Kitishane looked up at Culaehra in alarm, but he only nodded with grim satisfaction. She turned to Illbane, but he was gazing at Culaehra with pride and approval. In desperation she turned to Lua. “Is no one sane here?”
“Men never are.” The gnome trembled with agitation. “They must do manly things now, and hack at one another till the end.” She turned to Yocote. “Can you do nothing to stop them?”
“What, me? Save the life of that monster who was so cruel to you?”
“That is past! He would never do so now! Oh, Yocote, I beg—”
“Do not.” He cut her off with a curt gesture. “The braggart has saved my life, and I his—that is all that needs saying. I will save him if I can—and if he needs it.”
The soldiers marched them out into the courtyard, Kitishane hurrying alongside Culaehra to cry, “Are you mad? A warrior, a woods-runner, to meet a king in pitched battle? He will have armor and a shield! What will you have?”
“A sword,” Culaehra returned, “and the skill Illbane taught me. Have you no confidence in our training, Kitishane?”
“Well, yes,” she said, “but not against armor!”
“I am in the right, for once.” Culaehra smiled, fairly glowing. “It is a strange feeling, Kitishane, but a very pleasant one.”
“Being in the right will not shield you from a sword forged by a god!”
“Perhaps it will.” Culaehra gave her a wild look, one that showed a man reading his weird. “Surely the god who forged that sword is displeased with him. Perhaps he shall make me the instrument of his punishment.”
“And perhaps he doesn't care a pebble's worth! Agrapax never cared for anything but his art, if the legends speak truly!”
“Then let us hope that I am about to become a work of art.”
“What, by being carved? Culaehra, come to your senses! Kneel to the king and beg his forgiveness, and he may let you live!”
“Then what of the peasants in the valley? What of their children?” Culaehra gave her that weirded look again. “Will they live when winter comes and the cold strikes through their threadbare cloaks, chilling them to the bone because they are faint with hunger?”
“I care nothing for the peasants!” Kitishane cried, though her heart wrenched within her. “It is for you that I care!”
Culaehra stopped so suddenly that the soldiers behind him collided with him. They snarled, but he ignored them, his eyes boring into Kitishane's. “Do you? Do you really care for me?”
She stared at him, then dropped her gaze in confusion. “Of... of course I do, Culaehra! We are comrades, we have fought side by side!”
“Is that all?” he demanded with a strange intensity.
“What more should there be?” she protested, still with lowered gaze.
“Yes,” he said softly. “What should there be, indeed?”
She looked up in alarm, but there was no hurt in his eyes, only a fervor, a dedication that had never been there before.
The soldier behind him snarled at him to move, and Culaehra glanced at the man in irritation. “Yes, surely, let us go! For I must see to it that there should be more, a great deal more, and thus I begin it!” He turned away and strode on down the steps.
Kitishane followed in a welter of confusion—but with a strange glow rising in her heart.
They came out into the courtyard, and Illbane stepped up to counsel. “You will think to use your sword two-handed for greater strength, but that would leave your left side unguarded. Use your dagger in your left hand, and evade the cuts of his broadsword. Do not fear, your own blade will cut quite well enough.”
Kitishane thought the old man must have lost his wits. How could Culaehra's very ordinary sword cut through the king's armor?
For there he came, resplendent in a plumed metal cap, breastplate, gauntlets, kilt, greaves, and shield that glowed with the luster of the finest bronze. To make it worse, the sun came out at that moment, striking golden highlights from it—but Illbane said, “I know that armor,” and reached out to touch the king's breastplate with his staff.
The metal screamed, and the king froze, eyes wide in horror. The scream grew louder, and its pitch swooped down to a groan as the breastplate cracked from neck to waist, then fell from the king, leaving him only a padded shirt for protection. As the pieces fell they struck his greaves, and they, too, shrieked, then groaned and split. Illbane touched the gauntlets with his staff in a swift movement that took the king by surprise, and the gauntlets, too, fell to pieces. At last the king turned with an angry shout, bringing up his sword—but too late; the foot of Illbane's staff touched his helmet and it cracked with a sound like thunder.
