The Sage

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Can we?” The gnome's goggled face turned up to him, and Illbane knew his eyes were wide behind the mask.

  “In some measure, we can,” Illbane assured him, “but only a little at a time. As to Culaehra—no, I have not slain him. He will wish I had, though. Not yet, but soon.”

  Kitishane had approached, and stood by, frowning. “Do you enjoy tormenting him thus?”

  “No,” Illbane said instantly. “I hate it, and despise him for making it necessary. Lua we may heal with gentleness, but Culaehra only with the same measure of cruelty that he metes out to others—for only thus will he come to know the wrongness of what he does.”

  “Will he truly?” she asked.

  “If there is enough goodness buried within him, yes.” Illbane sighed. “But if there is, I cannot see it—though there is one who can.”

  “Who?”

  “Rahani,” Illbane answered.

  Kitishane stared, her face blank with incomprehension. So did Yocote.

  Illbane sighed again, reflecting that five hundred years seemed far too short a time for a goddess to have been forgotten—but perhaps it was only her name that had faded. He determined to ask them about their gods—but slowly, and subtly. Now was certainly not the time, the more especially because Culaehra was hacking and spitting, forcing himself slowly up. Lua reached out to him, but he struck her hands away with a snarl. Yocote started forward, face blazing, but Illbane withheld him, then went over to Culaehra, leaning on his staff, watching and waiting. The big man glared up at him, rubbing his throat.

  “It will still work,” Illbane told him. “Say your name.”

  Culaehra spat a curse.

  “Yes, that is it. Rise now, rebellious one, and take up your burden once more.” Then with chivvying and nagging and prodding with his staff, Illbane brought Culaehra to his feet again, decked him with packs, and shoved him on his way.

  Yocote and Kitishane followed, faces glowing with delight at Culaehra's humiliation. Lua followed in distress, moisture pooling where her mask did not quite fit her nose.

  Culaehra slogged along, cursing under his breath—but in the core of him an old emotion was coming to life again: fear. It was coming to life, and growing. Who could have thought that a weak old man could outfight a warrior in the pride of his youth!

  But then, this old man was anything but weak—not as strong as he by far, Culaehra thought, but still far from weak. And he was skilled; the younger man tasted bitterness at the thought, but had to admit it—the old man was amazingly skilled. He would have thought him a wizard, but everything the old man had done in fighting could be explained by knowledge—and a very hard staff.

  He was old, though—a graybeard—and certainly could not be so fast as a man as young as he. Even in fighting, the old man could not match him for speed of movement. The outlaw felt a surge of satisfaction at the thought. True, the old man's skill more than made up for his slowness—but all the skill in the world could not make an old man run as fast as a young one! He could outrun him, Culaehra decided, and should be able to do so easily, even if Illbane were a wizard!

  Culaehra bided his time, waiting for his chance. The amulet that had fairly chilled him to the bone last night, when he had struck at Illbane in his trance, was now surprisingly still, only a weight at his throat. There was nothing wrong in seeking to escape, then. Culaehra plodded along, letting his shoulders slump, doing his best to appear defeated and docile—and watched for a clear run.

  It came when the sun was low in the sky at his left hand. The road rose up before them; they climbed a small incline—and found themselves in the middle of a pine forest. The trees stretched away to left and right, tall, dark, and serene—and straight. There were few low branches, and no underbrush— only a carpet of needles in long avenues.

  Culaehra dropped his packs and charged away into the wood. Then he gave a shout of joy at his freedom. He dared not stop, though—only ran pell-mell through the wood, turning and twisting around the great trunks. Behind him someone shouted, but he kept running, his heart singing. He had bested the old man after all!

  But the old man wasn't even trying to follow him.

  “You must stop him, Illbane!” Yocote cried. “He will sneak up on us at night; he will slit our throats!”

  “Only mine.” Illbane drew a circle in the dirt with the tip of his staff.

  “Yes, only your throat!” Kitishane cried. “Then he will beat the rest of us, and use us for his pleasure! Can you not stop him, Illbane?”

