“You do not say we must let them ride!” Kitishane cried.
“Only until darkness falls,” Yocote told them.
Lua shuddered. “What will they do to the virgins then?”
“Little, I think,” Yocote told her. “I hate to admit it, but there is a hierarchy of hungers in a man, and I think the Vanyar will wish to feed and drink before they play with their new toys— and being horsemen, they will picket and feed their mounts before they do anything else. Even if they turn upon the women before they dine, we will have time.”
“Time for what?” Kitishane said, frowning darkly.
“I shall tell you as we walk, or they will ride too far for us to catch,” Yocote told her. He pointed. “They follow the river, but it curves around these hills. If we stay with this ridge, we should hew to a straighter line, and move ahead of them before sunset.”
Kitishane looked, gauged distances, and nodded. “Their horses go at a walk. We should outpace them, yes.”
“We have already,” the gnome pointed out. “Let us march atop this ridge.”
“Not atop,” Culaehra said, “or they will see us against the skyline. Let us walk a little below.”
He found a game trail along the side of the ridge, one that was screened by brush but high on the hill. They followed the Vanyar, then began to pull ahead of them, and as Yocote had estimated, they were well ahead as the sun set. They watched as the Vanyar picketed their horses and began to curry them.
“If you do not do something quickly, shaman, I shall fall upon them myself!” Kitishane threatened.
“Even so.” Yocote began to draw circles and lines in the dirt, muttering a rhyme. His body tensed; sweat stood out on his brow.
In the distance, something howled.
“What was that?” Kitishane looked up in alarm.
“Not a wolf.” Culaehra reached back to touch Corotrovir. “The note stretched too long—but if it is a dog, it is a huge one.”
Another howl sounded, still distant, but from a different direction.
The Vanyar heard it, too, but more to the point, so did their horses. They began to shift about, whickering with fear. The barbarians had to soothe their mounts.
Another howl sounded from still a third direction, then another and another.
Finally, Kitishane understood. “It is you who causes that noise, shaman!”
Yocote nodded. “When I journeyed to the shaman's world, other shamans offered me the loan of their totem-animals if I would lend mine in return—though I fail to see why they would have much use for a badger.”
Culaehra looked up in surprise, then turned away quickly to hide a smile and stifle a laugh. Kitishane looked up in concern. “What makes you cough, warrior?”
“I swallowed wrongly,” Culaehra wheezed, avoiding the black look Yocote cast at him. “What totems have you borrowed, shaman?”
“Huge and gaunt ones,” Yocote told him. “They will keep the Vanyar from taking their ease, never fear. Now let us slip up nearer to them, so that we can slip up closely indeed after full darkness falls.”
“That will be too late for the virgins!” Lua cried.
“Oh, no,” Yocote assured her. “Whether or not that howling disturbs the Vanyar, it will frighten their horses sorely. They shall have no time for their captives—you shall see.”
He was right; the only attention the Vanyar paid to the women was to set them to cooking an evening meal. After that, whenever one of the warriors approached a woman with purpose, a howl sounded out across the valley, and the horses neighed with fear and began to pull against their picket reins.
The timing was no surprise; the howls were coming very frequently now, and from many directions; they seemed to encircle the camp. Gradually, very gradually, they were coming closer.
In their hiding place on the hillside nearest the camp, Yocote nodded with satisfaction. “They have no shaman with them, or he would have seen through my spell ere now.”
The biggest Vanyar stepped up by the cook-fire, leaned back, and spread his hands to the sky. He began to chant, and though they could not understand his words, they caught the name “Bolenkar!” several times.
“What does he, Yocote?” Kitishane asked nervously.
“He prays,” the gnome said, tensing, “but he is no shaman.” He muttered a few words in the shaman's tongue, accompanying them with a gesture, then nodded. “It increases the force of malice a bit—Bolenkar must have given these barbarians amulets to evoke his force—but it will impede me not at all. It will give his warriors more heart, though.”
