The Sage (35 page)

“No—but
you have turned that greed toward its true end, Agrapax. I must thank you for
that.”

The
giant stared down at the sage, affronted. “You brought him here deliberately,
Ohaern! You used me to forge him!”

“What
greater accomplishment for the Wondersmith?” Ohaern challenged. “And who more
fit to have wrought it?”

“Yes
... perhaps.” The Ulin stared down at the kneeling man in speculation. “Still,
he is now so fired for Right and so filled with zeal that he is apt to charge
out to seek and smite Bolenkar, unarmored and unready. We cannot waste our work
in that fashion, can we, Ohaern?”

“We
cannot,” the sage agreed, “but he shall have no need of your swords, Agrapax,
for I shall forge his blade.”

“Forge!”
Agrapax looked up, suddenly alert. “The Star Stone, you mean? It shall be the
death of you, Ohaern!”

“Of
my body, at least.” Ohaern nodded, accepting. “That is the price I must pay,
and well worth it, if the Starsword slays Bolenkar.”

“You
must not risk yourself!” Culaehra cried, before he realized the words were out
of him.

Ohaern
fixed him with a gaze at once proud and sad, but Agrapax ignored them both and
turned to his forge. “Well, if he will supply your sword, mortal man, than I
shall furnish your armor and shield. Retire out of my forge, all of you! Oh,
you may stay, Ohaern—you still have something to learn about smithing, and you
shall need to quite soon. Away, small ones!” He pointed at a small archway. “In
there! Dine, drink, rest! Refresh yourselves and renew your strength, for this
doddering sage shall lead you a weary chase yet! Come back when I call, but for
now, get you gone!”

Then
he frowned down at the metal, and they all felt the sudden lifting of the
pressure of the Ulin's attention and knew he had forgotten them as surely as if
they had never come to his smithy in the first place.

Yocote
stepped forward, beckoning, and Culaehra finally rose to follow him, scowling
to hide a vast feeling of relief— and an equally vast sense of exaltation. He
followed Yocote— but did not let go of Kitishane's hand.

The
gnome led the way through the archway, which narrowed into a tunnel that turned
through a double bend to open out again into a fairly roomy cave. Torchlight
cast their shadows on the wall behind the gnome; glancing back, Culaehra saw
that Lua had brought the flaming brands with them.

Yocote
turned about, hands on hips, to glare up at Culaehra. “How now, wolf's head! I
think you have become even more a shaman than I!”

Culaehra
stared at him in astonishment, then frowned, seeking within himself, and
discovered that he had an understanding of arms and of enemies that was
virtually instinctive now. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “but only as regards
warfare and feats of arms.” He smiled down at the gnome with genuine affection.
“Fear not, Yocote—I can never be a rival to you.”

The
gnome stared, then stood stiff and belligerent, taken off guard—but Lua slipped
her hand into his, and he glanced sideways at her, then back at Culaehra, still
glaring, but with something more of understanding and acceptance now.

For
a time, Culaehra merely sat staring into the torch flames and relishing the
quiet glow, the sense of complete well-being that filled him so thoroughly that
he felt it must be radiating from him; and Kitishane's hand in his only made
the wholeness more perfect. Finally, he lifted his head and looked into her
eyes—wide, still amazed, a little frightened, but altogether delighted, so that
he could tell she shared at least something of his joy.

Finally,
though, he realized that the clanging had begun again, had been going on for
some time, brief bursts of it punctuated by the roaring he had heard in
Agrapax's smithy. He realized that the Wondersmith was at his work again. The
clanging was the hammer on the iron; the roaring was the blast of air through
the forge. Culaehra wondered what a supersmith used for a bellows.

Turning,
he saw Yocote pacing the chamber, hands behind his back, muttering to himself.
At the fire, Lua was cooking something in a pot—stewed jerky, by the smell of
it.

“The
smith will be done soon enough,” Culaehra said. “Be at peace, little brother.”

Yocote's
head snapped around, staring at the warrior. “I have not given you leave to
call me that!”

