The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Can nothing stop Bolenkar's rampage?” Ohaern whispered.

  “Of course.” Rahani passed her hand between themselves and the cloud bank, and the vision disappeared. “The events you have seen will take a century and more to triumph, for they are only now beginning.”

  “Even now beginning! What will happen to the descendants of my son? To the descendants of my friends, of Lucoyo and Dariad?”

  “They live, they still live—but many will be butchered by the onslaught of the Vanyar, if this vision turns real.”

  “It must not! How may I stop these Vanyar?”

  “Only by stopping Bolenkar,” Rahani answered.

  For a moment, Ohaern was dismayed. “Stop Bolenkar? Stop an Ulharl, a creature half human and half god?”

  “You know we are not gods, Ohaern,” she reproved.

  “No, but superhuman! It is no man we speak of felling, but a superman! Oh, he cannot change his form, like a full-blooded Ulin, but his natural body is twelve feet tall and four wide! He has the strength of twenty men and the brains of five, and has been learning subterfuge and wily ways of cheating for half a millennium!”

  “As you have been learning magic,” Rahani reminded him sternly, “more and more every day. What, my love! Have you no faith in my teaching?”

  That restored Ohaern to calm and some measure of self-assurance. “Of course, it is even as you say. With Rahani's wisdom, skill, and power to strengthen me, how can I fail?”

  “Too easily,” she said tartly. “Remember caution, for Bolenkar is, as you have said, ancient in evil and deception, and many times more powerful than any man. But he can be killed.”

  “Then I shall slay him for you!”

  Rahani went misty-eyed and swayed close, reaching out to caress Ohaern's cheek. “I fear not, my love—for, while your spirit-body has tarried here with me and learned so much of magic and of wisdom, your mortal body has lain asleep in the depths of the chilled cavern into which you went to seek me.”

  Ohaern stared, a veil lifting from his mind. Suddenly he remembered the tortuous path up into the mountains, the twisting and harrowing journey deep into the bowels of the earth, not overly reassured by the guidance of the taciturn dwarfs, until at last he had found the cavern, its walls glittering with crystals of ice, the bier laid out and waiting for him. He had lain down; the cold had made him shiver, then penetrated to his very marrow; a curious feeling of warmth had stolen over him, and he had lulled himself into a trance.

  In that trance, he had assumed the form of a bear and climbed the World Tree into the shaman's land—but the Tree rose higher still, and he followed it to this luxurious realm, where he took on human form again, and found Rahani waiting. Every morning thereafter, he awoke lying next to her on cushions of silk, beneath perfumed trees, beside a brook that filled the air with freshness, and it was her caresses that wakened him ...

  His pulse quickened at the memory, so he put it firmly from him; there was work to do, for Rahani and for his own humankind. “My body is dead, then?”

  “Not dead,” she corrected, “but sleeping very deeply—and aging very slowly, as men judge time. Aged it has, though, and is now old. Its muscles are shrunken, its skin wrinkled, and its hair and beard long and grizzled. You can no longer fight for me by yourself, my beloved, for your body will not bear it.”

  Distress seized him. “Then how can I do what you ask of me? How can I confront this monstrous Ulharl and slay him for you?”

  “You must find the fragment of Lomallin's spear that fell to Earth during his ghost-battle with Ulahane's spirit, and forge it into a magical sword.”

  “Well, that I can do,” Ohaern allowed, “for was I not a smith before I was a shaman? And was I not a warrior before both? Surely with a magical sword, I can slay this terror, aged body or no!”

  “Surely you can not!” She swayed closer, body to body, sympathy filling her eyes. “You do not know age, beloved, but I have seen it in too many men to doubt it. Besides, the Star Stone was tainted by Ulahane's weapon, and that taint will poison your mortal body. You will be too weak even with a magical sword, but even more important, you will be too slow.” She pressed fingers over his lips to stop his protest. “I know, you do not believe, for you were swift as lightning when you dwelled on Earth—but trust me in this. You must place the magical sword in the hands of a hero who can slay Bolenkar, for only thus may you forestall the fall of darkness.”