“Then there will be the more for us to take from them.” Kitishane's lips skinned back from her teeth. “When, Yocote?”
“When the horses flee.”
“The horses flee?” She turned to stare at him. “When will they do that?”
“In a matter of minutes.” The shaman drew in the dirt again. “Lua and Kitishane, crawl out to the sides and string your bows. Warrior, be ready to reap death!”
Culaehra drew Corotrovir and felt its strength begin to sing through his veins.
Yocote chanted, ending with a bark.
All around the campsite the howls rose, hot with greed, and began to move inward, coming faster and faster.
Then the howlers broke from the brush, glowing with their own light.
Chapter 23
They glowed with their own light and were at least as high as a man's waist, but they seemed far larger—lean and sleek hellhounds with fiery eyes and steel teeth, long ears and jowls, legs like jointed stilts and huge feet studded with iron claws. They fell upon the horses, howling with greed and anger.
The horses screamed and reared, tossing their heads frantically till they broke their tethers. Vanyar came running, calling to their horses—until they saw what had frightened them. Then they stopped where they were, hauled out their axes, and set themselves to fight.
A huge hound launched itself at a Vanyar. The man swung his axe once, twice, but the blade passed through the nightmare with no effect. He screamed in superstitious terror just before the huge jaws engulfed his whole head. He stumbled and fell.
“Now, farmer!” Yocote snapped. “Reap your crop!”
Culaehra ran forward swinging the great sword. It vibrated in the rush of air, seeming almost to sing. He came upon the Vanyar warrior who struggled to free his head from the hound's jaws, but wherever he moved, the beast moved with him. Culaehra called up the memory of the murdered boys in the village and struck. The Vanyar convulsed once and lay still. The hound leaped away, baying, and launched itself at another Vanyar.
Culaehra followed, slashing until his arms tired. All about him nightmare hounds were bringing down Vanyar, frightening them into stumbling, though the hounds had no substance. Culaehra slew and slew; it almost seemed as if Corotrovir had a life of its own and hungered for Vanyar blood.
Not all the Vanyar who fell still moved. Arrows jutted from throats and chests. Culaehra had help enough.
He needed it. The chieftain had somehow stayed alive; even more, he managed to clamber onto a horse's back. Now he shouted commands that included Bolenkar's name, and the nomads looked up, startled, staring at Culaehra. Then some ran to catch horses—but the nearest turned on Culaehra, teeth bared in a snarl, charging as he swung his axe.
Corotrovir lopped the axehead from its handle. The Vanyar howled in frustration and launched himself, hands reaching for Culaehra's neck. Corotrovir swung again, Culaehra stepped aside, and the barbarian hurtled on past, dead.
But other barbarians had reached their horses and clambered onto their backs with a crudeness that told how strange this was to them. Nonetheless, they shouted commands in their own tongue, and the horses sprang forward, galloping down on Culaehra from every side. Two or three men toppled, arrows in their chests, but their horses kept on. Nightmare hounds leaped past Culaehra on every side, howling in anger and hunger, and horses shied, throwing Vanyar from their backs, but three managed to fight their mounts down and keep them runnin
g— through the hounds, straight toward Culaehra!
Now it was steel against iron, sword against axe, and skill against skill. Culaehra sprang to the side, putting one horseman between himself and the others. He pivoted, swinging even as the Vanyar chopped downward. Corotrovir slit the man's leather coat and bit into his chest, throwing the axe stroke wide ...
But not quite wide enough. The side of the blade struck Culaehra's head. Pain rocked him. He caught at the Vanyar, struggling to hold to consciousness, but the whole world slipped around him, slipped and slammed up to strike him. I will not lose consciousness, he ordered himself fiercely, and his vision cleared—to see Kitishane standing over him, a gnome to each side of her, and Vanyar lying dead before her with arrows transfixing them.
Culaehra scrambled to his feet, caught her in his arm for one brief, hard kiss, then turned to face the enemy, sword up in case one should rise—but the only men still alive were dying quickly.