  “I can, if you will be silent long enough for me to cast a spell.” Illbane set his staff in the center of the circle and began to chant in a language that none of them recognized, but that sent chills up their backs. After a few minutes he lifted the staff, nodding with satisfaction. “That should serve. Come, young ones—now we will follow.”

  “As you say.” Quickly, Kitishane strung her bow. “But for myself, if I go to hunt a bear, I go armed.”

  Lua hung back, afraid, but Yocote took her arm, speaking gently. “Do not be afraid, Lua. If the sage does not fear, neither should we.”

  Reluctantly, Lua came with him. As the gloom deepened under the trees, she took off her mask. So did Yocote, and saw that her eyes were wide with fright.

  As for Culaehra, he lost the companions in a few minutes. He had better sense than to slow down, but he did begin to caper and leap with delight, shouting with victory. He didn't notice that the limbs of the trees were drooping lower, or that their sap was beginning to run, thickening into resin—didn't notice until a low branch blocked his way, thick with stickiness that gathered in a lump. Culaehra didn't give it a thought, only ducked beneath it—but a gust made the branch dip, and sudden pain ripped at his scalp. He bellowed in agony and surprise, twisting about to find his hair thoroughly tangled in the lump of resin. He stepped toward it to stop the pressure and the pain, then reached up to try to break the branch—but it was green and limber; it bent but did not break. He wrestled with it, cursing, then finally grasped his hair with both hands and pulled. A few strands broke, but the tree held the others fast.

  That was how he was when the others came on him, wrestling with the tree, cursing at the branch that would not break. “Enough!” Illbane commanded, and enforced it with a swing of his staff. Culaehra left off wrestling and lunged at the sage with a shout of fury. Illbane only stepped aside, then reached out with his staff to tangle the outlaw's feet. Culaehra tripped and howled with pain as his full weight swung from the lump of resin. A gnarled old fist swung to crack into his jaw; dazed, he subsided, but heard Illbane saying in disgust, “What a mess we have here! You have done a fine job of tangling your long hair in this resin, oaf.”

  “How shall you loose him from it, Illbane?” Kitishane asked.

  “Why bother?” Yocote said sourly. “Let us leave him here to starve!”

  Even dazed, Culaehra managed a hoarse growl of anger.

  “Oh, no!” Lua cried. “That would be too cruel! Free him, sage, I beg you! There must be a way!”

  “The simplest in the world,” Illbane told her, “one that he would have thought of himself, if it had not been for his vanity.” He drew his knife, and Lua cried out—but the sage only began to saw at Culaehra's hair. Realizing what he was doing, the outlaw came out of his daze with a bellow of protest, but Illbane only clouted him again, befuddling him. The knife hacked and ripped; a sinewy black-clad arm wrapped around Culaehra's head. He struggled and fought, but Illbane held him still as he cut through the last few strands, then let go. Still struggling, Culaehra blundered away, tripped on the old man's foot, and fell heavily to the ground.

  “Up, wolfs head!” Illbane's toe caught him in the stomach. “Vain fool, get up! You have packs to carry!”

  This command, at least, Culaehra could disobey. He lay burrowing into the carpet of needles, hating them, hating the pines. Were the very trees conspiring against him, conspiring with the old wizard?

  They were, he realized—and shuddered.
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  Steel fingers pinched his leg. Pain tore through him, sudden and more intense than ever he had felt. Culaehra screamed and rolled onto his back, knife coming out to defend—but the tip of the staff hovered over his face, and he didn't doubt that the old tyrant would strike downward at the slightest excuse. He froze.

  “Hurt?” Illbane barked. “Yes, it did—but you can still walk. Up, and step back to the road—or your leg will sear agony all through you, and you will not be able to walk again until morning.” He waited, but Culaehra lay frozen, eyes locked on the staff tip. Illbane shrugged. “I will not march again until dawn, and this is as good a place to camp as any. Rise and walk back to the packs, or stay here all night with fire in your leg—I care not.” He withdrew the staff and bent down, fingers poised over Culaehra's lower leg. “Rise—or lie in agony.”

  Culaehra snatched his leg out of the way with a curse, but the old man followed closely and rocked his head with a slap. Culaehra snarled in outrage, but those horrible talons were poised over his leg again, and Illbane snapped, “Get up!”

