The Sage (17 page)

“Only
a few yards more!” Yocote called, and relief almost made Culaehra go weak—but
why should the gnome be helping him, even in so slight a way? He clung to the
rope for dear life, letting it slip about him slowly, walking step by slow step
down the cliff face. Finally, his reaching foot struck a horizontal surface.
Scarcely daring to believe, Culaehra lowered both feet, let out another foot of
rope—and felt it go slack. He ignored the spurt of panic that raised, and
stamped his feet to make sure the footing held. Then, at last, he looked down,
and saw solid rock beneath his feet.

“Unwind
the rope!” Illbane's voice was thin with distance.

What
if Culaehra did not?

They
would be stranded up there, and he could escape down the ledges! The amulet
stabbed his throat with coldness, but Culaehra rapidly considered the idea. He
couldn't run away without letting go of the rope—but he could tie it to a huge
boulder, if he could find one ...

And
Illbane would slide down that strand and catch him with that blasted staff.
Culaehra heaved a sigh of regret and unwound the rope. At least Illbane seemed
to like him today; perhaps he should do nothing to lessen that. He stood
waiting, watching as Yocote's legs dropped over the edge, the rope wound around
him just as Culaehra had worn it. He crept down the cliff face like a snail—or
had he himself gone so slowly? Culaehra wondered.

Suddenly,
he realized that he would be alone with the gnome for at least a few minutes.
What was there to keep him from throwing the little man off the ledge? His
heart leaped at the thought, even as the amulet chilled his throat—and that
spreading numbness made him remember Yocote's magic. A bare beginner in
shamanry, Illbane had called him, but Yocote was still able to counter all
Culaehra's strength and size. Of course, he probably couldn't work much magic
while he was falling to his death ...

But
perhaps enough to save his own life?

Then,
surely, enough for revenge—all the more potent because, as Yocote's spells sped
upward, Illbane would be falling upon him with his own vengeance. It probably
would not be fatal, Culaehra thought, not judging by all Illbane's claims that
he needed him for some nefarious purpose of his own—but it was likely to be
very painful. Not that he minded a little pain, or that he could not endure a
great deal of it, if he might gain victory thereby—but fighting Illbane had
proved to be a guarantee of defeat, so what purpose was there in pain?

With
regret, Culaehra held up his hands and caught Yocote by the waist. Even so, the
urge filled him to hurl the little man over the edge—but it faded under fear of
Illbane by the time the gnome had unwound the rope. Culaehra sighed and lowered
him to the ledge.

Yocote
looked up and slowly said, “Thank you, Culaehra.”

The
words surprised Culaehra—no one had thanked him since he was twelve, and he
found out how much truth there was in
their
words! Old anger rose, and
he snarled, “Did I have a choice?”

“Several,”
the gnome said, still slowly, “the least of which was to stand aside and let me
step onto the ledge without aid, though I'll admit it was a huge relief to feel
your hands about my waist.”

“Yes,
I could have done that,” Culaehra conceded, and wondered why he had not thought
of it.

Yocote
studied him a moment longer, then turned back to the cliff face. “Now who
comes?”

It
was Kitishane, and watching from below, Culaehra found that he had something
left to enjoy in life. Clad in breeches though she was, the woman was still
very pleasant to watch; her leggings were laced tight, and their form was very
pleasing. He let his imagination wander until the sharp bite of the amulet made
him rein it in—the amulet, and the dangerous closeness of Kitishane's feet as
they stepped down the cliffside. Culaehra grinned and held up his hands to
clasp her waist, but Kitishane snapped, “I'll land on my own two feet, thank
you!”

“As
you wish.” Culaehra tried to sound nonchalant as he stepped aside.

Kitishane
dropped the last foot to the ground and stalked aside, red-faced. It was hard
to stalk when you were only going two steps, but Kitishane managed it. As
Culaehra raised his eyes again, she snapped, “Don't you
dare
watch!”

“I
have to catch her if she falls,” Culaehra pointed out. “How can I, if I do not
watch?”

Kitishane's
face closed even more tightly, but she made no answer.

