The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  The warrior grinned. “I think not, beloved.”

  She looked up at him in surprise, then answered the look in his eyes with a shy smile.

  So they rode back into the desert with their numbers tripled, for two separate tribes had settled around the stronghold. Vira seemed somehow impressed with Yusev; she rode by him, though warily, and began to teach him her words. In return, he taught her his. In a matter of days all the northerners were exchanging words with the People of the Wind and were well on their way to working out a pidgin dialect encompassing both languages. The settlement Darians, moreover, were teaching their limited Gormaran to any who wished to learn it. Foremost among their students were Yusev and Yocote, of course, but Culaehra and Kitishane were close behind, and Lua, surprisingly, seemed to soak up both languages without even trying. Certainly she learned at a faster rate, so quickly that she was chattering with the Darian women in a matter of days. It was almost as if she felt so strongly about giving reassurance and establishing ties, she wasn't about to let a little thing like language stand in her way.

  The Darian women had been quite astonished by the gnomes at first—being desert dwellers, they had scarcely heard of the underground people, let alone seen them—but they quickly recovered from their surprise and wariness and were soon including Lua in their conversational circle as if she were an old friend they had not seen for a long while. Kitishane eyed her diminutive friend with envy, for the Darian women were much more circumspect with her. She was, after all, one of the war leaders, and seemed to them to have more in common with the men than with themselves. Well, if her hunger for feminine companionship became too intense, she thought, she could always ask Lua to bring her into the gossip.

  It was odd to think of a human turning to a gnome for help, but Kitishane was growing accustomed to it.

  They fought with two other strongholds, overcoming the Gormarani by much the same tactics—wherever Ataxeles had fled, it did not seem to be in the desert. They marched away with more Darians augmenting their force, and by the time they came out of the desert into fertile, cultivated land, their little army numbered more than a thousand. The peasants in the fields looked up, saw their approach, and ran.

  They bore word to their headmen, Kitishane knew, and the headmen would no doubt send word to the soldiers. How long would it be before they faced a pitched battle?

  But before they did, they ran across a raiding party of Vanyar.

  The barbarians took one look at the mounted force that outnumbered theirs ten to one and ran, their chariots sending dust high. The Darians howled with delight and gave chase. Kitishane let them run half a mile before she passed word for them to go more slowly. “We shall have no difficulty following these charioteers, after all, and they may be leading us into an ambush.”

  The thought was sobering, and the People of the Wind slowed to travel with wariness. At Kitishane's suggestion, Culaehra sent scouts ahead. Then the two of them conferred with Yocote.

  “We must learn if these Vanyar recognize us,” the gnome said. “The ones we fought were far to the north, after all. They might well be a different tribe and may not even have heard of our victory.”

  “A point.” Culaehra nodded. “What warrior willingly tells of his defeats?”

  “Perhaps we can parley,” Kitishane said, though without much hope. “We may even be able to pass them without bloodshed.”

  “Anything is possible.” But Yocote didn't seem terribly optimistic, either.

  So, they cautiously followed the raiding party back to the main host of their tribe. As they came in sight, a huge mob of chariots came rumbling out to bar their way, horses galloping, riders shouting—but there were no more of them than in the allies' force, so they did not attack, but only took up position in a long line, barring the way.

  “Who speaks their language?” Culaehra called.

  No one replied.

  “Can we not even talk to one another?” he cried in exasperation. “Yocote! Call for a shaman!”

  “I shall try, but I do not hope for much in a band of warriors.” Nonetheless, the gnome climbed upon a camel's back and called out to the Vanyar.

  All eyes turned to stare at him, for the Vanyar did not recognize a gnome, especially wearing goggles and in bright sunshine—but one young man started violently before calling out to the war chief. The leader replied, his tone hard, and the young man turned his chariot, speeding away around the end of the line.

  “He goes back to their main camp,” Yocote called down.

  “He seems to have recognized the shaman's tongue.” Culaehra frowned, not all that certain he liked the development.

  “Perhaps he is one who began shaman's training but chose to be a warrior instead,” Kitishane said, guessing. “I think he has gone to fetch a real shaman.”

