The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  Lua sighed and wondered when she would have done enough penance.

  Tegringax led them up, up, to a circle of darker stone at the top of a spiral tunnel. “Farther than this I dare not go,” he said. He placed the glowing ball in Lua's palm, saying, “Take hold, ye of Earth,” then raised a hand in farewell. “Good fortune in your battle!” He stepped back against gray stone, blended into it, and disappeared.

  “Many thanks, Tegringax,” Culaehra called, but softly. Turning, he set his hands against the portal and pushed, then pushed again.

  “What trouble?” Yocote asked.

  “It will not move,” the warrior answered. He felt over the surface. “I feel no hinges.”

  “Let me.” Lua pushed up beside him, set one hand against the rock and began to sing to it. Culaehra fingered his sword hilt, wondering how well Corotrovir would bite stone.

  Incredibly, the portal began to move.

  It swung aside on pivots they could not see, swung with less grating than Tegringax's laugh. Culaehra set a finger across his lips, then moved through the doorway, drawing his sword.

  They came out into a dungeon, a long and narrow hallway hewn from rock and lighted by a lone torch in a sconce. Silently, Culaehra prowled the length of the corridor. His companions followed.

  At the corner, he flattened himself against the wall, then motioned to Yocote to look. The gnome edged up, darting his head out for a quick peek. He looked up at Culaehra and said, “None moves, warrior.”

  “I thank you, shaman.” Culaehra led the way again. This time, halfway down the corridor, they found a stairway. Up they went, Kitishane to the rear, but with Lua keeping one hand on her friend's shin to make sure she did not disappear again.

  As they neared the top, they heard a sound like a distant storm. Then a voice as deep as a quarry and as harsh as a rasp thundered, “How dare they retreat! Do you value your neck, fool, that you come to tell me my own soldiers are overborne?”

  “My lord, I must say what I see!” a human voice cried.

  “Then go back and see it again! Go back and rally them and throw them against this human rabble! My magic shall strengthen you! Go! All of you, go and triumph, even if you die in the attempt—for if you retreat, I shall slay you far more painfully than the enemy! Begone!”

  Culaehra looked back and locked glances with Kitishane. As clearly as words, they both thought, Bolenkar!

  Culaehra beckoned Yocote back, then stole out of the opening.

  He saw a great hall, thirty feet high and twice that across, hung with tapestries and battle trophies, floored with rich carpets, and dominated by a huge gilded chair, a throne half the height of the room. Before it paced a figure only a few feet shorter than the chair, twelve feet at least, wearing a sword as long as Culaehra was tall and a dagger as long as Corotrovir. He was bare-faced and ugly, a face as craggy as a mountainside, with narrow eyes too small for so huge a face, eyes drawn down in a perpetual scowl. He was burly and knobbed with muscle, bandy-legged and splay-footed, clad only in a gilded breastplate and kilt, with golden greaves, sandals, and gauntlets—but instead of a helmet, he wore a crown. He paced the carpets, mouthing obscenities.

  It could be no one but Bolenkar. Badly as he had wanted to find this being, Culaehra's heart quailed within him at the sight. How could he defeat one so mighty?

  Then Corotrovir began to glow with a green light and, even here where there was no wind, to vibrate in Culaehra's hand. He heard no sound, but there must have been one too low to hear, for the giant whirled and saw him, then drew his blade. “So you have stolen into my stronghold like the vermin you are, pawns of Lomallin!” He eyed the green glow and sneered. “Do you think that puny stick could hurt me?”

  Culaehra felt power flowing from the sword into his very being, pushing the fear back, holding it at bay. “Yes—for this is the sword Corotrovir, forged by Ohaern from the Star Stone!”

  For an instant Bolenkar's face went slack with fear. Courage surged, and Culaehra sprang forward with a wordless shout. He swung at Bolenkar's knee. The giant roared with anger, yanking the leg high, then stamping down at Culaehra. Dancing aside, Culaehra swung at the back of the giant's knee. Corotrovir bit, and Bolenkar shouted with pain and fear as his knee buckled under him. He swatted at Culaehra with his sword, but the blow was so clumsy that Culaehra dodged it with ease, then leaped inside the swing to thrust at the joint between breastplate and kilt.

