The Sage (44 page)

“And
with virtues like ours, but perhaps also greater,” Kitishane said through
Yocote.

Yusev
nodded. “Perhaps so. Surely Lomallin was great in courage, and great in his
ability to sacrifice himself for others. Still, the Ulin were only
super-humans, not gods—and an Ulin's half-human son is only a more durable kind
of man. He can be slain; even an Ulin can be slain by another Ulin, so an
Ulharl must be vulnerable even to humankind.”

“Even
so,” Yocote said. “Culaehra slew one.”

Yusev's
gaze snapped up to the warrior in astonishment.
“You?
You slew an
Ulharl?”

Culaehra
shrugged at the translated words, uncomfortable with the praise. “We all did.
Mine was the sword that dealt the death-blow, that is all.”

“All?
Only four people together, and you slew an
Ulharl?”

The
companions' army began muttering among themselves; they had not heard this
before. But Vira and her fellow villagers kept silent, though their eyes
glowed.

“Yocote
countered the Ulharl's magic,” Culaehra said. “Kitishane and Lua distracted him
with arrows, and finished him completely by shooting him in the eye. And, too,
a sage stood by us, to protect us.”

“But
he did not help in the slaying?”

“He
did not need to, no.”

“That
is the sword that struck the death-blow?” Yusev stretched out his hands. “Let
me touch it, I pray you!”

Culaehra
did not understand, but he drew his sword and held it up by the blade. Yusev
touched the hilt with awe—then stared with awe greater still. “This blade was forged
by Ohaern, the companion of Dariad the Defender!”

Murmurs
of awe and excitement swept both ranks. Warriors craned their necks to look
more closely.

Culaehra
would have said that Dariad was Ohaern's companion—but he could understand why
legend would have made it otherwise to these people. He frowned, turning to
Yocote. “How can he tell that?”

“He
is a shaman,” Yocote said simply.

“Amazing!”
Yusev stroked the blade, staring at it in admiration. “Ohaern has been gone for
five hundred years, and the sword he forged still looks new!”

“It
is
new,” Yocote said.

Yusev
whirled to stare at him, first in amazement, then in accusation. “You
blaspheme!”

Culaehra
hissed, “What are you doing? They will think us madmen or liars.”

But
Yocote seemed sure of his course. He said loudly, “I do not blaspheme. Ohaern
woke from his centuries of sleep and found us. He bade us call him 'Illbane,'
and trained us all without our knowing who he truly was.”

“Ohaern
woke! Ohaern woke!” The words ran through both ranks in hushed but excited
tones.

“Where
is he?” Yusev asked, eyes glowing.

“Dead,
I fear.” Kitishane turned somber. “He waited until we had come to love him—then
he died on us.”

Moans
of disappointment sounded. Yusev turned to her in surprise, then smiled gently.
“Do not be angry with him, maiden. I am sure he did not choose to die.”

“But
he did!” Kitishane was near tears. “He led us to the Star Stone, the fragment
of Lomallin's spear that fell to earth during his battle with Ulahane, and bade
us stay far away as he smelted its iron and forged it into the sword
Corotrovir. But there was poison in the Star Stone, poison that came from
Ulahane's weapon when it nicked the fragment from the spear, and Ohaern drew
that poison out into his own body, so that the Starsword would not slay its
bearer. But the poison wracked his body with pain and killed him.”

Silence
held that benighted plain. Yusev whispered, “He gave his life for you.”

Culaehra
bowed his head, taking the guilt upon himself.

“He
gave his life for us all!” It was Lua who spoke, quivering with anger. “He told
us that we four must slay Bolenkar, and he forged the sword Corotrovir to do
it!”

“And
forged Culaehra into a hero able to bear the sword,” Yocote added.

Now
it was Culaehra whom Yusev regarded with awe. “Truly? But yes, I see it must be
true, for I feel it within the steel! You are the one whom Ohaern has chosen to
slay the monster Ulharl! You are the one who shall strike down the soldiers of
Gormaran! Kinsmen, rejoice! He who shall lead us to freedom has come!”

The
People of the Wind shrilled triumph in loud, treble ululations. Culaehra stared
about him, dazed.