  “Certainly there seems to be no sign of their attacking until he comes back,” Yocote called down. “Let us wait, but with watchful eyes.”

  Culaehra agreed, calling out to the rest of his chiefs. They rested their spears on their knees, waiting—but ready to fight at a moment's notice. Still, the Vanyar did not advance, only worked to calm restless horses and equally restless young men.

  Then the messenger came speeding back, raising his own private dust cloud, with a gray-haired woman in his chariot. He swerved the chariot to a halt between the two lines of warriors, and the woman climbed down. She stepped toward Yocote with authority in every step, then stopped, raised both arms, and called out to him.

  Yusev translated for the companions. “She says her name is Masana and that she is all this tribe has for a shaman now that old Dwelig has died. She asks to know who Yocote is and why he has brought his tribe here.”

  Yocote replied at some length. Again Yusev translated, only a few syllables behind the gnome. “He says that we are a federation of many tribes, come to attack Gormaran for revenge.”

  “But we do not seek vengeance!” Kitishane protested.

  “We do not,” Culaehra said, “but it is a reason the Vanyar can understand. Yocote tells them that if they will let us pass, we will not harm them, for it is Gormaran we quarrel with, not them—but if they do not let us pass, we must fight.”

  A rumble went up from the Vanyar ranks. They shook spears and war-axes, and their noise built toward a roar.

  Kitishane seized Culaehra's arm with sudden inspiration. “Warrior! Challenge their chief to single combat!”

  Culaehra stared at her in surprise, then realized the sense of what she said—the fight would certainly forestall a battle, and might prevent it. He had no doubt that he would win. He stepped forward, calling out, “Yocote, translate for me! Tell them I am Culaehra, war chief of this band! Tell them that I challenge their chieftain to single combat, here between our battle lines!”

  “Culaehra! Do you know what you do?” Lua cried in fright.

  “Be easy, sister,” Kitishane called out. “He knows well, and it was my idea.”

  “Well ... I know you would not truly risk him willingly,” Lua said, but she seemed still doubtful.

  Yocote called out the message, and the Vanyar quieted to hear Masana's translation. She shouted it out, and the Vanyar roared indeed, but in delight. When they quieted, the war chief shouted two syllables. Masana turned back to Yocote, calling out one word. “He says 'yes,' “ Yocote translated.

  “Well enough, then.” Culaehra stepped out between the lines, drawing his sword.

  “Yocote! Confer!” Kitishane called.

  The gnome frowned, but grudgingly gave up his high seat and dodged between camel legs, coming to her.

  The Vanyar chief stepped down from his chariot and out between the battle lines, opposite Culaehra. He was an inch or two taller than the warrior, and even more muscular. Suddenly, Culaehra wondered if this was such a good idea after all. Still, the chieftain was at least ten years older than he, probably twenty, for there were streaks of gray in his beard.

  Behind him, Kitishane conversed quickly with Yocote. Th
e little man nodded, then sat down on the ground, closing his eyes in order to settle into a shaman's trance. Meanwhile, Yusev stepped up beside him, guarding. Seeing this, Masana frowned blackly. She turned to the young man who had driven her, beckoned, and went back through the Vanyar lines, in order to settle into her own trance.

  As Culaehra strode off, Kitishane called, “Do not kill him, Culaehra, but make the fight last a long time.”

  Her faith in him was touching, he thought sardonically as he advanced to meet the Vanyar chieftain, who was looking harder and more grim with every second. The man thumped his chest with a fist and called out, “Singorot!”

  His name, at a guess. Culaehra mimicked the gesture, calling back, “Culaehra!”

  The Vanyar chief grinned and reached back behind his shoulder. He drew not a battle-axe, but a huge curved sword. His grin widened; he stepped forward, leveling the blade.

  Relief shot through Culaehra's veins. A battle-axe might have given him trouble, but a sword he was more than sure he could deal with—especially since an axeman like Singorot would probably wield the blade as if it were double-bitted instead of double-edged, and from the dullness of the metal, it was probably simple forged iron, perhaps not even steel at all. Corotrovir would probably go through it as if it were cheese— which created a different problem for Culaehra. How would he keep the fight going? He would have to be careful indeed not to chop through that blade!

