“On your feet!” Illbane barked. “All of you! Yes, you, too, Lua. Mind you, any of you three who wishes to leave may do so—but by Rahani's hem, if you stay, you'll work your bodies into proper shape!”
Yocote grumbled as he rose and shuffled a few paces forward of his bed, but the two women rose with lithe turning, puzzled.
“All in a row, now! Take a step forward on your right foot! Bend your knee! Raise your hands like this!” He held his own up to demonstrate, elbows bent, one hand straight, stiff, and upright, the other a fist.
“Fighting!” Yocote cried. “He teaches us to fight!”
Kitishane's eyes kindled; she was suddenly fully awake; but Lua dropped her hands, stepping back, eyes wide in revulsion.
Culaehra spat an oath and straightened up. “I already know how—”
Illbane's fist shot toward his face. Startled, Culaehra dropped back, snapping his arms up to block—and the sage kicked him in the belly. He doubled over, knotted with pain, hearing Illbane's voice through the roaring in his ears: “You more than any need lessons! Fighting is more than strength and quickness of reflex! Straighten your back!”
“Illbane, he is in pain!” Lua protested, but the sage stepped behind the outlaw, seized his shoulders, and put a knee to his buttocks. “Straighten up, I said! Yes, like that! Now hold up your arms as I showed you!”
Struggling for breath, Culaehra did the best he could to raise his arms in imitation of Illbane.
“Crook the elbow like this! Hold the fist up like this!” Illbane adjusted the outlaw's arms and hands with his own. “Well, good enough!” he grumbled, stepping around in front of the line again. “Now draw your right fist back! Punch with it, hard! Do it again, but step forward with your right foot as you do! Again! Again!”
From that time on, every day began with an hour of such practice movements, before they journeyed onward. Culaehra lost patience with it quickly, especially since Illbane always found fault with his postures and movements, though he fairly rained praise on the others for the slightest improvement. But when they actually began to strike at one another, the situation changed. Oh, Illbane was scarcely a fountain of compliments, but as Culaehra kicked at him, he shouted, “Good!” Of course, he diverted the kick with a swing of his staff, but he went on to say, “Well aimed, and with each limb in exactly the right position! Now, strike with strength!”
Reassured and cocky, Culaehra laughed. “With strength, old man? I've no wish to maim you!” Which, of course, was far from the truth.
“Do you not?” Illbane frowned. “Then you are a very turtle in speed, a sapling in strength! One blast of my breath and you will bend!”
Angered all over again, Culaehra lashed a kick at him.
Illbane bent to parry it with an arm. “Ah! There is the strength I spoke of! But you let anger distract you, lost awareness of your body! Your knee locked, your arms went stiff! If I had caught and pulled your foot, you would have toppled!”
“If you could have caught it!” Culaehra cried, and lashed out another kick—but not quite so strongly this time, for he was minding his posture, keeping his arms and knees flexed.
He forgot that the old man could move quickly enough when he wanted. He caught Culaehra's ankle and pulled. Taken off guard, Culaehra jerked forward, but managed to push against that bent knee and stay upright.
“Better than I thought!” Illbane cried, and pushed on the foot. Culaehra gave a squawk of surprise even as he hopped backward. Illbane grinned with delight. “See! Now a simple thrust or pull can't fell you! Well done!”
“Not well enough,” Culaehra grunted, but he still felt a warm glow inside as Illbane turned away to spar with Kitishane.
The next day it was Culaehra who sparred with Kitishane, though Illbane warned him, “Mock blows only, wolfs head! Hurt or harm her, and I'll shave your head anew!”
Kitishane faced Culaehra with an angry glare, trying to conceal her fear. She well remembered the last time they had fought and how it had ended—or would have, if Illbane had not intervened. She had not learned that much more about fighting! Why was Illbane making her do this?
“Half speed,” Illbane commanded. “Culaehra, attack!”
The outlaw's fist shot toward her face. Panic shot through her, and Kitishane blocked as fast as she could, managing to duck aside at the last instant. “He said half speed!”
“That is half speed!” Culaehra snapped.