  Culaehra rolled up to his knees, glaring pure hatred at the sage. Illbane only smiled, straightening, staff in both hands before him. Growling low in his throat, Culaehra climbed to his feet and went limping back toward the trail.

  He didn't realize just what the old man had done until they had pitched camp and he went to dip up water in a bark bucket. Then he saw his reflection in the dark pool.

  His proud locks were gone—his head was nothing but ragged stubble! He stared, appalled, scarcely even recognizing himself. Then he threw back his head and howled.

  “Yes, Culaehra.”

  He whipped about, staring.

  The old man stood there, his staff before him, nodding. “Yes.

  You are as much of a slave now as you had forced Lua and Yocote to be.”

  With a howl of dismay Culaehra surged upward, charging the old man.

  That demon-born staff tripped him again. He fell flat on his face, then rolled up to his feet with blazing speed—but the fist cracked into his jaw and the world went funny. Through the slipping and the sickness in the belly, the voice echoed in his ears: “A slave, and only a slave, until you learn to be a man. Now fill the bucket with water, slave, and take it back to the fire.”

  His vision cleared; Culaehra glared up at Illbane, but the sight of those flinten features made his heart sink. He turned away and took up the bucket, dipped it full, and went back toward the campfire with Illbane right behind him.

  He was not a slave! He would not let himself be! He was still a man, a powerful man, and would prove it! There must be a way...

  Then he came in sight of the camp, saw Kitishane turning a spit, and knew how.

  Chapter 6

  The amulet lay cold at the base of his throat, but as the hours passed, Culaehra became so used to its chill that he scarcely noticed it. From that time on he watched his chance to catch Kitishane alone.

  It came the next evening, when Illbane set him to pitching camp with the gnomes, and Kitishane had set off in search of game. Culaehra bided his time, gathering wood for the fire, though his pulse quickened with the first excitement of the hunt—and the amulet grew cold and colder at his throat. It grew colder still as he took up the bucket and left the camp, seemingly seeking water—but actually hunting Kitishane. The amulet grew colder still, a biting chill that shortened his breath—but it was short anyway, with anticipation. The grim old man might thrash him for it later, but he would have proved that he could still bend others to his will—and would do so again and again whenever he wished, ignoring the punishment.

  As soon as he was out of sight of the camp, he dropped the bucket and set off through the trees, moving with the silence of a lifelong woodsman. He knew which direction Kitishane had taken at first, and circled around the campsite, being careful to keep a thick enough bulk of trees between himself and the ominous old man until he found her tracks, small footprints in a patch of moist earth where the wind had blown leaves aside to show the ground itself. He followed in the direction her track pointed and soon found another such bare patch with a footprint so delicate that it quickened his pulse. Of course, he reminded himself, she had a bow. He must not forget that.

  The amulet grew still colder at his throat.

  He did not. He came upon her as she drew, aiming at a fat hare. His amulet was so chill now that it fairly burned, but he clamped his teeth against the pain, waiting for his moment. The bowstring thrummed, and Culaehra struck. He rushed across the fifty feet or so of leaf mold between them, still as silently as he could.

  She heard him twenty feet away and turned, then screamed even as she whipped another arrow from her quiver, screamed again as she fumbled it frantically to the string; screams of fear and anger that made Culaehra's heart exult with the feeling of power.

  Kitishane saw him bearing down on her and raised the bow, but he struck into her before she could aim, struck and bowled her down, the bow flying from her hand. She screamed and fought, but he pinned her with his weight, too close for her to hit anything but his back. He was fumbling at the waistline of her breeches, and she screeched with rage, bucking her whole body to try to throw him off, drumming her fists on his back as hard as she could—but over his shoulder she saw the old man step out of the trees and she screamed again, screamed for help, but the bear-man only laughed deep in his throat, and Illbane wasn't rushing to her aid, only sawing the air with one hand and flourishing his staff with the other, only watching ...

