The Sage (10 page)

The
amulet grew still colder at his throat.

He
did not. He came upon her as she drew, aiming at a fat hare. His amulet was so
chill now that it fairly burned, but he clamped his teeth against the pain,
waiting for his moment. The bowstring thrummed, and Culaehra struck. He rushed
across the fifty feet or so of leaf mold between them, still as silently as he
could.

She
heard him twenty feet away and turned, then screamed even as she whipped
another arrow from her quiver, screamed again as she fumbled it frantically to
the string; screams of fear and anger that made Culaehra's heart exult with the
feeling of power.

Kitishane
saw him bearing down on her and raised the bow, but he struck into her before
she could aim, struck and bowled her down, the bow flying from her hand. She
screamed and fought, but he pinned her with his weight, too close for her to
hit anything but his back. He was fumbling at the waistline of her breeches,
and she screeched with rage, bucking her whole body to try to throw him off,
drumming her fists on his back as hard as she could—but over his shoulder she
saw the old man step out of the trees and she screamed again, screamed for
help, but the bear-man only laughed deep in his throat, and Illbane wasn't
rushing to her aid, only sawing the air with one hand and flourishing his staff
with the other, only watching ...

A
shimmer began, thickened, warped the sight of him like a heat haze—and a unicorn
sprang from thin air, screaming in rage, bearing down upon the would-be rapist.
Its horn gored Culaehra's buttock, and it danced back. Culaehra threw himself
upright with a howl, hand pressed to his hip, his half nakedness ominous and
absurd. He grabbed for his leggings with one hand, turning to defend with the
other, but the unicorn feinted with its horn twice, then lunged, and a long
gouge ripped the side of his hip. He bellowed in rage and threw himself upon
the beast, but the unicorn was no longer there, dancing lightly about him.
Culaehra managed to tie his breeches again and turned with the unicorn, drawing
his knife, hands raised to guard. The unicorn was between him and Kitishane
now, and she cast about, found her bow, snatched it up, and scrambled back into
the safety of the trees. Culaehra saw her escaping and lunged after her with a
roar, but the unicorn leaped to block him. He dodged and tried to run around
it, but it followed his every movement while his quarry slipped away. He
bellowed in baffled anger, then had to leap aside as the unicorn thrust and
thrust again. He followed, parrying with his knife, snatching at the horn
whenever it came near, but always it evaded his grasp.

Then,
suddenly, the unicorn leaped aside—and Culaehra saw that terrible old man
advancing on him, staff raised. His stomach sank with dread; terror weakened
his limbs, but he raised his hands to guard anyway ...

Kitishane
ran through the woods, breath ragged with unvoiced sobbing—but she only went a
few yards before she saw Lua, standing there with her arms outstretched.
Kitishane dropped to her knees, all but collapsed, sobbing with terror and
relief. The gnome-maiden wrapped small arms around her head, murmuring softly,
words Kitishane did not recognize—but finally realized were gnome-magic. Surely
it was a charm to shield, to protect—but it also soothed, and Kitishane was
just beginning to find calmness again when the shouting broke out behind them.
She whirled, frightened again, but Lua assured her, “It is only Illbane, giving
Culaehra the punishment he deserves. Be of good heart, Kitishane—you are safe.”

Cold
water slapped Culaehra in the face; he coughed, sitting up, and realized he had
been unconscious. He had fought back as well as he could, and knew he had
struck Illbane half a dozen times, but the old man had struck him far more
frequently, and far harder, with that abominable staff. Culaehra's head ached;
his ribs ached; his legs and hips ached ...

His
hips! Culaehra suddenly realized that he lay naked as a skinned buck. That foul
old man had stripped him while he lay unconscious! He struggled to rise—then
froze as the horn came down, aimed between his eyes. Behind it the unicorn
pawed the ground and nickered a threat.

“Yes,
hold still indeed,” said Illbane's voice, and Culaehra felt hands on his hip
and buttock. For a moment the horrible thought sickened him, that Illbane and
the unicorn meant to do to him what he had tried to do to Kitishane...