  A huge fist came out of nowhere and slammed into his whole torso. Culaehra shot up into the air, frantically holding onto Corotrovir. Bolenkar's shout of satisfaction filled his ears, then the floor slammed against Culaehra's back, driving the air out of him. The room started to darken, but he knew that losing consciousness was death. Clinging to the light with the strength of fear, he struggled to rise, waiting for the sword stroke that would sever his neck, or the huge foot that would flatten his ribs...

  It did not come. As the darkness dissipated, just before that first huge, shuddering gasp of returning breath, Culaehra heard the rumbling voice droning syllables in a foreign tongue.

  The shaman's tongue! Or an even older magical language, older than humankind! Culaehra tried to force himself to his feet, but his body would not obey his will. Then a huge invisible hand seemed to grip him; force pressed in from every side, imprisoning his lungs; he could not breathe. He opened his mouth to gasp in air, but his mouth would not open. Fear clawed its way up to his gorge, turning into panic.

  A high-pitched voice finally penetrated his ears, and he realized it had been there for some time, floating above Bolenkar's sub-basso, chanting incomprehensible syllables—Yocote's voice! The pressure began to ease, then slackened abruptly. Culaehra's jaw dropped, the waiting gasp flooding his lungs, and his body rolled up to its feet.

  Bolenkar roared with anger and turned to pound Yocote flat against the stones—but the gnome hopped to the side, and the great fist came down on flat stone, down with too much force; Bolenkar cried out in surprise and pain. The mere attempt was enough to madden Culaehra, though; he clamped his teeth against a yell and charged, Corotrovir swinging.

  The sword sang as it bit through the bronzen cuirass and into the Ulharl's side. Culaehra yanked it free as Bolenkar turned, howling, his huge sword slashing at Culaehra's midriff. The warrior dropped to one knee, swinging Corotrovir up to parry; Bolenkar's blade glanced off and swung on by.

  But Culaehra froze for an instant, staring in horror at Corotrovir. Where the sword had twice bitten through Bolenkar's flesh, his blood had eaten away the steel! It was far deeper than a nick, almost half the width of the blade.

  No time to ponder—Bolenkar, still roaring, was swinging again. Culaehra leaped back, but the Ulharl leaned forward even as he swung, and Culaehra raised Corotrovir to deflect the six-foot blade. Sword met sword, exploding in a burst of light. The force of the blow sent Culaehra reeling; he stumbled and fell, but scuttled back, dazzled, unable to see, and hoping the vast roaring that filled the chamber meant that Bolenkar, too, was blinded . . .

  Then the light faded and he saw the Ulharl hiking himself forward on knee and foot, raising the huge sword in two hands.

  Culaehra swept Corotrovir up to guard—and saw that the blade was broken in half, broken where the Ulharl's blood had eaten away the steel! He held up the remnant in both hands, knowing it could not be enough. He struggled to regain his footing, knowing he could not stand in time, knowing that huge down-sweeping blade would slice him in half like a pear under a kitchen knife.

  The giant froze in mid-swing. Culaehra stared, unbelieving, then saw his companions frozen in mid-movement, too—but saw also the tall, translucent figure, bearded and robed, staff in hand, and the vast green form that towered behind it, indistinct and wavering, not even clearly male or female, but seeming human, greater than human ...

  Take this, too, the ghost of Ohaern said in his mind. I forged it when I forged your sword, forged it first, to test the metal. Take and strike!

  Then he faded, the gr
eat green form behind him faded, and Culaehra, raising his left hand, found a spear in it, a spear with a green-glowing head. Bolenkar was striking, his vindictive roar shaking the hall. Culaehra dropped the half sword, raised the spear with both hands, threw himself to his feet, and charged.

  Down swept Bolenkar, bowing forward with the force of his blow, and up shot the spear. The two came together with another explosion, greater this time, for red sparks and green mingled to darken Culaehra's vision, darken the whole room. Then a huge weight slammed down on top of him, crushing him beneath hard metal. He struggled frantically, letting go of the spear, pushing and shoving, but whatever had fallen on him was far too heavy ...

