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The Sage

Page 4

by Christopher Stasheff


  He managed to keep it in view until the darkness began to pale, to wash away under light coming from ahead. Then he rounded a bend, and true daylight lanced his eyes, dazzling him. He squeezed his eyes to slits, then opened them a little at a time as they adjusted to the glare .. .

  And the owl was gone. Had he missed its passing out from the tunnel? Or had it melted into thin air? Ohaern threw off a shiver and breathed ardent thanks to Rahani as he forged ahead.

  Out into the light of the world he came, then lowered his pack to the ground with a crash and all but fell beside it, trembling with relief and exhaustion in every limb.

  Long he sat beside that cave, till the trembling eased and he began to think of fire again. The day was light but held no sun— overcast, but early summer, to judge by the leaves about him. He glanced at the sky, wondering about rain, but not overmuch, for hadn't he a cave behind him?

  Yes, but one without fuel. Ohaern used the roughness of the rock about the cave mouth to pull himself to his feet and, leaving the pack, moved slowly into the forest ahead of him to gather wood—but before he picked up a single stick for the fire, he selected a fallen branch, almost completely straight, longer than he was tall, and thumped it against a nearby tree. Satisfied that it was sound and had no rot, he used it to lean upon as he bent to gather stick after stick—and roots and berries, too. Then he returned to the cave's mouth, laid a fire, drew his great knife from its sheath and the scrap of flint from his pack. He struck sparks into tinder and breathed on the coal, slowly blowing a flame alight. Then he sat by his fire under a lowering sky, nibbling on berries as the roots roasted in the coals, and began to carve runes and mystic symbols into the wood of the fallen branch.

  For three evenings he carved by the fire; for three days he exercised, turning and twisting, striking a boulder with his great hammer, first the left, then the right, then the left again, changing the hammer back and forth between hands as it rebounded. At first he could scarcely lift it for the first stroke; three days later he could hammer for an hour. He could kneel down and stand up five times without resting; he could pull himself up to a tree limb; he could hurl a javelin he made from a straight stick and a piece of chipped flint. Most important of all, he had taught his body to hunt again, refreshing skills it had not practiced for hundreds of years.

  He finished the staff on the third night, then pointed it at a dead and distant tree and chanted words of power. The dead trunk groaned, then broke with a loud report and fell to the ground. Ohaern nodded, satisfied, and lay down to sleep.

  In the morning, he buried his fire, shouldered his pack, then looked up at the clear sky, murmuring, “Where would you have me go, O My Beloved? Show me where he lies, this lump of clay that can become a hero, and I shall find him!”

  For a moment he thought Rahani had not heard him. Then, slowly, trails of white appeared against the blue dome of sky, streamers of cloud that joined together to form a plume, a long sweep of arrowing streamers meeting—and pointing to the west.

  Ohaern gazed up at the mile of arrow with a smile, reassured that he was remembered—and not alone. He set off toward the west.

  As he walked he stayed alert for other signs, and, days later, found the next—a stunted pine, its branches all pointing to the southwest. By itself this was nothing exceptional—on a windy hillside; but in the middle of a forest of full-branched trees, it was unmistakable, especially since the branches of the pine all joined together to point. Two days after that, as he was coming out of a high mountain pass, a white stag burst from cover and sprang away across his path. Recognizing an emissary of Rahani, Ohaern hurried after the beast, but the smith's tools grew heavy upon his back, and within a hundred yards his legs ached and his breath came in hoarse gasps—and the stag was growing smaller and smaller in the distance. But it looked back, saw Ohaern laboring, and slackened its pace. In relief, he slowed to a walk, wiping his brow—then realized that he would lose the stag that way! He started to run, though his limbs were leaden—and saw that the stag, too, was walking. He slowed again and followed the animal toward the north, until it rounded a ten-foot-high boulder. When Ohaern came behind the boulder, it was gone. Alarmed, he looked about him, then remembered his hunter's lore and looked down at the ground. There he saw its hoofprints, curving around the stone—and disappearing.