Really,
there wasn't much pleasure in watching the gnome descend. She wore so many
underskirts now that no one could have seen the shape of her legs, only her
feet—and Culaehra could not feel more than the faintest stirrings of desire in
so small a female anyway, without it evoking memories that somehow still had
the power to strike fear through him, even though he was a grown man and easily
half again the size of the brute he had slain.

He
heard Lua's whimpering twenty feet above him, and somehow felt both
exasperation and pity. Quickly, he concentrated on the exasperation, not liking
the pity. Still, he reached up and caught her waist as she came within reach.
She gave a start and cried out, letting go of the rope, then crying out again
in fright.

“Do
not fear, little sister!” Kitishane leaped forward, holding out her arms, and
Culaehra released the gnome into her hands with a grimace of distaste.
Kitishane glared daggers at him, but Lua had not seen; she only clung to
Kitishane, sobbing.

“Yes,
I know, it was a harrowing ordeal,” Kitishane soothed, “but you have come down
to us without letting go of the rope, and Culaehra would have caught you if you
had fallen.”

That
only made the little woman cry more loudly. Culaehra found room to feel
indignant. Yocote watched her anxiously, so Culaehra was the only one glancing
up when Illbane swung himself off the cliff's edge. His robe billowed about him
so much that Culaehra could only catch an occasional glimpse of his legs, and
they weren't anywhere nearly the sticks that he expected in a man of that age.

Then
it occurred to him to wonder who was holding the other end of the rope.

He
leaped forward, arms outstretched to catch. Kitishane noticed and glanced up,
then said, “Never fear, hunter. He holds the rope securely.”

Culaehra
kept his arms spread, even though his heart ceased racing—and he cursed himself
for a fool, to have worried for his enemy's safety. Why, if Illbane fell to his
death, these other three would be his slaves again! If it weren't for Yocote's
magic ...

But
Illbane swung down to a safe landing and acknowledged Culaehra's spread arms
with a small bow. “I thank you, woodsman. I might indeed have missed my grip,
and been slow to recite a flight spell.”

So,
Culaehra thought, I have been promoted from wolf's head to woodsman, have I? He
wondered why.

Then
he wondered why Illbane had not merely pronounced the flight spell in the first
place. Perhaps he really could not, perhaps it was all a lie .. .

Looking
up, Illbane pulled, and the loose end of the rope shot upward. He kept pulling,
and it disappeared over the edge. Then Illbane gave a sharp tug, and the rope's
end sprang loose from the top of the cliff. “Step aside!” the sage commanded.
Culaehra stepped back quickly; so did Yocote and Kitishane. Even Lua finally
managed to stifle her sobs enough to look— just in time to see the rope cascade
down into a heap at their feet.

“Coil
it,” Illbane told Culaehra, “and we will go.”

Culaehra
heaved a sigh and bent to start coiling the rope.

Kitishane
found herself stealing glances at Culaehra as they marched along. She could
scarcely believe he was the same man who had assaulted her several months
before. Illbane's insistence on bathing had shown him to have a fair, clean
complexion, and his hair was actually blond, not light brown. Perhaps it was
the exercises, perhaps the lessons of humiliation and pain, but the big man's
skin almost seemed to glow. The pudginess had melted away, revealing the hard
muscle underneath. His face was leaner, and she noticed that his eyes were very
large for a man, his nose straight, and the fullness of his lips sent strange
shivers through her.

But
those shivers reminded Kitishane of the way he had attacked her before, and
though he had shown no aggression toward anyone since Yocote had beaten him
with magic, she knew he might well try “again. Whenever she paused to admire
him, those memories rose, making her turn away with a shiver.

For
her part, Lua was noticing the changes in Yocote. He seemed different to her
since he had defeated Culaehra— stronger, more confident. However, he also
seemed to be darker, more silent; she missed the old cheerful jibes and
sarcastic thrusts at Culaehra—not that they had ceased, but they became rare.
He had grown in bulk, laying on even more muscle than gnomes usually built
through their cleaving of rock. In the evening, when he took off his goggles,
she began to notice that he was quite handsome.

She
found, to her surprise and delight, that she was no longer in love with
Culaehra. It gave her a feeling of relief and freedom that amazed her—but she
also felt the beginnings of such an obsession with Yocote. The gnome, though,
seemed almost to shun her. Could it be that he misunderstood her compassion for
Culaehra when he was hurt? But she felt compassion for everybody! In confusion,
she was well on her way to misery again.

