Yocote: “Can they truly succeed in that?”
Yusev: “How do you succeed in a living death? For certainly, it is death for the People of the Wind to become rooted to one place. Oh, the body survives—but the spirit dies, until they come to truly believe that Bolenkar is a god.”
When Yocote was finished translating all of this for his companions, Culaehra demanded, “Can they not beat off these soldiers? The legends say that the People of Dariad were fearsome fighters, and surely these are the descendants of those people!”
Yocote translated the question, albeit a bit more diplomatically, and Yusev replied, “The People of the Wind are still valiant fighters, and slay them each ten soldiers or more before they die—but die they do, and more soldiers come marching in to take the places of the slain. Bolenkar seems to have no end of soldiers. They march into our land over the bodies of our dead in an endless stream. They shall drown us by sheer numbers, no matter how badly they fight.”
“Surely you do not believe that Bolenkar cannot be killed!” Culaehra cried in indignation.
“Of course not,” Yusev replied to the translation, in equal indignation. “We know that only the Creator is God, and that the Ulin were people, very much like ourselves—more powerful people, surely, and longer-lived, with inborn magic and greater intelligence—but with passions and flaws of character very much like ours, though perhaps those were greater, too.”
“And with virtues like ours, but perhaps also greater,” Kitishane said through Yocote.
Yusev nodded. “Perhaps so. Surely Lomallin was great in courage, and great in his ability to sacrifice himself for others. Still, the Ulin were only super-humans, not gods—and an Ulin's half-human son is only a more durable kind of man. He can be slain; even an Ulin can be slain by another Ulin, so an Ulharl must be vulnerable even to humankind.”
“Even so,” Yocote said. “Culaehra slew one.”
Yusev's gaze snapped up to the warrior in astonishment. “You? You slew an Ulharl?”
Culaehra shrugged at the translated words, uncomfortable with the praise. “We all did. Mine was the sword that dealt the death-blow, that is all.”
“All? Only four people together, and you slew an Ulharl?”
The companions' army began muttering among themselves; they had not heard this before. But Vira and her fellow villagers kept silent, though their eyes glowed.
“Yocote countered the Ulharl's magic,” Culaehra said. “Kitishane and Lua distracted him with arrows, and finished him completely by shooting him in the eye. And, too, a sage stood by us, to protect us.”
“But he did not help in the slaying?”
“He did not need to, no.”
“That is the sword that struck the death-blow?” Yusev stretched out his hands. “Let me touch it, I pray you!”
Culaehra did not understand, but he drew his sword and held it up by the blade. Yusev touched the hilt with awe—then stared with awe greater still. “This blade was forged by Ohaern, the companion of Dariad the Defender!”
Murmurs of awe and excitement swept both ranks. Warriors craned their necks to look more closely.
Culaehra would have said that Dariad was Ohaern's companion—but he could understand why legend would have made it otherwise to these people. He frowned, turning to Yocote. “How can he tell that?”
“He is a shaman,” Yocote said simply.
“Amazing!” Yusev stroked the blade, staring at it in admiration. “Ohaern has been gone for five hundred years, and the sword he forged still looks new!”
“It is new,” Yocote said.
Yusev whirled to stare at him, first in amazement, then in accusation. “You blaspheme!”
Culaehra hissed, “What are you doing? They will think us madmen or liars.”
But Yocote seemed sure of his course. He said loudly, “I do not blaspheme. Ohaern woke from his centuries of sleep and found us. He bade us call him 'Illbane,' and trained us all without our knowing who he truly was.”
“Ohaern woke! Ohaern woke!” The words ran through both ranks in hushed but excited tones.
“Where is he?” Yusev asked, eyes glowing.
“Dead, I fear.” Kitishane turned somber. “He waited until we had come to love him—then he died on us.”
Moans of disappointment sounded. Yusev turned to her in surprise, then smiled gently. “Do not be angry with him, maiden. I am sure he did not choose to die.”