“I cannot believe I have slain so many!” Lua cried, stricken—but she did not drop her bow.
Instantly, Yocote forgot his magic and turned to take her in his arms. She sobbed into his shoulder as the hellhounds faded from sight.
Culaehra looked up at a distant drumming and saw two riders galloping off down the riverbed. He cursed. “Whatever horde spawned this band will know what happened here!”
“Perhaps that is just as well,” Kitishane said slowly.
“Why? They will seek revenge!”
“Yes, and the villagers will have to flee to the forest—but they have nothing left to return to as it is, save their grandparents. And word will run through the barbarian horde of a mighty warrior with an enchanted sword who leads a band of nightmare hounds to hunt Vanyar and spear them with arrows.”
“Then they will hunt us! How is this good?”
“Because they will begin to fear,” Kitishane said simply, “and because they called upon their god, but he did not save them.”
Culaehra frowned after the fleeing barbarians, rolling the idea over in his mind.
As the night quieted, sobbing came to their ears—the sobbing of terrified women and the wailing of children.
Lua broke away from Yocote on the instant and went to the nearest mother, holding out her arms. “Do not fear! I am a gnome, not a goblin.”
“But... but the hounds!” the woman stammered.
“They came at the command of our shaman.” Lua gestured toward Yocote.
“Shaman?” The woman stared. “A gnome shaman?”
“Rare, I know,” Yocote said, frowning, “but it is true—I summoned the hounds, and have banished them. My apologies for your fright, good woman, but our effort has succeeded—not a one of you has been worse hurt than when you were taken from your village.”
“Why—that is true!” the woman said, wondering. “But you have captured us now! Where will you take us?”
“Back to your village.” Kitishane came up behind the gnomes. “We have freed you, not captured you.”
“This is her doing,” Yocote declared. “Kitishane was so angered by the Vanyar's cruelty to your village that she led us to seek justice, and to free you. She brought us all to you.”
“But the battle plan was yours!” Kitishane said quickly.
“I thank you, I thank you all!” Tears brimmed in the woman's eyes. “But who is the warrior who slew so many of our enemies?”
Culaehra finished wiping his blade, sheathed it, and came up behind Kitishane.
“His name is Culaehra,” Kitishane said, “and if it had not been for him, we would all be dead—or worse. Tell the others—you are free! But we must go now, before the Vanyar send more warriors.”
“Yes, yes! We shall go!” The woman rose and went to tell her neighbors, pressing her children close against her.
“Let us catch a few of those horses if we can,” Culaehra told Kitishane. “The Vanyar seem to have left their chariots, and these folk will travel faster if the horses do their walking for them.”
Kitishane nodded and went to try to make friends with the Vanyar's pets.
Yocote nodded, and began to gesture, muttering. The horses calmed; those who had strayed began to turn back toward the campsite.
Half an hour later the horses left the camp, going back where they had come during the day, with very inexpert, feminine hands on the reins. Kitishane and Lua rode another chariot with them. Culaehra and Yocote stayed only long enough for Corotrovir to chop apart the four chariots that had no horses; then they boarded one last car and drove after the women.
The old folk could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw their daughters and grandchildren coming back. Glad cries rose from both sides, and women rushed forward to embrace elders. The children ran in for their share of hugs and reassurances. Then all turned to see the carnage wrought about them anew, and tears flowed.
“It is time to bury the dead,” Lua said, tears on her cheeks.
“Yes, but quickly.” Kitishane frowned. “The Vanyar may not leave us an abundance of time.”
Even digging graves, Culaehra did not doff his armor; as Kitishane had said, the Vanyar might be upon them sooner than they expected.
“Dig only a few inches,” Yocote told him, “then leave the rest to me.”
“Save your strength.” Lua touched his arm. “You shall need it, and magic over rock and earth is such as all gnomes know.”
Yocote's face darkened; he remembered that he had very little of such inborn magic.
“You are a mighty shaman,” she assured him, “such as has never been among gnomekind. Let me do what any other gnome may.”