His
anger and distress struck Culaehra like a body blow; he was amazed to discover
that he could feel the little man's emotions. “Your pardon, Yocote. I stated
only what I now see to be true— that all men of all races are brothers, and any
enmity between us is denial brought about by deception.”

“That
the differences are only on the surface, and the things we have in common are
far more important?” Yocote frowned. “Well, I can accept that. But what begins
this illusion that we are enemies, then?”

“The
agents of Bolenkar,” Culaehra said simply, “and our own vices, our selfishness
and greed and need for someone to look down upon. Heaven knows we give him
enough to work with!”

Yocote's
gaze strayed; he frowned. “There is some sense in that,” he said, and sat on
his heels by the fire, staring into the flames and musing.

Kitishane
squeezed Culaehra's hand; he turned to smile at her, not sure what he had done
right, but not about to argue with the consequences.

When
the stew was ready, they shared a meal. Afterward, they talked in low voices
awhile, halting to listen when the clanging rang out, for beneath it they could
hear the voice of the smith chanting in a language they did not know. Yocote in
particular stared at the entrance to the tunnel with longing, straining his
ears and trying to make sense of it, but failing. Culaehra felt a twinge of
sympathy for him—so much to learn so short a distance away, and to have it
denied! But there was nothing any of them could do to change that; the
Wondersmith had banished them while he worked his magic.

Finally,
they slept. After all, there was little else they could do.

They
woke at Illbane's call, a gentle urging: “Come, it is time to rise! The
Wondersmith is done with his forging, and we must go up into the world again!”

Culaehra
was on his feet in an instant, and Yocote was almost as quick, but Illbane made
them take time enough to break their fasts before they went. Yocote wolfed his
food, chomping at the bit, and Culaehra was in little better mood, but both of
the women seemed faintly amused by their impatience. Finally, they packed their
leavings, and Illbane led them out through the tunnel.

The
smithy was quiet now, only a seething murmur coming from the forge. Agrapax
himself was nowhere to be seen.

“He
has gone deeper into the bowels of the earth, to mine more of the rare minerals
he used in this forging,” Illbane explained.

But
Culaehra scarcely heard him, scarcely saw anything but the breastplate, helmet,
gauntlets, hip plates, greaves, and sandals that lay against a slab of rock in
the center of the smithy. He came over to them slowly, reached out to touch
them with reverence and awe. “These are objects of beauty! How could I wear
them in war, Ohaern?”

“Call
me Illbane, as first I told you to,” the sage told him, “for I will always be
Illbane to you. As to the armor, no blow will dent or mar it; you may wear it
secure in the knowledge that its beauty will remain undimmed.” But his eyes
were shining again. Kitishane saw, and understood: the old Culaehra would never
have seen beauty in anything, not even a woman's face and form. He would have
seen them as objects of desire, but not of beauty.

Still,
the armor was indeed beautiful. It lay glowing in the light of the forge and
the torches, golden with inlays of silver wreathing about and across it “What
are those figures, Illbane?” Yocote asked, his voice hushed. “I would almost
think them to be flowers and leaves, if they had not so many straight edges.”

“They
are flora, even as you have said,” Illbane replied, “but the plants are herbs
and simples of great power. The straight edges are runes, marks that stand for
words, and that only the wisest of shamans yet know.”

“I
must learn them, then!”

“You
shall,” Illbane promised, “and when you do, you shall read in that breastplate
and shield spells of protection that shall amaze you by their power.” Then, to
Culaehra, “Come, put on the wondrous bronze! Agrapax is already impatient to
begin his next work, and will be wroth to find us if we are still here upon his
return.”

“Put
it on?” Culaehra looked up, astounded.

“Of
course, put it on! Agrapax did not forge it only that folk might stare at it
and exclaim upon its beauty! Put it on, Culaehra—he made it to ward you when
you battle Bolenkar!”

“But
... but ... should I not at least carry it until battle looms?” Culaehra found
himself strangely hesitant to wear such wondrous armor. “Surely it will be too
heavy!”

“If
it is, then I have failed in driving you to strengthen your body to its
fullest! Besides, be assured—
this
armor will seem almost weightless upon
him for whom it was forged! Put it on, Culaehra—it will keep you warm in the
cold, and you will need that soon. It will cool you in the heat, too, and you
will need that later. You will scarcely notice its weight, but it will lend you
its strength.”