  He stared a moment, not believing, then saw the magic of it and smiled. He settled his pack more firmly on his shoulders and trudged away toward the north, wondering if he would find another sign, or the reluctant hero himself.

  * * *

  Kitishane had known her father, but had never spoken to him if she could help it, nor did he speak to her. He never acknowledged by word or gesture that she was his daughter, for his wife was not her mother. It would have been bad enough if only they two had known of it, and Kitishane's mother, of course—but the whole clan knew, and never let her forget it.

  “Do not worry, my dear,” her mother crooned to her, rocking her when she was young. “We both know your worth, and it has nothing to do with his.”

  Nothing indeed—but the other children did not know that. They mocked her and struck at her—until she taught herself to block their blows, then even strike back. Most of the boys her age were smaller than she, so they learned to give her a wide berth. The girls did, too, muttering that she couldn't really be female if she struck at them.

  When she came of age, though, and the young men all sought to bed her as her father had bedded her mother—well, then she learned to fight in earnest. Not just as women were supposed to fight, with tooth and nail, but as men fought, too, for she had watched them at their wrestling practice, admiring the sheen of sweat on flexing muscles. She discovered some new movements, too—that her hips worked well as fulcrums for her arms to lever a man off his feet, and that if a woman was weaker in arms, she was quite strong enough in the legs. She learned to kick, and where; she learned to block with her legs as she blocked with her fists. It was a hard school, and the first time a boy struck her, fear shot through her, sapping the strength of every limb—but she realized what he would do if she did not fight back, and struck at him in panic, then struck and struck and struck until he ran.

  She watched them practice with sword and dagger, then practiced herself with sticks, but thankfully never had to use them— until young Cheorl was found dead.

  “Murderess!” Cheorl's father howled, pointing a trembling finger at her, there in front of all the villagers assembled, and the village elders nodded.

  “Where were you last night?” Goreh the chieftain demanded, eyes flashing from beneath his bushy white brows.

  “At home, helping my mother weave, then sleeping!” Kitishane answered.

  “It is true,” her mother said. “She—”

  “Of course she will say Kitishane was at home!” Cheorl's father snapped. “Of course she will make excuses for her daughter!”

  He should know, Kitishane reflected bitterly. She didn't doubt that he had done so a score of times and more, for Cheorl.

  “We know she can fight,” one of the boys put in, eyes gleaming at the prospect of revenge.

  “We have seen her practicing with sword and dagger,” another added.

  “A wooden sword!” Kitishane cried. “A stick for a dagger!”

  “So you would know how to use Cheorl's dagger when you wrested it from him,” Goreh inferred. “Did he seek to rape you, maiden?”

  “I was never there!”

  “I saw her going into the wood with her bow last night,” Shchambe said loudly.

  “A lie!” Kitishane said hotly, turning on her accuser. “I went inside my mother's house at dusk, and did not come out!” She had learned the hard way to stay indoors at night—it needed less fighting, and she never knew when two or three of them might gang up on her.

  “I saw her go into the wood, too,” Alluye said through her tears. Kitishane turned to her, words of anger on her tongue, but she bit them back—Alluye had been Cheorl's betrothed, an
d was deep enough in grief. She had always treated Kitishane with scorn, and had hated her for not accepting that contempt meekly—but Kitishane's heart went out to her nonetheless. To have found a love, and lost it!

  Then she remembered the hot looks Shchambe had given Alluye, not in the last week alone, but for years—and she knew who had slain Cheorl. “Ask him!” she cried, pointing at Shchambe. “Ask him where he was last night!”

  “Why, at home with me, where he should be,” Shchambe's mother said quickly—and since she had been wed, no one called her a liar, even though her husband was dead.

  “Shchambe is not on trial here,” Goreh said. “You are. All who think she is guilty, say 'aye.' “

  “Aye!” all the villagers chorused.