The gratitude that flashed from his eyes was intense, but gone almost as soon as it was seen. The look on his face was vibrant, though.
Culaehra did not understand, but he knew better than to argue with magicians. He lifted a few inches of dirt in a line, six feet by three feet, again and again for the number of bodies that lay in the village street. Then Lua chanted, making an upward gesture with both hands, and dirt and stones began to pour out of the ground, mounding up high along the lines Culaehra had drawn. In half an hour the graves were ready, and Kitishane and Culaehra began the grim work of bearing bodies to their final beds, carrying first the one ancient who lay dead. Weeping, the women began to join in the work; sobbing, they buried markers in the ground carved with pictures that told who was buried in each grave. Then all the survivors stood about, their sobs filling the night.
Culaehra looked up, frowning. “Have you no priest?”
“He lies in that grave.” An old woman pointed. “Aged though he was, he stood in the path of the Vanyar with his staff raised, praying to Ojun to stop them. Ojun did not hear. How well would he guard these dead?”
“Ojun?” Culaehra turned to Yocote. “Do you know of an Ojun?”
“He was an Ulin who was slain in their war,” the shaman answered. “Illbane made me memorize all their names, and who had died, and how.”
The old woman stared. “Do you say our god is dead?”
“Dead, but his spirit still may aid you,” Kitishane told her. “Still, he was an Ulin, not a god. The only real God is the Creator.”
Puzzled frowns surrounded her, and the old woman said, “You must explain this when we are safe. For now, though, cannot one of you say a prayer?”
“That is for the shaman.” Culaehra stepped back, deferring to Yocote.
The gnome stared up at him, appalled—but Kitishane nodded agreement, and Lua stood watching him, huge eyes glowing. Yocote locked gazes with her, then nodded and stepped up before the circle of graves. He bowed his head a moment, summoning magic, then raised his hands and intoned, “May all who lie here ascend to a land of happiness and plenty. May they never want, never grow bored or restless, but remain for all of eternity in bliss. Lomallin, we pray you—lead these innocent victims to the Land of the Blessed, where they may bask in the glory of the Creator, their souls singing with the joy of His presence.”
“May it be so,” Lu
a replied.
“May it be so,” the whole village chorused.
Yocote lowered his hands, but still stood gazing out over the field of dead. At last he said, “What is a lifetime, measured against eternity? And what matter the pains of life, if they are balanced by joys? Those who have sought to do good to one another in life, rejoice in the company of other good souls in death, and all rejoice in the presence of the Creator, from whom all goodness flows. May these dead, in their rapture in the Land of the Blessed, forget all pain and misery they have known on earth. Lomallin, guide them to their Creator in death, as you ever sought to do in their lives.”
“May it be so,” Lua said.
“May it be so,” they all chorused.
Yocote turned away. “Come, let us give these dead the greatest gift that we may—which is your own continued life. Show us where you may be safe in this wilderness.”
Slowly, the women turned away.
“Take the chariots,” Kitishane urged.
The old woman shook her head. “Where we go, horses cannot follow.” They led the way up a slope and in among trees.
“Go with them,” Kitishane advised, and the gnomes turned to accompany the women. Culaehra and Kitishane stayed to drive all the chariots together, then cut the horses loose and drive them away before they kindled a blaze under the Vanyar cars. They followed the women with a bonfire at their backs, and brushed away all signs of footprints as they went.
The old men advised, but it was one of the mature women who emerged as leader of the village now. Her name was Alsa, but she turned frequently for advice to her mother, Temla, the old woman who had asked about Lomallin. Yocote told her what he knew; she asked for prayers to both Lomallin and the Creator, and for ceremonies to honor them. Again Yocote told her what he knew, but stressed to her that worship needed no set forms, only sincere words from the heart. He told her, too, that the Creator needed no sacrifice of goods or lives, but only of self-denial—refraining from cruelty or malice, and, more important, self-dedication to trying to help others and increase their happiness. Temla taught Alsa, and both of them taught the rest of the women.
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