  “But how shall I find this fragment of Lomallin's spear?” Ohaern cried. “It was no mortal thing, but a weapon forged of the stuff of stars by mightier magic than men have ever wielded!”

  “You will find it far to the north, where the ice never melts and a man must wear the skins of animals to keep his body's warmth, or die. You will see the Star Stone from afar, for it glows by its own light and casts dancing shadows into the sky. You must forge it by magic—but the power that emanates from it is so great that it will weaken your mortal body, as if the strength within you will go out to it. However, it will be the most perfect work that ever you have forged—and the most mighty.”

  “But where shall I find the hero?”

  “I shall lead him to you,” Rahani said, “and you to him by signs in the sky and in the trees and the water—and you will think me a maddened goddess, for he will be anything but a hero; he will seem the most corrupted and mean-spirited of men. But there is greatness within him, and you must bring it out.”

  “Just as there is strength in a lump of iron ore?” Ohaern muttered.

  “Even so. You will have to forge him into a hero, even as you forge the Star Stone into a sword. When you are done forging them both, you must direct them toward Bolenkar and loose them to find his heart.”

  “Can I no longer be your champion, then?” Ohaern asked, still muttering.

  “You can and you will always be.” Her hand caressed his face, and her body churned in slow and demanding rhythm against his. “You shall always be hero and champion for my heart, as true as any steel and twice as pure—and when you have forged both Star Stone and wolf's head into sword and hero, you shall come back to me in the prime of your life, in fullness of youth and vigor—for no matter the age of your body, your spirit will always be young.”

  Then she silenced any further protests with a kiss, and her fingers played upon him as upon a harp while her body made clear its demands. In a few minutes his arms came up about her, his fingers stroking, caressing, as if she were a living tree that he must shape by love alone, and they sank together into the hill of cushions beneath the perfumed tree, sealing themselves in faith to one another, in both promise and prediction, and assurance of triumph.

  Something cold and wet stroked his cheek. Culaehra's eyes flew open; he shouted in anger and lashed out. His fist struck something, and he sat up in time to see someone small go flying backward into the leaves, something pale-colored flying from his hand.

  No, her hand, now that he looked—she wore a plain blouse and skirt, though with borders of elaborate embroidery. Was that gold thread he saw? Then why not take it? After all, she was plain enough—coming to her knees, pushing herself to her feet one-handed, for the other was pressed to the side of her head, where his fist had struck. Her eyes were huge, far larger than any woman's he had known, but she squinted, as if the dim light under the trees were too much for her. Her head was hairless, her hands and feet also huge; she was unshod—and as she straightened, Culaehra saw that she was less than two feet tall. With a shock of fear, Culaehra realized he had struck one of the Little People.

  No, wait—those huge eyes, slitted against daylight... this was no elf-woman, but a gnome! His confidence returned somewhat— everyone knew that gnome-magic was no match for that of the elves. It was magic, though—and no one could be sure what the gnomes could and could not do.

  Control it, then! Control her, Culaehra thought, as he had always controlled everyone who might have been a danger: by fear. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the hammering in his head,
and stepped close, towering over her as he demanded, “What were you doing to me, vixen!”

  “I—I only sought to soothe your head, to heal you,” the gnome-woman protested. She reached for the pale thing before he could stop her and held it up. “A cold wet cloth for your forehead, to reduce the swelling.”

  Culaehra narrowed his eyes, automatically suspicious of any seeming kindness—it had never been more than a ruse to make him lower his guard, so that he might be more easily hurt. “Why should you wish to aid me?”

  “I cannot stand to see any creature in pain,” the gnome explained, “and ... and when I beheld your face ... I wished to heal you even more ...”