“But he did!” Kitishane was near tears. “He led us to the Star Stone, the fragment of Lomallin's spear that fell to earth during his battle with Ulahane, and bade us stay far away as he smelted its iron and forged it into the sword Corotrovir. But there was poison in the Star Stone, poison that came from Ulahane's weapon when it nicked the fragment from the spear, and Ohaern drew that poison out into his own body, so that the Starsword would not slay its bearer. But the poison wracked his body with pain and killed him.”
Silence held that benighted plain. Yusev whispered, “He gave his life for you.”
Culaehra bowed his head, taking the guilt upon himself.
“He gave his life for us all!” It was Lua who spoke, quivering with anger. “He told us that we four must slay Bolenkar, and he forged the sword Corotrovir to do it!”
“And forged Culaehra into a hero able to bear the sword,” Yocote added.
Now it was Culaehra whom Yusev regarded with awe. “Truly? But yes, I see it must be true, for I feel it within the steel! You are the one whom Ohaern has chosen to slay the monster Ulharl! You are the one who shall strike down the soldiers of Gormaran! Kinsmen, rejoice! He who shall lead us to freedom has come!”
The People of the Wind shrilled triumph in loud, treble ululations. Culaehra stared about him, dazed.
Yusev turned to the nomad leader. “Send riders to all the other tribes that still wander free! Tell them the Chieftain of Chieftains has come, sent by Ohaern!” He turned back to Culaehra. “What would you have all the tribes do, O Chieftain?”
Culaehra stared, dumbfounded. Kitishane noticed and forgot her grief; she stepped up beside him with a smile. “Well asked, O Chieftain. You have found your army—what will you do with it?”
The camels—or so the odd-looking beasts were called—were picketed several hundred yards away under the care of the women and youths who had been riding in the curtained houses borne by the camels in the center of the party. The men lined the banks of a dry riverbed, waiting with the patience of stones. Culaehra knew they were there, for he had seen them take their positions. Then he had turned away to converse with Yocote, and when he turned back, the People of the Wind had disappeared.
“Do not fear, O Chieftain,” Yusev had said. “We are here, as you have bade us be. We await the Gormarani, as you do.”
Now Culaehra knelt with a large boulder before him, ready to hide at the first sign of the troops Yusev had promised him. There was no point in his keeping watch, really—Yusev's chieftain Chokir had sent out sentries of his own, and Culaehra was sure they would see more than he did, with far less chance of being seen themselves.
“It seems your plan will work well, Yocote,” he said. “How did you think of it?”
The gnome shrugged. “You had to set them a fask quickly, warrior, or they would have grown disappointed and left you— and if there are soldiers abroad, they are the sensible target.”
“A force small enough for our few hundreds to defeat, but only a finger of the enemy hand,” Kitishane said, nodding. “Well thought, Yocote.” She turned as Lua came trotting up. “Are the women against us?”
“They are excited, but were fearful at the thought of losing husbands and sons,” the gnome reported. “I showed them that they must risk that, or risk even more deaths if the soldiers catch the People of the Wind in their own time and at their leisure.”
“Did no one say it would be better to go to one of Gormaran's strongholds and build houses?” Culaehra asked.
Lua shook her head. “In truth, I began to wonder about that, and fi
nally risked telling them that was the only safe course.”
“Lua!” Kitishane chided. “You could have lost us our army!”
“My curiosity gained the best of me,” the gnome admitted. “But the women turned on me as one, scolding me and telling me of the misery the People endure at the strongholds. A few have escaped—yes, escaped! Once the soldiers have them, they are little better than slaves! At least as many men are executed for breaking the soldiers' rules as would be slain in battle, and their wives and daughters are used most shamefully. All the women agreed that clean death is better than a living one.”
Kitishane shuddered. “I must agree. So that is why they were so willing for the men to ride! And why they were as quick to pledge loyalty as their husbands were.”
“Sand!” The word swept toward them as if borne on the wind, passed from mouth to mouth from far away. Culaehra looked up, wondering at the excitement in the tone. If there was one thing that was not unusual in this place, it was sand.