  But also careful to stay alive. Singorot leaped forward, huge blade swinging down like a crescent moon with a honed edge. Culaehra leaped back and parried, turning the sword's path downward. Singorot chopped into the dirt and roared with anger and frustration. Before he could yank the blade free, Culaehra leaped in to nick his upper arm—not enough to lame him, only to show blood. The watching warriors saw, and a cheer erupted from the allies, echoed by a shout of anger from the Vanyar. Weapons waved and rattled—but no one struck.

  Singorot yanked his blade free with a snarl and advanced on Culaehra, sword sweeping from side to side and up and down in huge diagonal slashes. Culaehra gave ground again and again, waiting for his opening, knowing he must let Singorot strike him to save face—but also knowing he dared not risk a blow of that cleaver on any place vulnerable. Finally, he decided he must have faith in Agrapax's armor, and swung his own sword up as he slowed his retreat. Singorot shouted with triumph and swung. The sword cracked against Culaehra's breastplate. He staggered, feeling as if butted by a bull. For a moment the scene swam about him and he had to struggle for breath—but he came back to himself in time to see Singorot's huge cleaver swinging down at his ankles. He leaped, the blade passing beneath him, and swung at Singorot's helmet even as he was in the air. The blow did not have a great deal of force behind it, since he could not brace himself, but it was enough to gouge the metal and send Singorot staggering. Knowing he had to make it look realistic, Culaehra stalked him, looking wary, but really waiting for the man to recover so he could go on with the charade. Fortunately, Singorot did not seem to realize it was a sham—and Culaehra knew he did not dare let the man know.

  Singorot pulled himself upright with a snarl and strode forward, holding his sword in both fists straight in front of him. Then he began to swing it from side to side, as if man and blade were a serpent trying to judge the best target for a strike.

  Culaehra held Corotrovir rib-high, angling up, ready to parry. He was beginning to tire of this shamming, and wished that he could really fight, but had seen enough of Singorot's style to know that if he did, the Vanyar would not last a minute. Of course, without magical armor and an enchanted blade, they would have been evenly matched, Culaehra reflected, and without Illbane's teaching, he would have been meat for the vultures.

  But he did have Agrapax's armor and Ohaern's sword and, more important, Illbane's training. He leaped to meet Singorot's swing and whirled Corotrovir in a circle, twisting the Vanyar's sword against the natural turning of human arms, then leaped back at the last instant, a moment before forcing the blade from Singorot's hands. The big Vanyar stood frozen, staring at his adversary, and with a sinking heart Culaehra knew that Singorot had realized he was being toyed with. There was fear in that glance, but more—there was a dread of being shamed in front of his troops.

  Oho! Culaehra thought, suddenly seeing a way out of his dilemma—but how to manage when he could not speak the Vanyar tongue? He met Singorot's next onslaught with parry after parry, yielding ground, then suddenly reversed, stepping in and whirling Corotrovir to bind the Vanyar's blade. For a moment the swords froze on high, and Singorot stared down in disbelief at the smaller man.

  Culaehra winked.

  Singorot stared, confounded. Then his face darkened; he leaped back with a roar, and leaped in again, huge sword slashing down.

  Yocote crossed a blasted heath to the huge trunk that rose from its center, and this heath itself was the Center of the World. He paused a moment, looking up at the huge tree that towered above him, disappearing into the clouds that overcast the day. When he had come here before, the sun had shone and the Tree had disappeared into the blueness of the sky itself. This day, though, was ominous; he hoped it was not a day of omen.

  He set foot on a root, lifted hands to find holds in the rough bark, and began to climb the World Tree into the shaman's land.

  Yocote had climbed the Tree only once before, and had known then that Illbane watched his entranced body and would be by him in an instant at the slightest sign of trouble—but it was Yusev who watched over him now, and he knew no more of the shaman's world than Yocote did.