Yusev
turned to the nomad leader. “Send riders to all the other tribes that still
wander free! Tell them the Chieftain of Chieftains has come, sent by Ohaern!”
He turned back to Culaehra. “What would you have all the tribes do, O
Chieftain?”

Culaehra
stared, dumbfounded. Kitishane noticed and forgot her grief; she stepped up
beside him with a smile. “Well asked, O Chieftain. You have found your army—what
will you do with it?”

The
camels—or so the odd-looking beasts were called—were picketed several hundred
yards away under the care of the women and youths who had been riding in the
curtained houses borne by the camels in the center of the party. The men lined
the banks of a dry riverbed, waiting with the patience of stones. Culaehra knew
they were there, for he had seen them take their positions. Then he had turned
away to converse with Yocote, and when he turned back, the People of the Wind
had disappeared.

“Do
not fear, O Chieftain,” Yusev had said. “We are here, as you have bade us be.
We await the Gormarani, as you do.”

Now
Culaehra knelt with a large boulder before him, ready to hide at the first sign
of the troops Yusev had promised him. There was no point in his keeping watch,
really—Yusev's chieftain Chokir had sent out sentries of his own, and Culaehra
was sure they would see more than he did, with far less chance of being seen
themselves.

“It
seems your plan will work well, Yocote,” he said. “How did you think of it?”

The
gnome shrugged. “You had to set them a fask quickly, warrior, or they would
have grown disappointed and left you— and if there are soldiers abroad, they
are the sensible target.”

“A
force small enough for our few hundreds to defeat, but only a finger of the
enemy hand,” Kitishane said, nodding. “Well thought, Yocote.” She turned as Lua
came trotting up. “Are the women against us?”

“They
are excited, but were fearful at the thought of losing husbands and sons,” the
gnome reported. “I showed them that they must risk that, or risk even more
deaths if the soldiers catch the People of the Wind in their own time and at
their leisure.”

“Did
no one say it would be better to go to one of Gormaran's strongholds and build
houses?” Culaehra asked.

Lua
shook her head. “In truth, I began to wonder about that, and finally risked
telling them that was the only safe course.”

“Lua!”
Kitishane chided. “You could have lost us our army!”

“My
curiosity gained the best of me,” the gnome admitted. “But the women turned on
me as one, scolding me and telling me of the misery the People endure at the
strongholds. A few have escaped—yes, escaped! Once the soldiers have them, they
are little better than slaves! At least as many men are executed for breaking
the soldiers' rules as would be slain in battle, and their wives and daughters
are used most shamefully. All the women agreed that clean death is better than
a living one.”

Kitishane
shuddered. “I must agree. So that is why they were so willing for the men to
ride! And why they were as quick to pledge loyalty as their husbands were.”

“Sand!”
The word swept toward them as if borne on the wind, passed from mouth to mouth
from far away. Culaehra looked up, wondering at the excitement in the tone. If
there was one thing that was not unusual in this place, it was sand.

Then
he saw what they meant. A plume of sand rose into the morning air and seemed to
be moving toward them.

They
had ridden all night to this dried-up watercourse. The Darians had known
exactly where each band of Gormarani had been, and the nearest marching column
had only been a few hours distant. Culaehra suspected that if they had not
ridden to find the column, it would have come to find them.

He
strained his eyes, watching the bend in the watercourse between themselves and
the plume of sand. Only a large body of creatures could be raising so much
dust, and what creatures would travel in such numbers in this devastated
country except men? A few minutes later he began to hear the beating of hooves
and the rumble of chariot wheels.

A
voice spoke near him, and Yusev translated for Yocote, who translated for his
companions: “The fools! To bring horses into this country! They must carry
their own weight in water!”

“Fools,
perhaps, but deadly fools,” Culaehra replied. “Let no man move until I give the
word.”

“Even
so, Culaehra,” Yusev replied, and translated, passing the message.

Culaehra
glanced nervously at the bluff nearby, where Vira and her northern army stood
waiting. They would have been furious to be left out of the fight, and Culaehra
knew they needed a victory to lift their spirits as much as the Darians did—
but the desert folk knew best how to fight in the desert. So Culaehra had
positioned his little army in hiding, as reserves. He was only worried because
he would have to call upon them at some time, or risk their resentment.

