The Sage (47 page)

A
rumble went up from the Vanyar ranks. They shook spears and war-axes, and their
noise built toward a roar.

Kitishane
seized Culaehra's arm with sudden inspiration. “Warrior! Challenge their chief
to single combat!”

Culaehra
stared at her in surprise, then realized the sense of what she said—the fight
would certainly forestall a battle, and might prevent it. He had no doubt that
he would win. He stepped forward, calling out, “Yocote, translate for me! Tell
them I am Culaehra, war chief of this band! Tell them that I challenge their
chieftain to single combat, here between our battle lines!”

“Culaehra!
Do you know what you do?” Lua cried in fright.

“Be
easy, sister,” Kitishane called out. “He knows well, and it was my idea.”

“Well
... I know you would not truly risk him willingly,” Lua said, but she seemed
still doubtful.

Yocote
called out the message, and the Vanyar quieted to hear Masana's translation.
She shouted it out, and the Vanyar roared indeed, but in delight. When they
quieted, the war chief shouted two syllables. Masana turned back to Yocote,
calling out one word. “He says 'yes,' “ Yocote translated.

“Well
enough, then.” Culaehra stepped out between the lines, drawing his sword.

“Yocote!
Confer!” Kitishane called.

The
gnome frowned, but grudgingly gave up his high seat and dodged between camel
legs, coming to her.

The
Vanyar chief stepped down from his chariot and out between the battle lines,
opposite Culaehra. He was an inch or two taller than the warrior, and even more
muscular. Suddenly, Culaehra wondered if this was such a good idea after all.
Still, the chieftain was at least ten years older than he, probably twenty, for
there were streaks of gray in his beard.

Behind
him, Kitishane conversed quickly with Yocote. The little man nodded, then sat
down on the ground, closing his eyes in order to settle into a shaman's trance.
Meanwhile, Yusev stepped up beside him, guarding. Seeing this, Masana frowned
blackly. She turned to the young man who had driven her, beckoned, and went
back through the Vanyar lines, in order to settle into her own trance.

As
Culaehra strode off, Kitishane called, “Do not kill him, Culaehra, but make the
fight last a long time.”

Her
faith in him was touching, he thought sardonically as he advanced to meet the
Vanyar chieftain, who was looking harder and more grim with every second. The
man thumped his chest with a fist and called out, “Singorot!”

His
name, at a guess. Culaehra mimicked the gesture, calling back, “Culaehra!”

The
Vanyar chief grinned and reached back behind his shoulder. He drew not a
battle-axe, but a huge curved sword. His grin widened; he stepped forward,
leveling the blade.

Relief
shot through Culaehra's veins. A battle-axe might have given him trouble, but a
sword he was more than sure he could deal with—especially since an axeman like
Singorot would probably wield the blade as if it were double-bitted instead of
double-edged, and from the dullness of the metal, it was probably simple forged
iron, perhaps not even steel at all. Corotrovir would probably go through it as
if it were cheese— which created a different problem for Culaehra. How would he
keep the fight going? He would have to be careful indeed not to chop through
that blade!

But
also careful to stay alive. Singorot leaped forward, huge blade swinging down
like a crescent moon with a honed edge. Culaehra leaped back and parried,
turning the sword's path downward. Singorot chopped into the dirt and roared
with anger and frustration. Before he could yank the blade free, Culaehra
leaped in to nick his upper arm—not enough to lame him, only to show blood. The
watching warriors saw, and a cheer erupted from the allies, echoed by a shout
of anger from the Vanyar. Weapons waved and rattled—but no one struck.

Singorot
yanked his blade free with a snarl and advanced on Culaehra, sword sweeping
from side to side and up and down in huge diagonal slashes. Culaehra gave
ground again and again, waiting for his opening, knowing he must let Singorot
strike him to save face—but also knowing he dared not risk a blow of that
cleaver on any place vulnerable. Finally, he decided he must have faith in
Agrapax's armor, and swung his own sword up as he slowed his retreat. Singorot
shouted with triumph and swung. The sword cracked against Culaehra's
breastplate. He staggered, feeling as if butted by a bull. For a moment the
scene swam about him and he had to struggle for breath—but he came back to
himself in time to see Singorot's huge cleaver swinging down at his ankles. He
leaped, the blade passing beneath him, and swung at Singorot's helmet even as
he was in the air. The blow did not have a great deal of force behind it, since
he could not brace himself, but it was enough to gouge the metal and send
Singorot staggering. Knowing he had to make it look realistic, Culaehra stalked
him, looking wary, but really waiting for the man to recover so he could go on
with the charade. Fortunately, Singorot did not seem to realize it was a
sham—and Culaehra knew he did not dare let the man know.

