned down as heavily as he could, and the boulder vibrated.
“A spell, Yocote,” Illbane said.
The gnome began to chant, and the dwarf stared. Culaehra redoubled his efforts, and the front of the boulder lifted two inches. The dwarf yanked his foot free, then lifted it to rub with a hand, making a rasping sound. Culaehra let the boulder drop and was glad to pull the crowbar loose.
“I thank you,” the dwarf said slowly.
Yocote and Lua stared.
Kitishane understood. To the sage, she murmured, “Illbane— the stories say dwarfs are never grateful.”
“The stories lie,” he murmured back.
Lua had recovered. “We were glad to aid you, Old One.”
“Yes, glad indeed,” Yocote agreed, still staring. “Weren't we, Culaehra?”
“Absolutely delighted,” the big man agreed. He put the crowbar away and tied the pack.
“I shall repay,” the dwarf said, “or another dwarf shall. Call by Graxingorok. Dwarfs honor debts.”
“There is no debt,” Lua protested. “We have done what we have because it is right!”
“It is a debt,” the dwarf insisted. “Farewell.” He stepped back against the bare rock wall and disappeared.
The humans stared, but Yocote pointed out, “He could still be right here, and us unable
to see him.”
“He could indeed,” Illbane agreed. “You have done well, my friends.”
“Any excuse to take off my pack for a few minutes.” Culaehra lifted the rucksack again with a grunt. “Of course, that excuse is worn-out now, isn't it, Illbane?”
“Satisfied, I should say, rather than worn-out,” the sage replied, amused. “But you are right, Culaehra. We must go on.”
For the rest of their travels in the mountains, though, the gnomes wore their goggles up on their foreheads. They needed them only once, when the sun shone for a few hours.
Fortunately, even here Illbane put them to only half a day's travel; the other half, he insisted on their practicing their fighting skills and learning new ones, chiefly how to breathe when the air was so thin. They grew dizzy at first, but became used to it. “Be wary when you come down the other side,” Illbane cautioned them. “The air will seem like broth.”
Culaehra wondered irritably why the old man forced them to learn to fight at such an altitude. Did he expect them to meet an army in a high mountain pass? But he held his tongue, reflecting that a true warrior must be ready for attack at any time, in any place.
Then they came to the pass at the top of the trail and were glad of Illbane's drill, for a monster came hopping out to bar their way.
The women gasped and recoiled in disgust, and even Culaehra expelled an exclamation of surprise. “Illbane! It is half a man!”
It was—a monster with only one huge, broad foot at the end of a single leg. There was no cut-off stump beside it; it had grown that way, molding smoothly into the torso; if there were a hip, it could not be discerned. It had a head with a spiky thatch of hair, but only one eye square in the center, a snub of a nose with a single nostril, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth below it. Its chest and belly were lumpy with muscle, and a long, thick, sinewy arm grew out between the massive pectorals that moved it. A single hand slapped up, palm out and stiff, as if to bar their path. The creature uttered a threatening guttural bark that communicated the same message. It wore no clothes, and all could see that it had no genitalia.
Lua shuddered.
“What is it, Illbane?” Yocote asked, eyes wide.
“It is called a fuchan,” Illbane told him, “and there is no going around it.”
“What!” Culaehra stared. “Must we stand and await its convenience, then?”
The monster uttered another harsh and threatening bark, and Illbane said, “It will never be convenient. Bolenkar has stationed it here to keep folk from penetrating farther into these mountains.”
Culaehra frowned. “Why? What difference does it make to him?”
“If the way is closed,” Illbane told him, “there can be no escape from the Vanyar hordes he is pushing west.”
It struck Culaehra as odd phrasing, but this was not the time to consider it. “Let us at least test the creature.” He moved to the left, keeping his face toward the fuchan and his guard up. The fuchan hopped even as he moved, always facing him, its eye unblinking. Frowning, Culaehra leaped up on a crag, and it imitated him, hopping high—but landing at the foot of the crag, clearly waiting for him to leap down.
Yocote dashed for the pass.
The fuchan sprang high, its broad foot falling straight toward the spot where the gnome would be when it landed. Yocote veered aside, but the fuchan, incredibly, changed its trajectory and landed squarely in front of him.
At the far side of the defile, Culaehra leaped down.
The fuchan was on him in an instant, springing to lash out with a huge fist. Culaehra fell back, raising an arm to block— and the fuchan spun, its fist opening to scoop up Yocote as he tried to dash past. The broad hand hurled the gnome high. He squalled in fright, but Illbane reached up to catch him. “It has chosen its ground well, Yocote. The pass is too narrow for more than two people to confront it at once, and it can deal with two.”
“But can it deal with one?” Culaehra sprang straight toward the fuchan, hunching over and slamming three quick blows at its belly.
It was like pounding oak.
Culaehra sprang back with an oath of surprise to cover his pain—and the fuchan's fist caught him halfway, sending him sprawling. Lua was beside him in an instant, but he shoved her aside with a snarl and pushed himself to his feet, glaring at the fuchan to keep his world from tilting too badly.
“Remember the arts I have taught you!” Illbane barked, and Culaehra fell into a guard stance without even thinking about it—because he was realizing that, whether or not his teacher had intended it this way, this was a test.
