The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Hold!” a deep voice bellowed, but Culaehra only snapped, “Be done with your tricks, Yocote!” and yanked at the neckline, but the leather held, only pulling Kitishane up close, into a stench of sweaty, unwashed body, and unclean clothing ...

  Something cracked, and Culaehra howled, letting go of Kitishane as he swung about—to face an old man in black robes, with short grizzled hair and beard. He also had a long, hard staff that was swinging high to strike again.

  Culaehra stooped to catch up his sword, then lunged at the old man's midriff—but the staff swung down, cracked again, and Culaehra dropped his blade with a yowl of pain. He lashed out with a kick, and the old man stepped aside—but he stepped too slowly, and the kick caught him on the hip. He grunted with pain even as his staff moved in a blur, the butt coming up to catch Culaehra under the chin. His head snapped back and he fell. Lua cried out in fright—Yocote flashed her a glance filled with surprise and pain—but Culaehra rolled and came up in a wrestler's crouch, shaking his head to clear it, growling, for all the world like a bear.

  Kitishane finally realized she could do something again— and what chance had an old man against a bear in the prime of his youth? She caught up her sword and stepped toward Culaehra.

  “No!” the old man barked at her, even as he laid his staff aside. “He is mine to fight—and with no more weapons than he has!” He, too, dropped into a wrestler's stance, though it looked quite different from Culaehra's. He began to move around the outlaw, east to west.

  Chapter 4

  Culaehra gave a gloating laugh and charged the old man, stooping to catch up his fallen dagger on the way. Kitishane and Yocote shouted in alarm as he swung his arm high, stabbing down—but the old man blocked his stroke. There was a brief flurry of movement, swirling robes and flapping black sleeves— then Culaehra shouted with pain as his dagger dropped on the ground. The old man released him, almost throwing him back. For the first time a glimmer of fear showed in Culaehra's eye—but it submerged quickly under anger, and he bellowed as he charged the old man, arms outspread to grapple. The stranger stepped aside, but again too slowly, and Culaehra caught him with one outstretched arm, sweeping him into a bear hug. Kitishane heard the old man's ribs creak and cried out in alarm, and Culaehra gave a gloating laugh. Then, suddenly, he was falling backward, the old man falling with him, and the two of them seemed a single churning mass until Culaehra gave a shout that verged on a scream, and the old man shoved himself back to his feet, backing away, breathing hard—and waiting, ready. Very ready. Culaehra pushed himself up, panting and clumsy, blood in his eye, growling low in his throat. He advanced on the old man, but slowly now, feet wide apart, almost waddling, arms uplifted, until only a yard separated the two men. Then Culaehra lunged.

  What the old man did, Kitishane couldn't have said—but Culaehra went whirling through the air to land heavily on his back. He scrabbled at the forest floor, breathless, the wind knocked out of him, and finally managed to turn himself over onto his stomach. Breath rasped in his throat at last, and he pushed himself up again, feet spraddled, arms low and circling, head down, glowering and gasping for breath.

  The old man stepped in, feinted with his left fist, swung low, and as Culaehra tried to block, stepped in, smashing his right fist into Culaehra's jaw. The big man straightened, his eyes glazing, then toppled and crashed into the underbrush. Kitishane and the gnomes stood frozen, breathless, waiting—but Culaehra lay still.

  “Have no fear,” the old man wheezed. “He will not ... rise again ... till he wakes.” He moved toward his staff, but Yocote was there before him, dashing to pick it up and present it to the old man in outstretched hands.

  The movement broke Kitishane's trance. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she said, breathless. “I cannot thank you enough—but why did you save me? You do not know me at all!”

  “I have some reason of my own to punish this man,” the old man said, leaning heavily on his staff now. His face was grim as he said, “He is my affair—so I would prefer that he do no more harm.”

  “It is for all of us to thank you,” Yocote said.

  Lua nodded, eyes wide. “Yes, thank you for freeing me from this tyrant!”

  “Tell us who you are, that we may praise your name,” Yocote implored.

  “Call me Illbane,” the old man said. He took a deep breath, heaved a sigh, and rubbed his side.

  “Are you hurt?” Kitishane was by him in an instant.

  “Bruised, nothing more,” Illbane assured her. “Cursed we are, that we must grow old! If I had taken better care of this body, I could have whipped this cub in three blows!”