  Then it moved, at least one side of it, and Culaehra rolled toward light and life, tears in his eyes. He rolled out and up, and nearly fell—but Kitishane was there beside him, holding him up. He stared down, unbelieving, at the huge corpse before him, and there could be no doubt it was dead, with that spear shaft rising from its back, exactly where the heart would have been. Yes, he had slain Bolenkar, Culaehra realized, dazed—but the Ulharl had helped in his own death, for the vicious momentum of his final swing had thrown him onto the spear, and his own weight had driven it home.

  It was a spear that was rapidly diminishing, though, as the Ulharl's blood ate it away. The head was corroded almost to a scrap, and even as Culaehra watched, the shaft broke and fell against the giant's bronze-armored back. Wood and metal both rotted, hissing, vanishing into air, and the smoke of their passing rose to fill the chamber with a foul, acrid stench.

  “We have won,” Culaehra whispered, unbelieving. “We have slain Bolenkar!”

  “You have slain him, you mean.” Yocote was beside him, insisting on honesty. “Well done, O Hero!”

  “Well done, bravest of the brave!” Lua cried, tears filling her eyes—but she seized Yocote's hand and would not let go.

  “Yes, brave indeed, and worthy of any reward.” Kitishane gazed up at him with awe.

  Awe he did not want, not from her. “I would be dead this minute if Ohaern had not given me the spear.”

  “Ohaern?” Yocote frowned. “But when did he ... “ Then he realized the answer to the question and his eyes went wide.

  “His ghost.” Culaehra nodded. “And a greater ghost behind him.”

  “Lomallin,” Yocote whispered.

  “Why not?” Kitishane asked, her face glowing up at his. “You did his work, after all.”

  Culaehra looked down and saw with relief that the awe was gone from her eyes—but he saw something else there, glowing, making her whole face vibrant and beautiful. He froze, entranced, but those luscious lips moved and said, “We have not finished that work, have we, my hero?”

  Her words brought him back to the world like a slap. Suddenly he became aware that the roar of battle still rose from the windows. “No, we have not! We must stop this warring before all are dead!”

  “How?” Yocote spread his hands. “We cannot carry so vast a form, and even my magic cannot raise him long enough to bear him forth from this stronghold!”

  “No—but there is not a man of his who will not recognize this!” Bending, Culaehra scooped up the huge sword—or the hilt, anyway; the weight of the full blade nearly buckled his knees. Shifting down the blade, he straightened with a grunt, balancing it on his shoulder. “Quickly, lead me to the wall! I cannot bear it long!”

  Yocote muttered, gesturing with quick movements, and the sword lightened amazingly. “That much, I can help bear.” He ran ahead toward an archway. “I feel fresh air moving! Come, hero!”

  “Do not call me that!” Culaehra protested as he followed.

  “You shall have to grow accustomed to it,” Kitishane said, smiling up beside him.

  It was Lua who glanced back, then whipped off her cloak and ran to gather the broken pieces of the sword, being careful not to touch the metal with her hands. Then she settled her goggles back over her eyes and rushed to follow her companions.

  Chapter 30

  Up they went, out onto the roof of the stronghold. Below them in the valley, armies contended, and the carnage was great. Most of the monsters had been slain or had fled, but those left fought alongside the soldiers, chewing up the allies as badly as the allies slew and maimed them.

  “We cannot stop them if they do not look up to see us!” Kitishane cried, nearly in despair. “How shall we do that?”

  “Call out,” Yocote said simply. “Call long.” Then he began to gesture, chanting.

  Culaehra looked at him as if he were insane, but Lua reached up to touch his hand and said, “Do as he asks.”

  Culaehra frowned down, but held the great sword aloft above his head and filled his lungs. Then he called out “Oooooooooh!” as loudly and as long as he could.

  Yocote spread his hands, turned the palms up and lifted them slowly.

  Incredibly, the very stones of the fortress began to vibrate, echoing Culaehra's call. The sound rolled out over the battlefields and struck the hillsides, rousing echoes that poured back over the warring soldiers. In less than a minute the whole valley was filled with Culaehra's cry.

  Here and there a soldier or a warrior glanced up, then leaped away from his opponent and stared. Sometimes the opponent followed his glance, then whirled to gaze, eyes wide; sometimes the opponent started after, but followed the pointing arm. In only a few minutes all the fighters had stilled to stare at the big warrior holding the sword that was as long as he was tall—and the soldiers, recognizing it, cried out in despair, for they knew that Bolenkar would never have loosed his hold on that sword, that the only way Culaehra could have come to lay hold of it was if the Ulharl was dead.