  She looked away, and Culaehra stared in amazement that was quickly followed by soaring elation and triumph. She was in love with him! A gnome-maiden, in love with a human man! And why not, seeing how ugly she was? True, he was no paragon of beauty himself, with his crooked nose and thin lips, and the layer of fat that smoothed over his great muscles was enough to make any fool who met him think he was only fat— but he was human, and must therefore look amazingly handsome to her! He swelled with the sense of power the knowledge of her infatuation gave him, his aches and pains seeming to recede, even the stabbing in his side. “What is your name, gnome?”

  “L-Lua, sir,” she stammered.

  Culaehra sat down again, snapping, “Get busy, then! And mind my ribs—one is broken, I think.”

  “I—I shall go gently,” the gnome quavered, and took up her cloth again. She washed his bruises with slow, gentle strokes, using water from a clay pot that had miraculously escaped tipping. He gasped with pain at every touch and cursed her newly at each bruise. At last she knelt back and said, in faint tones, “Pardon, master, but—you must take off your tunic if I am to see to the bruises on your chest...”

  Master already! Elation thrust again, and Culaehra untied his tunic. He gasped and spat a curse as she probed his ribs. She shied away at his anger, but he snarled, “Fix it, wench!” and, trembling, she came back to touch his ribs ever so gently.

  He winced at the pain, and she said apologetically, “The bone is not broken, master, but it is badly cracked. You must keep it still until it heals—not move your arms much, nor breathe deeply.”

  “Fair enough! Then you shall be my hands. Gather wood and build a fire to warm me—and find something to cook!”

  She did, for a wonder—began to move in and out among the trees picking up sticks. Didn't the little fool realize she could run off among those trees, that he was too lame to follow her?

  Of course not—she was in love. Culaehra grinned again at the thought of the power that love gave him, then noticed that, gnome or not, there was a certain femininity to her movements, a grace, even a trace of contours. It reminded him of Dinecea, the girl who awaited the birth of his baby, and at whom he had laughed when she told him they must wed. The thought raised the ghost of desire, but raised also the memory of his humiliation and shame at the hands of the gang who had beaten him and hauled him in front of the elders. Cowards! He could have beaten any one of them, even any five of them, but not ten of them together. Anger built, and he looked at the gnome-maiden anew—the perfect receptacle for his wrath: too much besotted to flee, too weak to fight back, too small...

  Small! And the memory was on him again, the forest about him dimmed by the image of the grove with the screams tearing from it, and he was lost in the vision of the past.

  Chapter 2

  The screams tore from the grove, and Culaehra was a boy of ten running toward it, knowing some girl-child was in danger, then bursting through the screen of underbrush and seeing Borli, huge and hulking and ugly, so ugly that even his wife would have nothing to do with him, and little Culaehra had seen what he was doing to Kerlie, five years younger than he, had seen her skirt already torn aside and Borli laughing with lust as he held her shoulders pinned against the sodden leaves, lowering himself. Culaehra had cried out in rage, boy or not, and kicked at Borli's midriff, but his foot had gone lower, come up and caught him in the loins. Borli howled with pain and rolled aside, and Culaehra cried, “Run, Kerlie! For the life of you, run!” For suddenly he knew it would have been her life; stupid though he was, even Borli would have known better than to leave a witness.

  Even himself! For Kerlie was up and running now, stumbling away without her skirt, but away and still whole in body at least, and Borli was pulling himself to his feet, eyes wild with rage, hp lifted in a snarl of wrath, and he snatched up a fallen tree limb and ran at Culaehra, swinging.

  White with fear, Culaehra ducked under the blow, snatching his dagger out of its sheath. He leaped in too close for Borli to strike with the stick, stabbing with the dagger. It sank between Borli's ribs at the side, and the lumbering fool screamed with pain. Culaehra leaped back, dagger poised to thrust, hoping Borli would fall back, give him time to run ...