But
no, the hand was pinching and the voice was chanting. Then the pressure eased,
and Illbane said, “There. The wound is closed and shall not bleed more. It will
ache like fury for a day or two, and well you deserve it—but the pain will
fade.” He stood, stepping into Culaehra's vision, towering, threatening in his
glare. “You deserved to have bled to death, but I have plans for you.”

Culaehra's
blood ran cold. What kind of plans did he mean?

“Your
other wounds are healed, too, so let us have no nonsense. Rise and dress, and
go fill your bucket”

Slowly,
Culaehra dressed, muttering, “I did not fool you for a moment, did I?”

“I
shall always know where you are, Culaehra, and I can guess quite easily what
you mean to do. You are an intelligent man, but a very simple one in your wants
and needs, so there is no difficulty in discerning your actions. Yes, I
followed from the moment you went out of sight, and when I saw you drop the
bucket, I guessed what you intended. I will say this, though— you move very
quickly and quietly in the woods. I was almost too late in catching you up.”

Strangely,
Culaehra felt a glow at Illbane's praise, even so faint a sample as this. That
glow crashed as Illbane said carelessly, “Of course, that hardly mattered. If I
had not found you in time, I would have cast a spell that froze you in
mid-stride.”

“You
are a wizard, then,” Culaehra said thickly.

“There!
I knew that you were intelligent! Now back to your bucket, oaf, and do not try
to deceive me again until you have learned a gram of subtlety!”

The
words stung the harder for the small compliment that had gone before them.
Culaehra turned away with a growl of defiance—but it was all show. Inside, he
was sick at heart, knowing any resistance was useless—no matter what he did or
where he went, Illbane would be there before him.

Kitishane
and Lua were already back at the camp by the time he returned, but they moved
to the other side of the clearing as they saw Culaehra come—and the unicorn was
there, too, quietly cropping grass, but deliberately between him and them.
Yocote turned the spit where Kitishane's hare roasted, but lifted his head to
give the outlaw a malevolent look as he passed. Culaehra returned it with
interest, thinking how he would avenge himself on the little man when the
chance came—but the amulet chilled his throat, and his resolve suddenly
faltered, weakened by fear. He had to think a moment to realize why, then
discovered the cause: when the amulet turned cold, a beating from Illbane
followed. What was wrong with him? Pain had never mattered to him before!

But
then, always before, he had been sure of winning, of inflicting more pain than
he received. Now, he was helpless to stop it. Oh, he fought back surely
enough—but it did no good, and it was he who received more pain than he dealt!
Mortification burned within him at the thought of the unfairness of it, but
there it was, and he could do nothing about it.

To
make it worse, the chill of the amulet lessened until it was only dead metal
again. It was almost as if the sage had outfaced him in person, then sneered
with contempt at his retreat. Sick at heart, Culaehra knelt to hang the bark
bucket over the fire.

It
was a very silent dinner, punctuated only by Illbane's occasional question and
Yocote's laconic answer. But as they were finishing their meat, the gnome
frowned and asked, “Who puts the evil in men's hearts, Illbane?”

“There
are many answers to that,” the old man said slowly. “What have you heard,
Yocote?”

“That
there are good gods and evil gods,” the gnome replied, “and the evil gods find
ways to make men wish to do as they do.”

“And
you, Lua?” Illbane asked.

“I,
too, have heard of the gods,” the gnome-maiden said slowly, “and I believe it,
because I cannot help but think that all people are truly good, and only an
evil god can make them otherwise.”

“Why,
what a stock of nonsense is that!” Culaehra burst out. “People are born evil,
look you, and what they call 'goodness' is simply following the rules they make
up to protect their wickedness!”

The
others stared at him, shocked, but Illbane asked, “What of those who seek to
help others, even those they do not know at all?”

“They
delude themselves,” Culaehra said bitterly. “They cannot stand to face the fact
that the world is a brutal place, and the people in it all self-seeking and
cruel—so they pretend to kindness and unselfishness, and soon begin to believe
their own lie, forgetting that it was all just a pretense!”

“It
was no pretense!” Lua cried, eyes filled with tears. “I sought to help you
because I pitied you, not because I wished anything for myself!”