  “It seems a miracle that you won at all!” Lua said, eyes wide.

  Kitishane agreed. “He is so huge, so strong!”

  “Strength and youth, he has,” Illbane agreed, “and the quickness and endurance that go with it—but he has very little skill, and is so clumsy that I should have had him half a dozen times before I finally did. Yes, and without his even touching me, too!”

  Kitishane stared. “Is it true? Can people learn such fighting skill as this?”

  “I stand victor, in testimony to it,” Illbane said with irony. “Believe me, there is greater skill than I have shown you today, far greater!”

  “Teach it to me!” Kitishane pleaded.

  “To you?” Illbane looked up at her, frowning. “No, for I must take this bear in hand and make a man of him.”

  “Bear?” Yocote studied the unconscious Culaehra with a frown. “They say that bear cubs are born without form, and that their mothers must give it to them by licking them.”

  Illbane laughed. “Do they truly? What marvelous tales people have made up in these centuries! I can see the source of it—the newborn cubs do look like shapeless masses, and the mothers lick them to dry them and warm them.”

  Kitishane stared. What manner of man was this, who talked as if he had been midwife to a bear and seen the new cubs at arm's length!

  “And will you, like a mother, give this bear form?” Yocote nudged Culaehra with his toe.

  “I shall lick him into shape, yes—but not like a mother.” The old man lifted his head to look around at the three. “You may go now—you are free. Or, if you wish justice, you may wait until he wakes, this lump of clay, and beat him as he beat you.”

  Yocote's eye gleamed as he looked at the supine form, but Lua shuddered.

  Illbane noticed. “What troubles you, gnome-maid?”

  Startled and frightened that he should talk to her, Lua stared up.

  Illbane saw; his voice became much more gentle. “Come, you need not fear to tell me. He has wronged you, he has caused you pain. Why not take the chance to give him as much agony as he has given you? I assure you, he will never retaliate!”

  “But—it is wrong!” Lua exclaimed. “To beat another, to hurt someone else for your own pleasure—what a horrible notion!”

  Illbane nodded gravely. “I see that you are too gentle to seek revenge.” He turned to Yocote. “What of you, gnome-man?”

  But Yocote's eyes were on Lua. “It is wrong, as she says,” he said slowly, “and would serve no purpose. Besides, if I beat him when he were helpless, I should be no better than he, and—” His lip curled. “—be sure, he is the most loathsome of creatures! Would he have sought to fight me if I were three times his size, as he is to me? I think not! A bully and a coward!”

  “A bully surely, but perhaps not a coward,” Illbane said slowly, “and if he would run from one three times his size, it would be because he found nothing worth the fight or the risk.” He turned to Kitishane. “What of you, maiden?”

  Kitishane regarded Culaehra's unconscious bulk with disgust. “I would love to beat him as he did the gnomes, Master Illbane, but I fear I would not stop until I was exhausted—and by that time he might be dead.”

  Low-voiced, Illbane asked, “Do you care?”

  Lua's gaze snapped up to him, appalled, and Kitishane's eyes widened; she seemed unsettled.
“Care about him? No! But care that I not be a killer of people, yes! I have slain rabbits and pheasants with my bow, slain deer, even slain a man who sought to rape me—but I am no murderer!”

  “No killer of your own kind.” Illbane nodded, and though he still looked grim, Kitishane sensed approval; it reassured her. “And, though we may not think of this hulk as our kind, he is nonetheless human.” He prodded Culaehra with his staff. “Up, son of infamy!”

  Culaehra sat bolt-upright, as if something had yanked him straight. Then his eyes opened—and squinted with pain. He moaned and rubbed his jaw, then saw the gnomes and the maiden watching him. Memory struck, and he swiveled his head to look up at the tall old stranger.

  “Yes, I have beaten you, lump-face, and shall do so again if you seek to disobey me! Up, now, and shoulder the pack!” He nodded at Culaehra's makeshift sack.

  Kitishane fought to keep her face impassive in spite of her surprise at the change in Illbane, from the understanding protector to the tyrant—and at his choice of insults. She surely wouldn't have called Culaehra “lump-face.” In fact, she would have called him handsome—quite handsome, if he hadn't been such a brute.

  “My head hurts,” Culaehra grunted.