The king reeled, and Malconsay shouted, “Seize him!”
The soldiers started forward, but Illbane turned to them, his staff up and ready, and they halted in uncertainty—so as the king's head cleared, he heard only Malconsay's curses and saw Illbane leaning upon his staff, watching with interest.
The king cried in anguish, “Agrapax's gift! The enchanted armor that no sword could pierce!” Now it was not the steward, but the king himself who roared at his soldiers, “Slay me that upstart magus! No, seize him and hold him, that I may flay him alive!”
The soldiers still hesitated, and the king raved, “Do you dare disobey? Then it is you I shall skin, while you live and scream! Seize him now, or die in anguish!”
The soldiers started forward, but Illbane called out some ancient words as his staff spun, and where its tip traced, fire sprang up. In seconds all the companions were surrounded by a ring of flame. The soldiers shrank back, moaning in awe.
Yocote watched it all with shining eyes.
Malconsay whipped a long wand from his robes and waved it in a circling sideways sweep as he shouted a phrase in unintelligible syllables—and the ring of fire died.
Illbane turned to him slowly, his eyes lighting, a small smile kindling in his beard. “So, then. Not a councillor only, but a magus! Did you know that, king?”
Oramore looked up at Malconsay in surprise, then sudden distrust. Quickly, the steward said, “You need not fight this duel, my lord, not when you face a magus as well as a warrior!”
“But you have a magus beside you,” Illbane pointed out, “and though he has no staff of power, yet he has a wand.” He nodded at Yocote. The gnome held up his hands, waving and chanting, and the wand grew amazingly, thickening in Malconsay's hand as it stretched out to twice its former length. The steward dropped it with a curse.
“Now your staff is as long as my teacher's,” Yocote said helpfully.
“But you know it has lost its power, now that another magus has exerted his strength over it!” Malconsay cried.
“Has it really!” Yocote looked up at Illbane, and the sage nodded.
The soldiers shrank back, moaning.
“Then you have two magi,” the king said, watching Culaehra warily, “and I have none.”
“But you have fifty guardsmen hard by,” the warrior replied.
The king seemed to gain a little reassurance from the reminder.
“Your men will avail you naught, king.” Illbane spoke as an equal in station. “If they do attack, they shall force me only to use greater spells that shall render them all unconscious. Let them stand aside, and go you to the duel you have accepted.”
The king eyed Culaehra, hesitating. The big man grinned and lifted his sword to guard.
“What, do you hold back?” Illbane chided. “Surely you are not afraid only because your magical armor is gone and your guards can no longer leap to your defense! Admittedly, my champion is half your age, a head taller, and has the strength and speed of youth—but you claim that you are his better, for you are noble and he is not! Surely your nobility alone will assure you victory! Go, king, and prove your boast!”
“He is afraid!” Lua whispered to Kitishane, her eyes round with wonder—but her whisper carried; the king heard it, and advanced on Culaehra with a snarl.
The warrior grinned and r
aised both sword and dagger.
Chapter 14
The king swung a huge downward blow with his two-handed sword. Culaehra stepped lightly aside, then lunged. The king pivoted, bringing his great sword up barely in time, and Culaehra's blade glanced off it. Whatever else he might have been, the king was no weakling; in fact, his arms, chest, and shoulders bulged with muscle, and he handled the heavy sword as if it were weightless—which perhaps it was, in his hands, for it had been crafted by the Wondersmith.
But he was also gone to fat a little, carrying spare flesh around his middle. His reflexes had slowed since his youth, and already his breath was rasping in his throat as he swung the great sword like a scythe, coming up from below. Culaehra sidestepped again, but the king's blade followed him as if he were a magnet; he had to drop his dagger, taking his sword by both hands, to turn it aside. Metal clashed, striking sparks, but Culaehra's sword did deflect the king's. Culaehra's whole left arm went numb and he shook it frantically as he gave ground, trying to regain feeling. The king gave a shout of satisfaction and followed hard, the huge blade sweeping from side to side. Culaehra backed and backed again, but the king caught the rhythm of his movements and leaped farther forward; his sword tip traced a red line across the middle of Culaehra's tunic. The big man shouted in anger, then remembered Illbane's teaching: that anger only slowed a man and tempted him to foolish strokes. He cooled his rage and gave ground again and again, but moved in a circle, then stooped to snatch up his dagger again.