  But Borli only swung the stick again, leaping forward, and Culaehra didn't duck low enough. It cracked into his head. He fell, dizzy and sick, the world dim about him, but he held onto the dagger, somehow knowing it meant his life. He heard Borli's victory yell as if from a distance, then felt the impact of the man's body atop his own, felt the clumsy hand fumbling at his trews, realized with sick horror that what Culaehra had prevented Borli from doing to Kerlie, Borli was trying to do to him instead. He stabbed with the dagger, up and as high as he could, heard the scream but stabbed again and again even after the scream began to bubble, then finally realized that Borli had gone silent and the weight on top of him was still. He pushed against it, forcing it up enough to roll out from under; then, gasping and crying, making sure his knife was in his hand, Culaehra stumbled away, glancing only once at the horrid thing behind him. Tottering out of the grove, he leaned against the assurance of a huge oak's rough bark, drawing strength from the tree until his breath was nearly even and he could begin to hobble out across the stubble of the field, to call for help, any grown-up help ...

  But the men had come to meet him, running to meet him, in a panic from Kerlie's incoherent sobbing, Culaehra's father foremost among them. He had taken the boy in his arms, crushed him to his chest, thanking the gods for his safety, then loosing him as he looked up at the other men's yells from the grove. He had started toward them, but Culaehra had pulled away, crying, so his father had stayed with him until one of the men came back to tend the boy. But there was some reserve about the man, some strange distance as he talked, trying to reassure Culaehra that all would be well—and when Culaehra's father came back from seeing what the grove held, there was something of the same distancing about him, too, a shunning, even a hint of fear as he asked, “Did you do that?”

  “I had to!” little Culaehra had protested. “He was trying to ... trying to ...”

  Warmth came back as his father had pressed him against his side. “There, there, boy, we know you did what you had to do, and saved little Kerlie from the worst of it, too. There is no blame for you, but only a hero's honor.”

  And the villagers did honor him as a hero that night around the great central fire in the meeting lodge, while Borli's wife and mother turned away their faces in shame, though no one laid any blame on them. A hero's honor, yes—for one night. But even the next morning, Culaehra realized that the other folk were beginning to shun him, to greet him with politeness but no warmth, and wondered why—wondered more and more, hurt and perplexed, and his parents couldn't explain it, told him it was all in his mind, wasn't real—but it was in them, too. He couldn't help but wonder until the next week, when he went hunting, and the biggest boy in the village caught up with him, and a dozen behind him, challenging, “You think you're such a great fighter, eh? Let's see if you can beat me!” and leaped in, punching.

  Anger surged, all the confusion and hurt behind it, and Culaehra fought back like a madman, fought back until the bigger boy finally ran with blood streaming from his nose and his cronies with him, running from the berserker. Culaehra followed them a dozen yards, then slowed a
nd glared after them, chest heaving, realizing that everyone was afraid of him because he had slain a grown man .. .

  And all the boys would fear him now, because he had beaten their biggest and scared the rest.

  Later, when he was mostly grown, he realized that it was partly fear and partly revulsion because of the deed he had stopped Borli from committing, which was nonetheless associated with him—revulsion and fear. A deep well of contempt built up in him, contempt for people who would honor a boy for saving a little girl and killing to defend himself, then shun him for having done it at all—contempt and anger, always anger never far from the surface, ready to lash out at anyone who gave him insult. He grew to despise them and their rules, even their gods, and began to think that only the wicked one, Bolenkar, might be devoid of hypocrisy, for at least he stood for wickedness openly.

  Culaehra grew up as a man without a god he would honor, without any faith except faith in himself, in his own wit and strength and skill in fighting—for he had to fight the other boys again and again, and when they finally left him alone, he knew that it was only the fear of a beating that stopped them. He became the best fighter and most despised man in the village, and showed his contempt for his fellows by bullying them and breaking their silly rules whenever he could ...

  Such as the rule that said he had to marry the woman he bedded and got with child.

  But never the rule against rape.

  So revulsion came up in him as he crouched over Lua, came up as soon as he felt the stirrings of desire, self-contempt, and nausea intensified because the gnome-maiden was smaller than a five-year-old. Instead he showed his contempt for her professed mercy and the sickness she called love by commanding, “Unlace my boots, so my feet may feel the warmth of the fire.”