“I
do not want your pity,” Culaehra snarled, “and I did not ask for it, though I
would have been a fool not to take advantage of it. And you
did
want to
believe yourself to be good and noble, and helping me was what you had to do to
make yourself believe it!”

Kitishane
stared at him, rigid and pale, a protecting arm around Lua—but Yocote,
strangely, only frowned in somber interest. “What horrible things did people do
to you, Culaehra, to make you believe such lies?”

Culaehra's
arm flashed up to strike, but the amulet turned cold against his throat, and
Illbane's staff intervened. The outlaw lowered his arm slowly, but growled, “They
are not lies, but only the truths of the world that others are too craven to
face!”

Yocote
stared at him a moment longer, then looked up at Illbane. “I think he truly
believes that.”

“What
reason have you to believe otherwise?” Culaehra fought to keep his anger from
showing—not very successfully, but the attempt was new to him.

“Experience,”
Yocote told him. “Others have helped me for no better reason than that I lived
in their village—some of whom did not especially like me. I helped them in
turn.”

“That
is selfishness there!” Culaehra jabbed a finger at him. “They only helped you
in case they needed your help some day, and you them!”

“There
is some truth in that,” Illbane said. “A village in which the people do not
help each other will not last long—they will die one by one. But that in itself
means that only those who are willing to help one another will live.”

“Yes,
or that those who the villagers are not willing to help will be cast out!”
Anger was hot in Culaehra—but he was amazed to see it reflected in Kitishane's
eyes. What could she know about being cast out? Instantly, he wondered why she
had been hunting alone in the woods when she found him beating the gnomes.
Strange that he had never thought of it before.

But
Illbane was nodding slowly. “Perhaps—but even so, as time passes, the people
who live together will be those who do feel the urge to help anyone they see in
trouble—and those cast out will die childless, for the most part, so the race
of humankind will become more and more they who are born to help one another.”

“What
old wives' tale is this?” Culaehra asked in contempt.

“Not
an old wives' tale, but a legend of the gods.” Yocote was proving obstinately
hard to anger tonight. “Have your elders never told you of the hero Ohaern and
how he led the jackal-heads and nomads against the armies of the Scarlet God?”

“What
has that to do with why men work evil?” Culaehra demanded.

“Then
you have not heard it?”

“I
have, and I have no wish to hear it again! Start that tale, little man, and I
shall—”

Illbane
cuffed him, silencing him for a few moments while the world wobbled around him
and the sage's words echoed in his head. “Tell the tale as you know it, Yocote.
Perhaps it will do him some good.”

Culaehra
barely bit back a hot retort. A picture flashed in his mind, of Illbane
stretched out naked under the hot desert sun and he there to torture the old
man with a knife—but the amulet's chill bit deep into his throat, making him
gasp and banish the image. Of course—it was Illbane's amulet!

“Ohaern
was only a man, then,” Yocote began. His voice took on the singsong cadence of
a tribal tale-teller. “But that was 'then.' His wife lay on the point of death,
and Ohaern prayed to the god Lomallin for her life—and Lomallin sent Manalo, a
wandering wizard, who healed her. Later, though, she labored in a hard birth,
again at the point of death, and again Ohaern prayed—but this time the wizard
came not, and the wife died. Ohaern was furious with Lomallin—until he learned
that Manalo was held prisoner in a city dedicated to Ulahane, the god who hated
humankind—and all the races of the world, save the gods alone.”

“There
are some who say he hated even them,” Lua reminded.

“Even
so,” Yocote agreed. “So Ohaern led a score of men against that city, but on the
way, the half-elf Lucoyo joined him, burning with fervor to destroy the works
of Ulahane and those who dedicated themselves to him.”

Illbane
raised his eyebrows at that, but did not interrupt.

“They
freed Manalo—this is not the full tale, my friends, but only as much as you
could put in a cup. Ohaern had been a smith, but he used no tools to break the
bronze and copper that held Manalo, only the strength of his hands and arms.
They freed the wizard and took him back to their homeland—where Lucoyo met a
beautiful daughter of Ohaern's clan and fell in love with her, and she with
him. They courted, lost in their own world of dreams—until they were wakened
most rudely when the Vanyar struck and devastated their village.”