  “Those who think her innocent, say 'nay!' “

  Only Kitishane's mother said 'Nay.'

  “The punishment for murder is death,” Goreh said heavily.

  “No!” Shchambe cried. “Let her be no longer a maiden, then cast her out!”

  A chorus of voices agreed with him, both male and female. “Aye!” “Yes, that is a fit punishment for being so unwomanly!”

  “I would rather die!” Kitishane braced herself. It would be only tooth and nail at the last, then—but she would take at least one of them with her as she died.

  “There has never been such a punishment in our village!” Goreh spoke sharply, and the tumult died. “But casting out has been done, and shall be done now. Give her a pack, and a bow for hunting—then send her out!”

  There were shouts of disagreement, but more of delight. They ran to bring her a pack of food, ran to fetch her bow, then chased her out then and there, running after her, throwing stones, but she ran faster than any, and only one or two stones struck her. So she left her village, leaving her poor mother alone and weeping in the village square.

  In the darkness of the night wood she slowed, hearing the yells of the mob dwindle behind her. When they were silent, she collapsed against a huge old elm and let herself weep. The tears poured and poured, but finally began to slacken.

  That was when she heard the laugh, low and menacing.

  She stiffened, tears drying on the instant. She knew better than to ask.

  “So you'd have sent me to the noose, eh?” Shchambe stepped into a patch of moonlight, shadows painting his face into a mask of evil.

  Kitishane leaped to her feet, snatching an arrow, frantically trying to string her bow.

  Shchambe stepped in to strike it aside with a snarl. “Goreh's a weak old fool not to give you the punishment you deserve!”

  “You deserve!” Kitishane shouted. “You slew Cheorl so that you could have Alluye!”

  “And you were there to watch it, were you?” Shchambe growled. “Well, I'll give you the punishment Goreh should have! Oh, I'll have Alluye, when she's done mourning—but first I'll have you!” He seized her with one bearlike arm, pawing at the fastenings of her tunic with the other, then reaching for the neckline—but he had forgotten that she still held the arrow. Kitishane drove it up as hard as she could, and Shchambe gave a strangled yell, falling back from her, doubled over, the arrow sticking out just below his rib cage. Kitishane stepped in, yanked his dagger loose, then stabbed with it, stabbed again and again, feeling no guilt or compunction, for as Goreh had said, death was the punishment for murder—and, as far as she was concerned, should have been the punishment for the rape Shchambe had tried to commit.

  When his body had stopped moving, even the slight rise and fall of breath, Kitishane tore his swordbelt loose and turned away into the wood, appalled at what she had done—but within her elation formed and grew. She was alive! Alive, and he who had sought to slay her lay dead!

  Ohaern woke from sleep and lay taut, waiting to discover what had waked him.

  An owl hooted.

  Ohaern's eyes flicked from tree to tree till he found it—the huge white owl again! It stared back at him, eyes glowing from the light of his fire, and hooted again, demanding.

  “As you will, my love,” Ohaern muttered, and rolled to his feet. He buried his fire quickly, shouldered his pack, caught up his staff, and went toward the owl. It was off in a flurry of wings, but landed on another tree fifty feet away. When Ohaern was only halfway to it, the bird flew on again.

  It was urgent, then. Was the hero-clay passing soon? Or facing a monster that might slay him? Ohaern picked up his pace, hurrying as much as he could with the weight of his pack and the awareness that he might have a long way to go.

  The owl perched and waited impatiently until he came near, then flew on.