  He climbed up through a layer of clouds and saw the misty, magical land of shamans all about him. Carefully, he climbed down off the Tree, unwilling to trust his weight to ground that was cloud underneath—but it held him as well as real dirt, only giving slightly beneath his step. The gnome held out his arms, looked down at his body and saw it was covered with fur. He gave his tail a shake and felt it move, saw his stubby limbs and knew he was a badger.

  Then the leaves of the World Tree shivered and shook, and badger-Yocote leaped back, watching warily, to see in what form the Vanyar shaman came.

  It was not an animal that emerged from the opening in the ground, though—it was a bird that soared up, a wide-winged bird with angry eyes and cruel beak: a hawk. Yocote stared, amazed—he had not heard of a bird-totem before. Of course, now that he thought of it, there must be some—there were far too many tribes and clans of humans, elves, gnomes, and dwarfs for the number of fur-bearing animals.

  The hawk settled to the ground, folding its wings, dwarfing Yocote; he had to fight himself to keep from shrinking in fear. The beak opened and spoke human words, shaman's words. “So, then. Now we fight, you and I?”

  “If we must,” Yocote replied through the badger's mouth. “But you seem to me to be a good person, and I would rather fight only enemies.”

  “We must be enemies, you and I,” the hawk said sadly, “for the Vanyar must have all the land we can.”

  “Why?” Yocote asked, but the hawk had already leaped into the air. Its wings clapped open and it cried, “Defend!” Then it stooped on the badger, its talons reaching for his throat.

  Even as a badger, Yocote remembered Illbane's training. He reared back, balancing on short, stumpy legs, and swatted the talons aside with one paw, then bit the leg from which they sprang. He did not bite hard—he still did not wish to hurt a good person. His reward was a buffet with the hawk's wing; then the leg yanked itself out of his mouth, ripping itself on his teeth. The hawk squalled with pain, and its blood tasted acrid in Yocote's mouth. It spiraled high, and as it flew it called, “Bolenkar, hear your worshiper! Come now to aid, and give me victory!” Then it began to sing a song of blood and death and maiming.

  A red aura sprang up all around the hawk. It swelled in size; its talons glinted with sharpness.

  What else could Yocote do but call upon his own protector? “Lomallin, if you hear me, lend your strength to aid! I battle in the shaman's wo
rld with one I would befriend, but she fights with the remnants of Ulahane's power, left within the soul of his misbegotten son Bolenkar! Come, I plead! Lend me the strength of your goodwill to oppose the malice of your old enemy!”

  The world seemed to turn light green about him, and he knew Lomallin's aura surrounded his badger-form.

  The hawk screeched in surprise and fright—but the scarlet aura about it deepened almost to black. Crazed with blood lust, it folded its wings and struck.

  Yocote knew better than to use the same tactic twice—and sure enough, the hawk veered at the last second and struck from the side. But Yocote was already falling away from it, and the claws only pushed him, making him fall harder. He felt warm wetness spreading over his side and knew the talons had scored through his fur—but he kicked with his hind paws, striking with claws of his own.

  Black badger's claws met tan talons—and light exploded all about them, sound blasting their eardrums.

  Chapter 27

  Yocote held on to consciousness, though he was frozen stiff by the energy coursing through and around him. The light about him seemed to darken, leaving the whole day indistinct and murky. Then suddenly light shone again—green light, rich green, the green of forest leaves. It showed him the hawk lying senseless on its back, claws up in the air.

  Strength returned, and Yocote leaped to his feet in alarm. He surely had not wanted the Vanyar shaman dead! But the green light gathered about him and coursed away, burying itself in the hawk's body, then springing forth to form an aura all about it. After a minute the light sank back, pulling itself within the hawk's feathers, then was gone, and the even, pearly light of the always overcast shaman's world remained.

  Yocote froze, knowing he must not try to help any further.

  The hawk tipped over and rolled to her side. Slowly, then, her wings opened; she pushed herself to stand on her talons, shaking her head as if dazed. Her gaze alighted on Yocote, and she stared at him, wings shuddering then closing—but even as those wings closed about her, the hawk began to change, its form fluxing and growing until a young and comely woman stood before him, wearing Vanyar leggings gartered under a brown dress bright with embroidery in geometrical designs that Yocote recognized as mystic symbols, though not the ones he knew.