Culaehra,
for his part, found himself thinking more and more about the rules Illbane had
so extolled, and he began to work at finding objections to them. Chief among
them, he doubted that he truly would meet a man who was stronger than he, a
bully for a bully. Four or five bullies together, yes—but one? He had never
seen a man as big as he was, nor as strong, and Illbane's skill did not deter
him, for if it was only skill, he could gain it himself someday. Magic, no—he
was willing to accept that rule, at least: never pick a fight with a shaman,
which meant never try to bully one. But he remembered that Illbane had said, “Unless
you cannot avoid it,” and began to try to develop a strategy for fighting magicians.
Strike fast, before they could pronounce a spell? But how would you come close
enough for one quick strike to end the matter? He mulled it over in his mind.

Illbane
had begun to trust him out of sight now, and one day, while Culaehra was out
gathering firewood, he saw a big stranger coming toward him through the wood.
He realized that he was about to test the question of a bully stronger than
himself.

The
other man looked to be a little taller than Culaehra, with brown hair and a
wide face with large eyes. He was dressed in woodsman's tunic, breeches, and
boots, and was fleshy, with a soft look to him. Still, Culaehra knew from his
own experience that a layer of fat could hide quite a deal of muscle, so he did
not put much faith in it. He braced himself to dodge quickly, though, for the
stranger carried a bow, and a quiver filled with arrows on his back.

Sure
enough, the stranger nocked an arrow, grinning. “Come along, fellow! I'm off to
shoot deer, and could do with a slave to carry the carcass.”

“Come
along yourself!” Culaehra's heart sang at the prospect of a blameless fight. “I'm
no slave, and certainly no friend to a man who shoots more than he can eat!”

The
arrow rose to point at his face. “Oh, but you are—or you're a dead man.”

“Kill
me, then,” Culaehra invited.

The
bowstring thrummed, and Culaehra whipped aside to his left. Sure enough, the
arrow passed far to his right—the hunter had planned on his dodging that way.
Then Culaehra dashed straight at the man and caught him with the next arrow not
yet to the string. The hunter dropped his weapons just in time to block
Culaehra's punch, but the impact of Culaehra's body sent him tumbling to the
ground—with a fistful of Culaehra's tunic. It jerked Culaehra off his feet, but
he slammed a fist into the hunter's belly as he fell. Sure enough, there was
hard muscle under the fat, and not that much padding at that—but the man
grunted, and his hold loosed just enough for Culaehra to strike his hand aside,
then roll to his feet. The hunter came up as quickly as Culaehra did, though,
rising in a crouch, arms spread to wrestle, a grin on his face.

Culaehra
struck hard at that grin, hard and fast.

The
stranger's arm flashed up to deflect the blow, then his own fist struck back at
Culaehra's belly. Culaehra blocked it, then blocked the punch that came at his
face right after it, but the third punch caught the other side of his face, and
he leaped back, head ringing, shaking his head to clear it. A roar of delight
echoed in his ears, and he saw a blur as the stranger followed up his
advantage. Culaehra blocked and gave ground, turned and ducked just enough to
take a punch meant for his belly on his arm—then tripped and fell backward over
something hard. The stranger whooped with glee, leaping over the log and swinging
a kick at the fallen man.

Culaehra
caught the ankle, pushing it up above him, and rolled. The stranger squalled as
he fell. Still holding onto the foot, Culaehra struggled up, managing to push
the hunter's leg from side to side as the man struck at him with kick after
kick. Culaehra grinned and shoved it high—and the hunter caught him in the ribs
with the other foot. Culaehra dropped the ankle with a breathless curse and
tried to keep his guard up as his lungs clamored for air. The hunter leaped up,
striking at Culaehra's face with three quick blows; Culaehra blocked two and
rolled back in time to take most of the force out of the third. He retreated
quickly, dancing backward, blocking punches— then suddenly ducked under the
stranger's guard and slammed a fist into the stranger's gut. The hunter folded
over with a grunt, keeping his guard up as he glared at Culaehra while he
struggled for breath. Culaehra could sympathize; the fight had been going on
long enough so that he was almost winded himself.