Slowly,
almost shyly, the warrior buckled on the enchanted plates of bronze. Kitishane
stepped forward to help; the gnomes stepped up to fasten his greaves. Illbane
himself set the helm grandly atop his head, its crest waving proudly as it fell
down to guard his neck. Kitishane gasped at the sight. “Oh, Culaehra! You look
as grand as a hero from the fabled tales of Dariad's war!”

“Dariad
never wore such armor as this,” Illbane assured her. “Come now, let us seek the
surface again! A hero you look to be, Culaehra, and a hero you are within—but
you cannot become one truly until you have faced and overcome your challenges,
and they await you in the light of the sun!”

“Take
me to them, then,” Culaehra said, his voice quivering with impatience, and
Illbane turned away to lead them back into the tunnel from which they had first
come into the smithy.

Their
way branched often, but seemed short enough to Culaehra and Kitishane, for they
talked in soft voices as they climbed the ever-ascending ramp of the twisting
tunnels. They spoke of their childhoods and their maturity within their home
clans, of their enemies and their few allies, of the experiences they had
shared and those they might have, if they had grown in the same village. They
spoke of the war Bolenkar sought to loose upon the younger races, they spoke of
the old tales of the Ulin, they spoke of everything and nothing, and were
amazed that they could speak of so much and never tire of it. Lua gazed up at
them with misty delight, and Yocote cast them occasional spiteful glances of
envy. His one consolation was that they did not talk about themselves as a
couple, but even that was undermined by the feeling that they did not need to.

The
way was far shorter than that by which they had entered the underground realm,
for they came into a small sunlit cave just as they were growing weary with a
full day's exertion. They all squinted in pain, their eyes no longer accustomed
to the brightness of daylight, and the gnomes quickly tied on their goggles again.

“Sit
and dine,” Illbane bade them, “and when your eyes are once more comfortable
with the light that fills this cave, we will go out to see the sunshine itself.”

“Well
thought.” Culaehra nodded, and sat by the torches as Lua set them in the center
of the cave. “But I cannot waste time,

Illbane.
You have given me a mission now, and I must be off to the south to find and
slay the monster Ulharl!”

Kitishane
looked up at him in alarm and shivered, then realized that there was a chill in
the air, and Culaehra was rubbing his hands not in expectation, but to warm
them by the little fire.

“All
in good time, eager hero,” Illbane told him, amused. “You would be foolish
indeed to run into battle before you are ready.”

“But
I must find Bolenkar before
he
is ready!”

“You
can only do that by assembling strong forces to lead against him. Your
companions will do well enough for a beginning, but they are not an army in
themselves. Even they, though, grow chill in this northern climate.”

Culaehra
looked up, startled, and saw Kitishane and the gnomes shivering. “The armor
does
warm me! I should have realized, when my hands felt chilled! Forgive
me, friends!” He started up. “I shall go kill a bear or two, and bring you some
furs!”

“Nay,
peace, my hero!” Kitishane stopped him with a hand, laughing. “Accustom your
eyes to the brightness, and do not go hunting without your archers beside you!
As to the furs, Lua and I have packed them away, when we shed them as the
caverns became hot about us. Warm your hands while we dress!”

They
left Culaehra to stir the stew while they pulled furs on over their tunics and
leggings, then ate in hooded coats of fur. When they were done and their
leavings cleaned, the companions all pulled on gloves, even Culaehra, who also needed
boots, which Kitishane had thoughtfully supplied. Thus equipped, they stepped
out to view what was left of the day.

They
gasped with pain as they stepped out of the cave, squinting their eyes against
the brightness, then slowly opening their lids—and gasped again with pleasure
at the sight. They were still in the mountains, and the golden sunlight of late
afternoon lent a glow to evergreens decked with whiteness. It was snow, and lay
deep on the ground as well, and on the rocks all about them.

“Winter
has come while we have been underground!” Kitishane cried. “Have we been below
so long as that, Illbane?”