Of
course, all their archers lay in hiding atop the bluff. Perhaps some Gormaranis
would escape far enough to become targets. The problem might resolve itself.

Culaehra
found it difficult to believe the city soldiers could be so stupid as to march
along the bottom of a dry watercourse. “Do they not know that such a gully as
this is ideal for an ambush?”

Yocote
translated the question, and Yusev replied, “They think the sides to be natural
breastworks, and they march sentries along the top, to warn them if enemies
approach.”

“Have
they never thought those enemies might be hiding in the banks already?”

“How
should they?” Yusev grinned. “They do not know that the People of the Wind can
disappear even where there is only empty sand to be seen.”

“I
can well believe it,” Culaehra muttered. He had seen them disappear into the
very sand of the banks themselves, but still found it hard to credit that mere
human beings could vanish so completely—and that without magic!

Closer
came the plume of sand, and closer. Culaehra slipped behind his pillar, the
Starsword in his hand. Surely it was only a vagrant gust of wind that made it
begin to vibrate, almost to sing ...

There
they came, chariots two abreast, two men in each, one holding the reins, one
with a spear in hand—though the driver had a spear slung across his back, too.
On they came, as another pair rounded the bend ... and another, and another . .
.

Culaehra
stared, amazed, as they came and kept coming. Past his position the chariots
rumbled, and he was in the middle of the Darians! He began to think his
northerners might be truly needed, after all.

Then
the lead chariots were past the bluff, and still they came! No ... there were
no more! The last had come!

They
had to spring their trap, or let the quarry escape. There were far more than
Culaehra had planned on, but they had to begin somewhere. “Attack!” he snapped.

Yocote
translated, Yusev passed the message—and ululating howls filled the air as the
sides of the riverbed seemed to explode, hurling forth cloaked demons who fell
upon the chariots.

The
spearmen turned to defend, but the Darians took them by pairs, one to catch and
break the spear, one to stab. Spears flew from the rear chariots, beyond the
desert men, and a few struck Darians who screamed more with rage than pain and
turned to slit another throat before they died. Horses neighed in terror and
reared, bucking; chariots overturned. In minutes the riverbed was chaos. The
lead chariots beyond the attackers tried to turn back, but there was not enough
room.

Culaehra
howled like a northern wolf. Other throats caught the sound and repeated it
until it reached the ears of Vira's band. Arrows fell like hail from the top of
the bluff, slaying the lead charioteers, halting the survivors in confusion as
Vira and her folk ran out, spears flashing. They skidded and jumped down the
sides of the riverbank and set to, thrusting and blocking.

Yocote
was gesturing and chanting, as was Yusev nearby. If there was a shaman with the
soldiers, his spells had no chance. Kitishane knelt beside them, panting with
eagerness for the fray, but remembering her assigned position; she knelt with
an arrow nocked, waiting for a Gormarani to climb the slope, trying to escape.
Lua knelt beside her, smaller arrow at the ready, and just as lethal.

But
one charioteer slew and slew, one who caught up a battle-axe when his spear was
thrown, a battle-axe and shield, and beat off the Darians who came near him.
Several already lay dead around him, but he could not move, for his chariot was
blocked in by others overturned about him.

The
wind blew, and Corotrovir whined for action. This task, Culaehra knew, was his
own. He strode down the hill toward the big soldier.

Culaehra
picked his way through overturned chariots. The big soldier saw him coming and
drew back his hps in a sneer. His uniform was different from the others'—an
officer, no doubt. He wore a short robe over his leather armor, and his leather
helmet was surrounded with a fringe of small carvings—animals and monsters.
Culaehra stepped in, slashing. The soldier leaned aside just enough; then his
battle-axe blurred. Culaehra leaped back and swung at his true target—the axle.
Corotrovir bit through the oak as if it were cheese, and the chariot lurched,
throwing the big soldier to his knees. Culaehra swung horizontally, his sword
whining, but the soldier raised his battle-axe in the nick of time, blocking
the swing. Corotrovir rang off the sharpened iron, bounding away—but a wedge
dropped from the edge of the axe.