  A shimmer began, thickened, warped the sight of him like a heat haze—and a unicorn sprang from thin air, screaming in rage, bearing down upon the would-be rapist. Its horn gored Culaehra's buttock, and it danced back. Culaehra threw himself upright with a howl, hand pressed to his hip, his half nakedness ominous and absurd. He grabbed for his leggings with one hand, turning to defend with the other, but the unicorn feinted with its horn twice, then lunged, and a long gouge ripped the side of his hip. He bellowed in rage and threw himself upon the beast, but the unicorn was no longer there, dancing lightly about him. Culaehra managed to tie his breeches again and turned with the unicorn, drawing his knife, hands raised to guard. The unicorn was between him and Kitishane now, and she cast about, found her bow, snatched it up, and scrambled back into the safety of the trees. Culaehra saw her escaping and lunged after her with a roar, but the unicorn leaped to block him. He dodged and tried to run around it, but it followed his every movement while his quarry slipped away. He bellowed in baffled anger, then had to leap aside as the unicorn thrust and thrust again. He followed, parrying with his knife, snatching at the horn whenever it came near, but always it evaded his grasp.

  Then, suddenly, the unicorn leaped aside—and Culaehra saw that terrible old man advancing on him, staff raised. His stomach sank with dread; terror weakened his limbs, but he raised his hands to guard anyway ...

  Kitishane ran through the woods, breath ragged with unvoiced sobbing—but she only went a few yards before she saw Lua, standing there with her arms outstretched. Kitishane dropped to her knees, all but collapsed, sobbing with terror and relief. The gnome-maiden wrapped small arms around her head, murmuring softly, words Kitishane did not recognize—but finally realized were gnome-magic. Surely it was a charm to shield, to protect—but it also soothed, and Kitishane was just beginning to find calmness again when the shouting broke out behind them. She whirled, frightened again, but Lua assured her, “It is only Illbane, giving Culaehra the punishment he deserves. Be of good heart, Kitishane—you are safe.”

  Cold water slapped Culaehra in the face; he coughed, sitting up, and realized he had been unconscious. He had fought back as well as he could, and knew he had struck Illbane half a dozen times, but the old man had struck him far more frequently, and far harder, with that abominable staff. Culaehra's head ached; his ribs ached; his legs and hips ached ...

  His hips! Culaehra suddenly realized that he lay naked as a skinned buck. That foul old man had stripped him while he
lay unconscious! He struggled to rise—then froze as the horn came down, aimed between his eyes. Behind it the unicorn pawed the ground and nickered a threat.

  “Yes, hold still indeed,” said Illbane's voice, and Culaehra felt hands on his hip and buttock. For a moment the horrible thought sickened him, that Illbane and the unicorn meant to do to him what he had tried to do to Kitishane...

  But no, the hand was pinching and the voice was chanting. Then the pressure eased, and Illbane said, “There. The wound is closed and shall not bleed more. It will ache like fury for a day or two, and well you deserve it—but the pain will fade.” He stood, stepping into Culaehra's vision, towering, threatening in his glare. “You deserved to have bled to death, but I have plans for you.”

  Culaehra's blood ran cold. What kind of plans did he mean?

  “Your other wounds are healed, too, so let us have no nonsense. Rise and dress, and go fill your bucket”

  Slowly, Culaehra dressed, muttering, “I did not fool you for a moment, did I?”

  “I shall always know where you are, Culaehra, and I can guess quite easily what you mean to do. You are an intelligent man, but a very simple one in your wants and needs, so there is no difficulty in discerning your actions. Yes, I followed from the moment you went out of sight, and when I saw you drop the bucket, I guessed what you intended. I will say this, though— you move very quickly and quietly in the woods. I was almost too late in catching you up.”

  Strangely, Culaehra felt a glow at Illbane's praise, even so faint a sample as this. That glow crashed as Illbane said carelessly, “Of course, that hardly mattered. If I had not found you in time, I would have cast a spell that froze you in mid-stride.”

  “You are a wizard, then,” Culaehra said thickly.

  “There! I knew that you were intelligent! Now back to your bucket, oaf, and do not try to deceive me again until you have learned a gram of subtlety!”

  The words stung the harder for the small compliment that had gone before them. Culaehra turned away with a growl of defiance—but it was all show. Inside, he was sick at heart, knowing any resistance was useless—no matter what he did or where he went, Illbane would be there before him.