The king shouted in anger and swung at Culaehra's head, but the blow was so low that Culaehra leaped high, pulling up his feet, and the king slashed air beneath him. The warrior landed lightly and kept giving ground, even though his left arm was restored enough to bring up the dagger again. Sure enough, the king's breath rasped harder and harder, then began to come in gasps; he cried in bursts, “Hold ... still! Cow .. . ard!”
“Do not, Culaehra!” Yocote called. “Why should you risk your skin when you have but to keep retreating until he falls from exhaustion?”
The king spun in a rage, slashing at the gnome, but Yocote leaped behind Illbane so quickly that he disappeared before the blade could touch him, though his grin seemed to linger after him for a moment.
Culaehra saw his chance and lunged. Even with the distraction the king was almost quick enough—he spun about, and his broadsword slashed the space where Culaehra had been. The big man gritted his teeth against sudden pain in his leg, but felt a savage delight as he saw the crimson blossom on the king's padded arm. The king shouted in anger and pain and leaped forward, swinging again and again—but his swings were off balance now, for one arm was weaker than the other, and Culaehra, backing quickly, was able to choose the instant to strike down with his blade, beating the king's sword to the earth for just long enough to slash with his dagger, then leaping back as the king swung the magic sword up one-handed even as he cried out in anguish, his left arm hanging limp at his side.
His guards shouted in anger and started forward, but Kitishane whirled to send half a dozen arrows into their ranks, and though they glanced off boiled leather armor, the soldiers slowed, uncertain. Lua lifted the little bow Kitishane had made her and shot a dart into a soldier's cheek. He shouted and fell back just as Yocote called out the last line of a spell, and serpents rose up from the dust, hissing, tongues flickering, waiting for a bare leg onto which to fasten fangs. The soldiers moaned in superstitious fear and held their ranks.
Illbane nodded, eyes glowing with approval.
King Oramore roared in anger and charged Culaehra, huge sword windmilling. The younger man retreated swiftly until the king ground to a halt, heaving hoarse breaths, sweat streaming down his face, glaring, his blade wavering. Then Culaehra leaped in, sword and dagger flickering in a dizzying dance, licking out of their maze with death on their tips.
Malconsay shouted a phrase and swung his staff. In mid-swing it bent, flexed, and lashed out as a whip that wrapped about Culaehra's blade, its tip cracking against his hand. He shouted in pain, barely managing to hold onto the hilt, and the king cried triumph as he swung his huge sword.
But Illbane spun his own staff, crying out words in the Ulin tongue, and the whip became a steward's staff again, whirling back at its master. Malconsay dodged aside, crying words that seemed to be gibberish until the name “Bolenkar!” rang clear and the staff spun back toward Illbane.
But Illbane shouted in plain speech, “O Ghost of Lomallin, strike down this overweening emissary of hatred!” and swung his own staff. It cracked into Malconsay's; fire erupted, and the steward's staff exploded into bits. One shard shot toward Malconsay to strike his head. He toppled like a duck to a sling-stone as Culaehra fell backward to escape the king's broadsword. He landed on his back; the king roared in triumph and raised his sword for the death-blow.
Culaehra shouted and lashed out with his foot. The king stumbled over that boot; his roar of victory changed to a cry of surprise, which cut off into a grunt as Culaehra's other boot came up to catch him in the stomach, then propel him tumbling past the warrior's head to somersault and slam into the earth. The king thrashed about on the ground, struggling for breath, while Culaehra leaped to his feet and kicked his opponent's hand. The great sword flew clear, to land glowing on the ground.
The soldiers shouted and started forward again, but Yocote gestured, and the snakes rose high to hiss, even as Kitishane and Lua sent another half-dozen arrows into their ranks. The soldiers halted.