“I had not thought it would be so strong,” he said.
“Strong enough to chip rock, if it holds a stone in its fist! Go warily!”
Culaehra moved around the monster in a chain step. Instead of merely pivoting to follow him, it hopped bent-kneed in a grotesque parody of his steps. Culaehra timed his kick to catch the fuchan in midair. He lashed out at what should have been its groin—but the fuchan lifted its knee, deflecting the blow. Then its foot blurred with speed, and Culaehra went smashing backward into his companions with a howl of pain. He doubled over, retching, for the kick had caught him in the stomach. Lua was beside him instantly, rubbing at the small of his back, and he was too weak to bat her aside. Through the ringing in his ears he heard Kitishane say, “It mirrors your movement.”
When the haze cleared from his eyes, he saw her moving toward the monster. “No!” he cried in sudden fear. “It will kill you!”
“I will not go that close,” she assured him—and, incredibly, began to dance!
Left foot over right, right swinging back, leaping in the air to click her heels—and the fuchan mimicked her, springing to one side, then the other, then leaping up and flexing its leg, mirroring her movements as well as it could with only one leg. She began to move in more complex patterns, faster and faster, and the fuchan kept imitating her, but began to fall behind. Its forehead wrinkled in concentration, its foot began to move so quickly that its body seemed to hang in midair—but the single steps were behind Kitishane by several seconds, and grew more and more clumsy as the fuchan began to try to execute two or three steps at a time.
“You're confusing it!” Lua breathed, wide-eyed.
Kitishane nodded, panting, eyes bright, and drew her sword. The fuchan suddenly went still, staring warily, but Kitishane laid her sword on the ground, crying, “Illbane, Culaehra's blade!”
Illbane stepped forward, holding it out to her. She took the hilt and laid the blade over her own sword in an X, then began to prance in the quarters formed between steel edges, toes pointing, springing lightly. Her eyes glowed, her cheeks were rosy, her bosom rose and fell with quick deep breaths—and Culaehra stared spellbound, forgetting his pain in awe of her beauty.
The fuchan began to imitate her movements again, hopping about in a parody of her light-footed steps, faster and faster, falling behind and becoming confused again, trying to catch up, to execute two or three figures at once.
Kitishane swooped down, caught up a sword and lunged.
The fuchan's fist blurred, knocking her blade aside and striking her breastbone.
“Kitishane!” Lua cried, and ran to her as she struck the ground—but Culaehra was there first.
He cradled her head in his hand, and there was alarm in his voice. “Kitishane! Do you live?”
Her eyes opened, to stare at him in amazement. “Alive ... yes.” Then she went limp, and Lua was there to stroke her forehead, murmuring.
Culaehra left Kitishane to her ministrations, rising to glare at the fuchan. “Vile monstrosity! To strike at so gentle and fragile a being!”
Kitishane's head cleared enough for her to realize what he was about to do. “Culaehra, no!”
“It deserves whatever it gets,” the big man growled, pacing toward the fuchan.
“Not in anger!” Kitishane waved weakly. “Lua ... tell him...”
The gnome laid her friend's head down and dashed to Culaehra's side. Her little
hand touched his big one timidly, but she said, “Do not strike for revenge, Culaehra, not if ... you love her. Strike only to accomplish.”
Love! The word rattled Culaehra—but it amazed him even more that Lua could speak of his loving another, and that without bitterness or anger.
“She speaks wisely,” Yocote said stiffly. “We must trick the thing—it has proved we cannot defeat it by force of arms alone.”
That was the last thing Culaehra wanted to hear, but he slowed reluctantly, glaring at the monster. It waited, impassive and patient—and ready.
“She has shown you the way,” Yocote reminded him.
A gleam came into Culaehra's eye, and slowly, clumsily, he began to mimic the steps he had seen Kitishane execute. Slowly, yes, but faster and faster, his steps wove her intricate pattern, making it wider and wider, taking him farther and farther to each side. Warily, the fuchan began to imitate him, hopping out the pattern as well as it could with its one foot. Culaehra began to move forward and backward as well as from side to side, and each bend forward brought him closer and closer to the fuchan.
Yocote began to beat on his thigh and chest, making a rhythm to match Culaehra's dance; Lua joined in, with a lilting, fluting, wordless tune. Faster and faster the music went, faster and faster Culaehra danced, faster and faster the fuchan hopped, growing more and more clumsy, trying frantically to keep up with Culaehra. He began to leap high between steps, the fuchan leaped high—and Culaehra lashed out with a kick, straight at its “hip.”
It was a brave try, but fast though he was, the fuchan was faster. It hopped out of the way, even as it swung its single foot high, kicking back in imitation—and Culaehra, landing, caught that foot and shoved it higher. The single arm flailed, the fuchan let out a caw of alarm and struggled to swing its foot down—but Culaehra held it up, and the monster slammed down onto the ground. Its head cracked against the stony path and it went limp.
“Foul beast!” Culaehra growled, and stepped in to kick where it should have had a groin—but Lua threw herself onto his leg, wrapping arms and legs about it, crying, “No, Culaehra! Not for revenge! You have beaten it; that is enough!”
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