  Bone-weary, Kitishane let her pack drop and began to gather kindling for a fire. She had wandered through the wood for three days, not caring where she went so long as it was away from her village and the horrible bloody thing she had left behind—and surely they would hang her for its death, if they found her! While the sun was up, she had glanced at the shadows frequently, making sure they stayed before her in the morning, behind her in the afternoon. She had stopped to pitch camp only when it was too dark to go any farther, slept lightly and poorly, then waked and begun marching again before the sun was up. Now she was about to pitch camp once more—when she smelled wood smoke! She went rigid, heart bounding in panic. But she fought down her fear, strung her bow, and crept silently through the darkened forest. They might be harmless travelers, perhaps even women lost in the wood—but if they were not, she intended to strike while she still could. She hastened toward the scent of smoke until she began to hear voices. Then she slowed, creeping toward the sounds, and crouched, watching the people through a screen of leaves—a big man and, by Heaven, two gnomes!

  “Be done with that stew, Lua, and bring it!” the big man snarled.

  “Yes, master!” The gnome-maiden snatched the kettle off the fire—and dropped it with a cry of pain. The stew went running out over the ground.

  “You clumsy get!” The man leaped up. The gnome-maiden turned to run, terrified, but he caught her by the neck and yanked her off her feet, then began to strike her with the other fist.

  Kitishane stared through the underbrush in outrage, then raised her bow.

  “Let her go, Culaehra!” The other gnome leaped up from the shadows and sprang at the big man, clutching his belt and leaping up to strike at his face with a tiny fist.

  “Let her go? As you please, Yocote!” Culaehra dropped Lua and seized Yocote by the neck, pummeling him instead. Lua cried out in pain as she struck the ground, but rose to strike small, ineffectual blows at Culaehra's legs.

  “Let them both go!” Kitishane cried in rage. She stepped from the underbrush, drawing the arrow back to her cheek.

  Culaehra dropped Yocote indeed, turning to Kitishane in surprise, then slowly grinned. “Let them go? Aye! You're more my size!” He stepped toward her, ignoring her arrow.

  Kitishane had seen the same sort of look on the young men who had tried to bear her down. Without the slightest tremor of conscience, she loosed the arrow.

  But Culaehra leaped aside, and the dart flew past him into the trees. With a howl of triumph, he sprang at Kitishane; there were no memories to bar him from a woman full-grown.

  No time to draw another arrow, or space to fire it. Kitishane dropped her bow and drew her sword, slashing at the big stranger. He hadn't expected it; he tried to reverse direction, jumping aside, but the blade scored his arm and blood welled. With a snarl of anger he drew his own blade and came at her.

  He had all the finesse of a bull in heat, which was nearly what he was. Kitishane snapped her blade up to parry—but the sheer power of his stroke bore her back. She retreated, parrying frantically, but Culaehra followed closely with lumbering strokes that sent pain shooting up her arm. The lust in his eyes, the greed in his grin, waked enough fear for her to try desperate measures. She ducked under a blow and thrust, but the big man leaned aside, and her blade ripped nothing more than his tunic. “Clawed cat!” he snapped. “You'll mend that for me!”

  “Only for
your funeral!” she spat, but his next stroke drove her back even farther; she tripped on a log and fell. With a cry of victory he was on her—but the gnome Yocote dove for his leg, wrapped both arms and legs about it, and bit.

  Culaehra howled, kicking violently, and the little man went flying—but Kitishane rolled away and up, then threw herself into a lunge, sword tip aimed straight at the big man's heart.

  At the last second he spun aside and seized her wrist. “Let go!” she raged, and kicked at his groin. “Let go of me!”

  He blocked the kick with his thigh, then yanked hard on the wrist, pulling her up against him. “Let go? Aye, when I've had my fill!”

  Kitishane swung her dagger at him left-handed. He dropped his sword, moving his head aside enough so the dagger missed, then caught her left wrist, too, and twisted both. Kitishane cried out in pain, dropping both sword and dagger—and the vile man forced her wrists down behind her back, where he caught them both in one of his huge paws even as he pressed his lips against hers, wet and wide. Disgusted, she shoved him away—but he caught at her neckline, and she couldn't strike his hand away, he was holding both of hers behind her back ...

 

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