  Illbane's hand struck like a snake, rocking Culaehra's temple. With a roar the big man surged up—but Illbane sidestepped, struck Culaehra's head as he blundered past, then kicked his legs out from under him. “You had better learn something about fighting, lumbering ox, before you try to strike me again!” Illbane dropped down, one knee on Culaehra's spine, the other pinning his arm. Culaehra tried to roll, then yelled as the bony knee dug into a nerve. He whipped about and tried to roll from the other direction, then howled as the other knee dug in. He lay frozen for a moment, and Illbane whipped an iron chain about his neck, holding the two ends together as he chanted some words that seemed mere nonsense syllables— but fire flashed from the two ends, and when it died, the chain was seamless. Illbane shoved himself to his feet, stepping back.

  Culaehra howled from the heat of the links as Illbane dropped them. He shoved himself up, pawing at the steel collar—then freezing as his hand found the small iron ball at his throat.

  “It is an amulet,” Illbane told him sternly. “It is magic. If you so much as think of doing something wrong, it will grow cold, and the more you think of wrong deeds, the colder it will grow. Think of right works, and it will grow warm.”

  Culaehra roared, clasping the chain with both hands and pulling. The muscles of his arms bulged, his face reddened—but the chain held.

  “You shall not break it, no matter how hard you try,” Illbane told him, “for it is magic that holds it, not the strength of iron alone. It is the collar of a slave, and a slave you are indeed! Now rise, and take up the pack!”

  “I am no man's slave!” Culaehra bellowed. “Especially yours!”

  “Oh, yes you are, as rightfully as you enslaved the gnome-woman!” Illbane kicked Culaehra hard in the side. The big man yelled, but cut it off short, pressing his hand to the hurt—and Illbane swung the staff against his buttocks.

  Culaehra clenched his teeth, keeping the shout down to a grunt, and Lua cried out in protest. Kitishane agreed. “You do not need to cause him so much pain, Illbane!”

  “If he thought it right for him to hurt you, then he cannot deny that it is right for me to hurt him!”

  “Or,” Yocote pointed out, “if he thinks it wrong for you to hurt him, then he must admit that it was wrong for him to hurt us.”

  “Never!” Culaehra snapped, and Illbane struck again, leaning down to slap Culaehra's head—but Culaehra saw the blow coming and, quick as a scorpion, rocked back to catch the old man's wrist with a cry of vindication.

  Illbane planted a foot in his belly.

  The cry turned into strangling as Culaehra curled around the pain. Illbane stepped back and spoke with contempt. “Yes, you cannot rise to your work if you cannot breathe, can you? Very well, I will wait a few minutes.”

  Lua started to speak, but Illbane waved her to silence, and Kitishane laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. She felt she should not watch a scene of such brutality, but morbid fascination held her—and the creeping satisfaction of seeing the bully being bullied.

  Yocote had no such scruples. He watched with shining eyes.

  Culaehra drew a long, shuddering gasp, and Illbane dug the butt of his staff under the man's belly to jab. Culaehra howled and rolled away from the pain, then scrambled to his feet, glaring in fury—but Illbane followed him every inch and was waiting to clout him as he stood. Culaehra's head rocked; he straightened, bringing up his hands to guard, but Illbane struck them aside with a sweep of his staff, then slapped Culaehra, forehand and backhand, one cheek, then the other. Culaehra struck out, but Illbane caught his arm, stepped sideways, and twisted it up behind Culaehra's back. The big man gave a shout of pain, then clamped his jaw. Sweat stood out on his brow.

  “Understand,” Illbane grated. “You have only one choice— obey me, or suffer pain at my hands until you finally die.”

  “I'll kill you for this,” Culaehra ground out.

  “Turn those words around.” Illbane shoved and twisted, and Culaehra bellowed with pain. Lua winced. Illbane lectured. “You have strength and swiftness, more than I—but you are clumsy, and an ignorant fool when it comes to fighting. No, an ignorant fool in all matters, or you would have known it was wrong to beat and enslave those weaker than yourself! Well, you will learn it now, because I will teach it to you, or you will die from my trying!”

  “Everyone does it,” Culaehra said between clenched teeth. “What's wrong about it?”