“Her half speed, if you will,” Illbane told him.
“Half speed? Perhaps a quarter!”
“Very slowly indeed, then,” Illbane said sternly.
“Oh, very well,” Culaehra grumbled, “but what good will that do me?”
“It will teach you precision—and humility, Culaehra. You cannot always do things solely because they benefit you!”
“Can I not?” the outlaw snarled. “Prove to me that others do not!”
“I am your proof, for only the good of others would bring me to lumbering myself with you! Strike, now, but slowly!”
This time Culaehra's fist moved slowly enough so Kitishane had time to raise her forearm to block slowly, though scarcely at half speed. Nonetheless, his forearm struck hers with numbing force. She fell back, clamping her jaw shut to hold back a cry of pain. Fear clamored inside her, but she glared at him all the more angrily for that.
“Gently, Culaehra!” Illbane snapped. “Gently, I said!”
“That was gently!”
“You pulled your punch, but there was still far too much force left in it!”
“Aye, if I struck at a rabbit!”
“You do not know your own strength,” Illbane told him, “and that is the first step toward disaster. Do you see that dead tree by the spring?”
Culaehra looked up. “Yes. What of it?”
“The darker spot on its trunk is rot. Go strike at it with the same force you used on Kitishane.”
Frowning, Culaehra went. He aimed the blow, he struck— and rotten wood crushed under his fist, cascaded down around his arm. He stared at it, amazed.
“Kick at it with all your force,” Illbane told him.
Culaehra wound up a huge kick and lashed out. The tree groaned, its groan swelling, then fell. Culaehra stood staring.
“A green tree that size would have only hurt your foot,” Illbane told him. “Do you understand why you must strike with no more than a feather's stroke when you deal with Kitishane?”
“But she can strike with all her strength?” Culaehra said sourly.
“Let us see.” Illbane held up a palm. “Hit, Kitishane!”
Kitishane stared.
“Strike, I tell you! Do not fear for me!”
Kitishane shrugged and swung at Illbane with all her strength. He wrung his hand, smiling sardonically. “No, not all your strength—not in mere practice. Now kick at Culaehra.”
She kicked, aiming for the groin, and had to use all her powers of self-restraint to keep the blow from full strength, or full speed. She need not have worried—Culaehra's thigh was there well before her foot, blocking, but she pulled back too quickly for him to catch her ankle, even going at half speed. Still, she reminded herself grimly, if this had not been mere practice and Culaehra not moving so slowly, he would have pulled her off balance then and there.
So Culaehra learned exactly how powerful he was, and how to control his vast strength, while Kitishane and the gnomes developed the muscles of their arms and shoulders to their fullest extent. Their reflexes became almost as fast as Culaehra's, and all of them became much more skilled in unarmed combat, until Illbane pronounced them able to defeat three opponents at once, and to disarm a man equipped with sword and shield.
Then he set them to practicing with staves. Their deftness without weapons quickly lent itself to the use of them, and they gained the new skills quickly. Then, and only then, did Illbane let them begin to practice with wooden swords. This they learned quickly, too, but there was more of it to learn.
Here, at least and a
t last, Culaehra finally excelled, though Illbane was rarely satisfied and only expressed approval when Culaehra had not yet executed the movements perfectly, and Culaehra began to think he would never be able to sense the old man's moods well enough to avoid disaster.
Chapter 9
So the days passed in slow travel, for they spent as much time in practice as in walking—and in Illbane's exacting insistence on Culaehra's cleanliness afterward, which the others began to imitate from sheer boredom in waiting at first, then from pleasure later—though Kitishane was always careful to find some sheltered pool where she and Lua could seek privacy. Illbane also insisted on stopping the day's travel while the sun was still well above the horizon, for he tutored Yocote in magic while Culaehra cooked dinner.
There were whole days when they had to wait in idleness, while Illbane sent Yocote off on errands by himself. When Culaehra asked what they were, Illbane told him curtly to attend to things he could understand. Simmering with anger, Culaehra imagined extravagant revenges on the sage, until the bite of the amulet grew too painful to ignore.