Then he saw what they meant. A plume of sand rose into the morning air and seemed to be moving toward them.
They had ridden all night to this dried-up watercourse. The Darians had known exactly where each band of Gormarani had been, and the nearest marching column had only been a few hours distant. Culaehra suspected that if they had not ridden to find the column, it would have come to find them.
He strained his eyes, watching the bend in the watercourse between themselves and the plume of sand. Only a large body of creatures could be raising so much dust, and what creatures would travel in such numbers in this devastated country except men? A few minutes later he began to hear the beating of hooves and the rumble of chariot wheels.
A voice spoke near him, and Yusev translated for Yocote, who translated for his companions: “The fools! To bring horses into this country! They must carry their own weight in water!”
“Fools, perhaps, but deadly fools,” Culaehra replied. “Let no man move until I give the word.”
“Even so, Culaehra,” Yusev replied, and translated, passing the message.
Culaehra glanced nervously at the bluff nearby, where Vira and her northern army stood waiting. They would have been furious to be left out of the fight, and Culaehra knew they needed a victory to lift their spirits as much as the Darians did— but the desert folk knew best how to fight in the desert. So Culaehra had positioned his little army in hiding, as reserves. He was only worried because he would have to call upon them at some time, or risk their resentment.
Of course, all their archers lay in hiding atop the bluff. Perhaps some Gormaranis would escape far enough to become targets. The problem might resolve itself.
Culaehra found it difficult to believe the city soldiers could be so stupid as to march along the bottom of a dry watercourse. “Do they not know that such a gully as this is ideal for an ambush?”
Yocote translated the question, and Yusev replied, “They think the sides to be natural breastworks, and they march sentries along the top, to warn them if enemies approach.”
“Have they never thought those enemies might be hiding in the banks already?”
“How should they?” Yusev grinned. “They do not know that the People of the Wind can disappear even where there is only empty sand to be seen.”
“I can well believe it,” Culaehra muttered. He had seen them disappear into the very sand of the banks themselves, but still found it hard to credit that mere human beings could vanish so completely—and that without magic!
Closer came the plume of sand, and closer. Culaehra slipped behind his pillar, the Starsword in his hand. Surely it was only a vagrant gust of wind that made it begin to vibrate, almost to sing ...
There they came, chariots two abreast, two men in each, one holding the reins, one with a spear in hand—though the driver had a spear slung across his back, too. On they came, as another pair rounded the bend ... and another, and another . . .
Culaehra stared, amazed, as they came and kept coming. Past his position the chariots rumbled, and he was in the middle of the Darians! He began to think his northerners might be truly needed, after all.
Then the lead chariots were past the bluff, and still they came! No ... there were no more! The last had come!
They had to spring their trap, or let the quarry escape. There were far more than Culaehra had planned on, but they had to begin somewhere. “Attack!” he snapped.
Yocote translated, Yusev passed the message—and ululating howls filled the air as the sides of the riverbed seemed to explode, hurling forth cloaked demons who fell upon the chariots.
The spearmen turned to defend, but the Darians took them by pairs, one to catch and break the spear, one to stab. Spears flew from the rear chariots, beyond the desert men, and a few struck Darians who screamed more with rage than pain and turned to slit another throat before they died. Horses neighed in terror and reared, bucking; chariots overturned. In minutes the riverbed was chaos. The lead chariots beyond the attackers tried to turn back, but there was not enough room.
Culaehra howled like a northern wolf. Other throats caught the sound and repeated it until it reached the ears of Vira's band. Arrows fell like hail from the top of the bluff, slaying the lead charioteers, halting the survivors in confusion as Vira and her folk ran out, spears flashing. They skidded and jumped down the sides of the riverbank and set to, thrusting and blocking.