The king finally managed to catch a huge gasp of air and shoved himself upward—and froze, staring at the sword tip that trembled before his eyes, as if with eagerness to strike. Culaehra dashed sweat from his eyes, panting. “Now ... give the .. . people back . . . their food! ... And take ... the first fruits... to Agrapax!”
The king gasped for breath and used it to say, “I sold the ... first fruits ... long ago.”
“Of course, but... this season's . . . firstlings ...”
“Them, too ... I have . . . sold.”
“Then take the gold you gained from them!” Culaehra commanded.
“I dare not.. . Surely the god .. . would kill me!”
“Choose your executioner, then,” Culaehra said, “for I will kill you if you do not go.”
The king levered himself up on one elbow, scowling at the ground, chest still heaving. Culaehra drew back the sword enough for that. Finally, the king seemed to collect himself and said, “It was I who broke the promise; it is my doom. Yes, I shall take the gold to the god.”
But Kitishane said, “We cannot trust him so long as Malconsay stands beside him.”
The king turned a bloodshot glare on the unconscious form of his steward. “Have no fear. He has betrayed me by persuading me to forswear my pact with Agrapax; he has led me bit by bit into Bolenkar's work, and into abusing my people. He shall be my steward no longer.”
“What do you mean to do with him?” Lua asked with trepidation.
“I shall deal with him; that is all you need know.”
Culaehra exchanged a glance full of doubt with Kitishane, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The outlaw turned back to the king. “You shall have more than enough to deal with here, then, between disposing of Malconsay and seeing to the needs of your people. We shall take the gold to the god for you.”
Lua gave a cry of distress, and Yocote looked up in alarm, but Kitishane only nodded openly, though her eyes were filled with foreboding.
“I should thank you for that,” the king said slowly, “but how do I know you will not take the gold and go your own way?”
“Be sure.” Illbane's voice rang so true that the king turned to him in surprise, and the sage looked him directly in the eye with a gaze that penetrated to his core. “Be sure we shall bring the gold to the Ulin. Be sure.”
“I shall be, then,” the king said, unable to tear his gaze from Illbane's. The sage nodded and turned a little away. The king broke the stare with relief and turned to Culaehra. “And, strange as it may
seem, I thank you indeed.” He gazed at him a moment more, frowning, then said, “You must be noble.”
He wondered why Culaehra laughed.
As a treasure chest it wasn't much—only a large box a little more than a foot wide and a little less than a foot high, and perhaps nine inches deep, covered in leather and bound with brass strips—but two soldiers grunted effort as they brought it to set between the king and Culaehra. The outlaw stared down at it, scandalized. “This is the first fruits of many years?”
“A single piece of gold is worth all the firstlings of our fields,” the king told him, “and another is worth all the firstlings of all the flocks and herds. You see before you the first fruits of twenty-six years.”
Culaehra cast a glance of disbelief at Illbane, but the sage nodded. “Gold is very dense, Culaehra. A single coin holds much value.” He turned to the king. “But that is only the first fruits, leaving the great bulk of all your people have raised. You must have a vasty store of gold indeed.”
“Not so much as you might think,” the king said. “Most of it has been transformed into luxurious appointments within my castle, armor and arms for many soldiers, and the court life of my wife and children.”
Culaehra frowned. “What shall you give back, then?”
“The grain, fruit, and meat I took from them this fall, even as you bade me—and I shall take much less from them in the future.”
“You shall have to bring your wife and children home from court, then,” Kitishane said, frowning.
The king smiled with little mirth. “Oh, there is enough gold left to keep them there, and they have very little desire to come back here.”
Kitishane looked into his eyes and realized that he wasn't terribly eager to have them come back. No doubt, to those refined court-dwellers, he seemed an uncultured bumpkin, and the life of the kingdom boring and isolated. She could sympathize with both king and queen, and hoped Culaehra would not insist on all the gold being given to the people.
He did not. “So much for the food. What of their clothing, their houses?”
The Sage Page 19