So northward they went, but their progress was very slow, with Culaehra bearing the burdens and forced to behave by Illbane's staff and wand. They came out of the woods into open, rolling land and found that streams were smaller and farther between. Kitishane fashioned water skins from the stock of pelts she saved from the meat she shot for meals. Northward they marched, with Culaehra continually kicking against the goad of Illbane's stern discipline, and trying to sneak chances to beat or intimidate the others. Illbane frustrated the worst of them, though, and Kitishane was instantly defiant, lashing back with words that held no hint of mercy, both for herself and for Lua; and she was quick to call for Illbane if Culaehra threatened to strike. As for Yocote, he gave worse than he took in insults, for his were always barbed with wit, and Culaehra could only simmer about them for hours after, unable to forget the gnome's sallies, for there was always some kernel of truth to them that smarted. No one had dared tell him the truth about himself for a dozen years, and having to face all his flaws was a new and very unpleasant experience. He spent most of his marching time trying to think up excuses for his behavior, and counterinsults to throw back in Yocote's teeth—but he rarely had a chance to use them.
Then, one evening when they were finishing their meal, such a chance came. They had dined on roast boar, and Culaehra pointed out the resemblance between the gnome's face and that of a pig—though truthfully, there really was very little. Yocote replied, “I would rather look like a swine than behave like one. Don't bother trying to shape insults, Culaehra, for you really are a bore.”
The pun rankled, and Culaehra grinned with anticipation as he picked his teeth with a sliver of bone and said, “Do you not feel like a cannibal, Yocote, when you eat the flesh of a swine?”
“No, Culaehra,” the gnome retorted, “for I would never bite into you; you are scarcely a man of good taste.”
With a roar, the outlaw leaped up and kicked at the gnome.
He was fast, moving with almost blinding speed, but Yocote had learned from the same teacher and started falling backward before the foot struck him. Even then, it was his leg that caught the blow, for he had raised his thigh to guard. He yelped with pain, but the kick sent him rolling faster and farther, and he uncurled to dodge behind a tree as Culaehra followed him with another kick.
“Stop him, Illbane!” Kitishane cried, but the sage only shook his head, standing stiffly, taut, his face pale.
Kitishane turned back with a cry of pain, drawing her sword, but before she could leap to intervene, a shower of sparks burst from the tree as Culaehra's kick lashed out.
“Not the salamander!” Kitishane would have thought Illbane were giving instructions to his pupil, if his voice hadn't been so low. “Only its skin!”
Culaehra shouted with pain and hopped around behind the trunk—and Yocote came backing up into sight, following the curve of the tree, hands miming strange actions, mouth droning incomprehensible syllables. It was a yard-thick trunk, so he was almost out of sight again before Culaehra came hopping around the bole, face dark with rage. He threw himself forward, hands outstretched to catch the gnome's neck. Yocote's words shut off with a gargle—but the earth suddenly gave way beneath Culaehra's feet. He shouted in alarm as he fell into the pit—and let go of Yocote. The little man hopped back away from the edge, rubbing his throat.
“No time!” Illbane whispered. “There is no time, little shaman! Hoarse or croaking, speak the spell!”
Almost as if he had heard, Yocote began to chant in a cracked and reedy tenor, hands sawing the air. Then he scrabbled in the dirt, coming up with a handful of fallen acorns, and began to juggle them as Culaehra's arm slammed over the edge of the pit. Then came his head, face swollen and dark with anger. He clambered up and went for Yocote, hands outstretched to throttle.
The gnome gestured, and hailstones rained down upon the outlaw. He squalled in surprise, then clamped his jaw and ran at Yocote again—but the hailstones rolled under his feet; he slipped, bleated as he windmilled his arms, striving for balance before crashing to the ground as the hard rain fell about him.
Kitishane stared in surprise, then gave a shout of mirth, a shout that turned into loud and long laughter.
Red with embarrassment as well as anger, Culaehra staggered to his feet, fell again—but threw himself forward as he did and seized the gnome's ankle.