Yocote was gesturing and chanting, as was Yusev nearby. If there was a shaman with the soldiers, his spells had no chance. Kitishane knelt beside them, panting with eagerness for the fray, but remembering her assigned position; she knelt with an arrow nocked, waiting for a Gormarani to climb the slope, trying to escape. Lua knelt beside her, smaller arrow at the ready, and just as lethal.
But one charioteer slew and slew, one who caught up a battle-axe when his spear was thrown, a battle-axe and shield, and beat off the Darians who came near him. Several already lay dead around him, but he could not move, for his chariot was blocked in by others overturned about him.
The wind blew, and Corotrovir whined for action. This task, Culaehra knew, was his own. He strode down the hill toward the big soldier.
Chapter 25
Culaehra picked his way through overturned chariots. The big soldier saw him coming and drew back his hps in a sneer. His uniform was different from the others'—an officer, no doubt. He wore a short robe over his leather armor, and his leather helmet was surrounded with a fringe of small carvings—animals and monsters. Culaehra stepped in, slashing. The soldier leaned aside just enough; then his battle-axe blurred. Culaehra leaped back and swung at his true target—the axle. Corotrovir bit through the oak as if it were cheese, and the chariot lurched, throwing the big soldier to his knees. Culaehra swung horizontally, his sword whining, but the soldier raised his battle-axe in the nick of time, blocking the swing. Corotrovir rang off the sharpened iron, bounding away—but a wedge dropped from the edge of the axe.
The soldier stared. Then his brows drew down, and he began to chant as he clambered from the overturned car.
Culaehra couldn't understand the words, but he comprehended the blood lust in the man's voice. “Pull back the chariots! I have no wish to fall and be unable to rise!”
Willing hands yanked the overturned chariots away, and in seconds there was clear ground for the two fighters. The soldier stepped into it. He struck his chest with a fist, roaring, “Ataxeles!”
Culaehra frowned, wondering what the word meant—until his enemy speared a huge finger at him, shouting something that sounded like a question—and the warrior understood. “Ataxeles” was the man's name!
Culaehra struck his own chest, opening his mouth to call out his own name—but at the last second Yocote shouted, “Do not!”
That made no sense to Culaehra, but he had learned to trust the little shaman. Instead he shouted, “Fight!” and slashed his sword at the enemy.
The big Vanyar jumped back, raising his war-axe. Then he advanced, chanting his battle song,
and for the first time in his life Culaehra found himself looking up at another human being—nearly a foot. For a fleeting second he felt the same dread rise in him that he had felt when he faced the Ulharl—but he quelled it with a laugh; this man might have been huge, but he was still only a man.
His laugh enraged his enemy, though. The soldier shouted his verse and swung. Culaehra swept his sword up, deflecting the blow—but Corotrovir jarred back, nicking his shoulder; the man was unbelievably strong! And here came that bloody axe, sweeping backhanded. Culaehra leaped away from the clumsy blow, then leaped in, slashing. Corotrovir swept down toward the man's helmet, then jarred to a stop an inch from the soldier's head. The big man grinned through his long moustaches and chopped downward two-handed.
“He is a shaman!” Yocote howled. “Back, Culaehra!”
A soldier-shaman? Culaehra had never heard of such a thing! Then he realized that this was what Yocote was—now. He leaped back, sweeping Corotrovir up to parry. The axe turned, but not enough—it slammed into the ground, slicing off Culaehra's little toe.
“Pick it up!” Yocote cried.
Pain seared through Culaehra, generating anger. He shouted in rage and leaped in, swinging and slashing and parrying, too quickly for the clumsy axe to keep up. Corotrovir bounced off the Vanyar helmet again, bit into the leather of the breastplate but no farther, then swept downward toward the man's knees.
The enemy soldier shouted a last line. Light seared Culaehra's eyes; he shouted and thrust blindly, felt a tug on one side of the sword. But the light coalesced into flame that died into a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. Coughing and gagging, Culaehra slashed through and through it, but Corotrovir met no resistance, and when the smoke cleared he saw why—the soldier-shaman had disappeared.
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