  “Tell them to surrender,” Kitishane muttered.

  “Surrender!” Culaehra cried, his voice booming out over the valley. “Throw down your weapons and plead for mercy—for be sure, you cannot win if your god is dead!”

  A moan began somewhere among the soldiers, then soared up the scale as it gathered force, echoing and reechoing from thousands of throats into a keening wail of despair. By hundreds, then by thousands, the Vanyar threw down their arms and fell to their knees.

  Here and there, though, an officer raged, laying about him with his sword. “Fools! Do you think Bolenkar's soul will not come hotfoot after those who desert him? Take up your spears! Fight! Slay! Murder!”

  The Vanyar near them scrambled back to escape their wrath, but the officers followed close, screaming and slashing. Here and there a soldier fell, streaming blood. His fellows shouted in outrage, but dared not strike, so intimidated were they. But they stepped aside as a corps of Vanyar warriors barged in with angry shouts. A dozen warriors piled on top of each officer. Axes rose and fell.

  “Bind the arms of each soldier!” Culaehra cried. “Herd them together, and mount guard over them!”

  Among the Vanyar host, angry shouts arose. “Betrayal!” “You told us Bolenkar was strongest!” “You have brought us to defeat!” As one, they turned upon Bolenkar's priests. Those who could not reach them turned back to clasp the arms of those who had fought for Lomallin, crying, “We shall follow the Green Way now!”

  They only began it. With the priests dead, all the Vanyar embraced one another with shouts of joy.

  But the allies, grinning, followed the Darians' lead, waving their swords aloft and chanting, “Culaehra! Culaehra! Culaehra!”

  Atop the fortress, Culaehra beheld the sudden truce, and lowered the great sword. Grinning, he threw up his arms in rejoicing. The allies saw, and shouted their joy in return.

  Then Culaehra turned away, his face suddenly haggard. “I cannot accept such acclaim! I did not slay the Ulharl by myself!”

  “But you must accept the praise,” Kitishane said sternly.

  “Yes!” Lua agreed.

  “Who would cheer a gnome?” Yocote pointed out.

  “But they must acclaim someone,” Lua said, “for thus are they all united again.”

  “Only in this fashion can Lomallin a
nd Rahani triumph,” Kitishane said. “You must represent us, Culaehra—you must accept the glory for us all!”

  His face was haunted. “Must I truly?”

  “You must—and besides,” Kitishane said, “I think that I shall find a way to share it.” Culaehra gazed down into her glowing face, then realized the import of what she had said. Slowly, beginning to smile again, he lowered his head to claim her lips with his own.

  He kissed her there before the horde. They shouted approval, and when he lifted his head, he gazed down at her for a moment, smiling now, and asked her, “Have I at last proved myself worthy of a wife?”

  She gave him a shy, sly look and said, “You have.”

  His voice went husky and breathy as he asked, “Then will you marry me?”

  “I will,” she said, and he caught her up in his arms to kiss her once again. Below, the crowd whooped for joy.

  Lua watched them with tears in her eyes, and her hand stole into Yocote's. She looked up at him shyly and said, “You, too, have proved yourself worthy.”

  “Oh, I know that,” he said with a sardonic smile. “But I will not have a wife if she is not in love with me—and with me above all others that she might find.”

  “Why, I am in love with you,” Lua said softly, “and in just such a fashion.”

  Yocote frowned at her, but her face glowed with so much love and desire that he could doubt her no longer. He, too, took his mate in his arms, and kissed her as only gnomes can.

  The crowd bellowed joy again, and the two gnomes looked up in surprise, then blushed. “See what you have done now, woman!” Yocote said. “You have made me forget where I was and who looked upon us.”

  “I may take pride in that much, then,” she rejoined, and he flashed her a smile before he turned her, and turned with her, to accept the crowd's acclamation.

  * * *

  “Ohaern,” Rahani said lazily, “come back to bed.”

  “A moment only, beloved.” Ohaern gazed down through the rift in the clouds, running a hand over his arm and chest to reassure himself that his skin was no longer wrinkled, that his muscles were as massive as ever.