  “Many things, and if you weren't so determined to be ignorant, you'd know them! But for the moment, this alone will do—that no matter how strong you are, there will always be someone stronger! So if it is right for you to enslave those weaker than you, then it is right for someone else to enslave you—and just now, that someone is me! Now pick up that packi”

  He gave one final twist and shoved the big man away from him. Culaehra stumbled, but turned to glare at him, feet spread wide, shoulders hunched, arms up. Illbane glared back, though, pure venom; his contempt and disgust and, yes, hatred for all that Culaehra represented, daunted even the bully. He froze, his glare glazing, the tiniest shred of uncertainty coming into his eyes.

  Illbane swung his staff high, then held it poised.

  With a snarl of defiance, Culaehra turned away and caught up the sack.

  Lua heaved a sigh of relief, but Yocote's breath hissed out in victory.

  “The other one, too!” The staff jabbed at a dark shape lying at the edge of the clearing, then swung back up, ready to strike. Culaehra glared hatred at Illbane, then slowly stepped over to pick up the pack—and froze in surprise.

  “Lift it up,” Illbane jibed, “or are you not so strong as an old man? I have walked fifty miles with that load on my back! Come, are you so weak after all?”

  “What is in it?” Culaehra grunted.

  “Smith's tools. Now hoist it to your back, or your shoulders will know a heavier load!”

  Red with shame, Culaehra lifted the pack and slipped his arms through the straps. Illbane nodded slowly, lowering the staff. Then he turned to the watching three and said, “Go, now. You have done your part; you have witnessed his shame, and thereby gained your revenge—or imposed justice.” He nodded to Lua. “Go where you will—you are free.”

  “But the poor man!” Tears filled Lua's eyes. “How can I leave him, when he is so degraded?”

  “By moving your feet!” Yocote cried. “Lua! He whipped you, he beat you, he degraded you!”

  “He did,” she said, tears welling over, “and therefore I know how it feels. I cannot leave him now!”

  “You are too good,” Yocote said in disgust, then raised his head in horrible suspicion even as Illbane said, “No one can be too good,” and Kitishane contradicted, “This is not goodness, Lua, but another form of evil, to be so loyal to a man who ha
s hurt you, and would again if he could!”

  “Could it be you are still in love with him?” Yocote burst out. “In love, after all he did to you—all you saw him do to me?”

  Lua hung her head in shame.

  “No, there is nothing good in this,” Illbane said heavily, “though good might come of it. I will not drive you away, gnome-maid, if you do not wish it.” He turned to Yocote. “And you, gnome-man?”

  Yocote still stared at Lua in outrage and hurt, then turned away in disgust. “Oh, I am as bad as she is—bound by some sick form of love to one who loves me not, and who I know will bring me hurt by it! But I'll go where she goes anyway, old man! I will come with you!”

  “Oh, Yocote!” Lua reached out toward him, but he twitched aside, turning away, his face thunderous.

  Illbane lifted his gaze to Kitishane. “And you, maiden? Will you not go forth in freedom?”

  “I would rather go with you, in freedom,” Kitishane said slowly, “if you will have me—and if you will teach me to fight as you do.”

  Illbane regarded her with a steady gaze for a few minutes, then said, “I may, or I may not. Why do you wish to learn?”

  “Why!” Kitishane looked up in indignation. “Why, so that I will never again need to fear a bully! Is there another reason?”

  “Many,” Illbane told her, “but that is better than most, though not so good as some. Well, you may come with us, though I make no promises of teaching. Come, then!”

  He turned away. “And start marching, you!” His staff swung in a blur; Culaehra yelped, then started off into the forest with Illbane close behind. Kitishane and the two gnomes had to hurry to catch up.

  They marched all that day. During the morning, Culaehra balked frequently to match glares with Illbane, but each time a lash from the old man's staff sent him on his way again. Finally, near the middle of the day, he dropped the sack and kicked at Illbane—but the old man was ready. Slower than Culaehra, he collected a few more bruises, but for each, he struck the younger man three times, until Culaehra raised his arms in surrender, took up the pack again, and stumbled ahead, the very picture of baffled misery. Lua went to him, reaching up to comfort, but he shrugged her off, and would have kicked her had not Illbane's staff hissed down between them. Illbane blocked the kick with a shrewd rap on the shin, then struck the thigh for punishment. Culaehra cursed and went hobbling on, while Kitishane gathered in the trembling Lua, and Yocote glared daggers at the human beast of burden, flexing his hands and clenching his fists in impotent anger.