“Oh, Illbane, help him!” Lua cried, but the sage only shook his head, lips pressed thin.
Yocote had been preparing another spell as Culaehra had been trying to catch his balance. He shouted a last phrase as Culaehra managed to find bare grass and struggled up, holding the gnome hanging upside down—but the air thickened about him, thickened into a fog so dense the watchers could not see him. “You'll have to do worse than that, little man!” he shouted, and Yocote came arcing up out of the cloud as Culaehra swung him high to dash him against the ground. But Yocote shouted a phrase in the shaman's tongue, and the fog suddenly lightened with a brilliant flash. A thunderclap drowned Culaehra's bellow of shock and pain as he tumbled out of the cloud and lay still, Yocote flying from his grasp.
Lua cried out in fright and ran to him.
“He is only stunned.” Illbane knelt by the big man, felt at his throat, then nodded with satisfaction and turned to grasp Yocote by the hand and set him on his feet. “Well done! You called upon the elements—all, earth, air, fire, and water—and they gave answer! Well done indeed—shaman!”
Flushed with triumph, Yocote grinned up at him. “I thank you, Teacher!” Then he turned to see Lua rising from Culaehra to run to him, and a shadow darkened his face.
Lua saw and slowed abruptly, but still came on toward him. “Praise the gods you are well, Yocote!”
“I thank you for your concern, Lua.” Yocote inclined his head with grave courtesy, and if there was a tang of irony to his words, it was slight enough to pass unnoticed. He turned back to Illbane, and his eyes began to shine again. “Am I truly a shaman, then?”
“You are,” Illbane told him. “One who has a great deal more to learn, of course—but yes, a shaman you are.” He let the grin show again and clapped his small pupil on the shoulder.
Culaehra groaned.
“Lie still.” Kitishane knelt beside him. “Roll to your back if you wish, but no more.”
Culaehra rolled over, then moaned with pain. “What ... happened?”
“You fought with Yocote.”
“I remember.” Culaehra lifted a hand that virtually fell to his forehead. “The fog, and then ... with what did he hit me?”
“Lightning.” Illbane knelt beside him, across from Kitishane. “Fire, from the water in the air. You were foolish enough to pick a fight with a shaman, Culaehra.”
The big man squinted up at him. “When did the gnome become a shaman?”
“While you were brooding in your misery.”
“But how?” Culaehra struggled up on one elbow. “Whe
n I first caught him, he could scarcely manage to conjure up a puff of smoke! How has he come to be a wizard?”
“Not a wizard yet, nor even a powerful shaman, but certainly one who is strong enough to defend himself,” Illbane said, musing. “However, he was born with a strange talent. Most gnomes are born with the knowledge for working earth-magic and are mighty in that, for they live by rock—but Yocote was born with an affinity for all four elements, not earth alone, so his instinct for earth-magic was diminished. His talent needed training—and with that, he gained power over not merely earth, but also over air, fire, and water, even so much as to make air and water conjoin to produce hail, or to make them both join with fire to produce lightning. Oh, he shall be a most puissant shaman when he is fully trained, I assure you, mastering not only the elements, but also the trees, the flowers, the fish, and the beasts—all manner of living things.”
“Including men,” Culaehra muttered. He looked down the length of his fallen body, still filled with tremors from that blaze of light. “The wheel has turned now, has it not? Yocote has been raised up, and I am now the lowest of the low.”
“Far from it.” Amazingly, Illbane's tone was sympathetic. “You are a strong and courageous man, Culaehra, one who has learned some skills of fighting, and you will become truly mighty when you have learned them all.”
Culaehra looked up at him in surprise. “But even a gnome can beat me! I might as well kill myself now, for if I don't, someone else will surely do it for me!”
“A shaman beat you,” Illbane corrected, “and only a fool fights a shaman. When you are done with your training, Culaehra, you will be so mighty a fighter that few will be able to stand against you—few other warriors, that is. You will never again be so foolish as to go up against a shaman if you do not have to.”
Culaehra sat still a moment, looking at the ground. Then he said, “Do you tell me truly?”
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