Singorot
pulled himself upright with a snarl and strode forward, holding his sword in
both fists straight in front of him. Then he began to swing it from side to
side, as if man and blade were a serpent trying to judge the best target for a
strike.

Culaehra
held Corotrovir rib-high, angling up, ready to parry. He was beginning to tire
of this shamming, and wished that he could really fight, but had seen enough of
Singorot's style to know that if he did, the Vanyar would not last a minute. Of
course, without magical armor and an enchanted blade, they would have been evenly
matched, Culaehra reflected, and without Illbane's teaching, he would have been
meat for the vultures.

But
he did have Agrapax's armor and Ohaern's sword and, more important, Illbane's
training. He leaped to meet Singorot's swing and whirled Corotrovir in a
circle, twisting the Vanyar's sword against the natural turning of human arms,
then leaped back at the last instant, a moment before forcing the blade from
Singorot's hands. The big Vanyar stood frozen, staring at his adversary, and
with a sinking heart Culaehra knew that Singorot had realized he was being
toyed with. There was fear in that glance, but more—there was a dread of being
shamed in front of his troops.

Oho!
Culaehra thought, suddenly seeing a way out of his dilemma—but how to manage
when he could not speak the Vanyar tongue? He met Singorot's next onslaught
with parry after parry, yielding ground, then suddenly reversed, stepping in
and whirling Corotrovir to bind the Vanyar's blade. For a moment the swords
froze on high, and Singorot stared down in disbelief at the smaller man.

Culaehra
winked.

Singorot
stared, confounded. Then his face darkened; he leaped back with a roar, and
leaped in again, huge sword slashing down.

Yocote
crossed a blasted heath to the huge trunk that rose from its center, and this
heath itself was the Center of the World. He paused a moment, looking up at the
huge tree that towered above him, disappearing into the clouds that overcast
the day. When he had come here before, the sun had shone and the Tree had
disappeared into the blueness of the sky itself. This day, though, was ominous;
he hoped it was not a day of omen.

He
set foot on a root, lifted hands to find holds in the rough bark, and began to
climb the World Tree into the shaman's land.

Yocote
had climbed the Tree only once before, and had known then that Illbane watched
his entranced body and would be by him in an instant at the slightest sign of
trouble—but it was Yusev who watched over him now, and he knew no more of the
shaman's world than Yocote did.

He
climbed up through a layer of clouds and saw the misty, magical land of shamans
all about him. Carefully, he climbed down off the Tree, unwilling to trust his
weight to ground that was cloud underneath—but it held him as well as real
dirt, only giving slightly beneath his step. The gnome held out his arms,
looked down at his body and saw it was covered with fur. He gave his tail a
shake and felt it move, saw his stubby limbs and knew he was a badger.

Then
the leaves of the World Tree shivered and shook, and badger-Yocote leaped back,
watching warily, to see in what form the Vanyar shaman came.

It
was not an animal that emerged from the opening in the ground, though—it was a
bird that soared up, a wide-winged bird with angry eyes and cruel beak: a hawk.
Yocote stared, amazed—he had not heard of a bird-totem before. Of course, now
that he thought of it, there must be some—there were far too many tribes and
clans of humans, elves, gnomes, and dwarfs for the number of fur-bearing
animals.

The
hawk settled to the ground, folding its wings, dwarfing Yocote; he had to fight
himself to keep from shrinking in fear. The beak opened and spoke human words,
shaman's words. “So, then. Now we fight, you and I?”

“If
we must,” Yocote replied through the badger's mouth. “But you seem to me to be
a good person, and I would rather fight only enemies.”

“We
must be enemies, you and I,” the hawk said sadly, “for the Vanyar must have all
the land we can.”

“Why?”
Yocote asked, but the hawk had already leaped into the air. Its wings clapped
open and it cried, “Defend!” Then it stooped on the badger, its talons reaching
for his throat.

Even
as a badger, Yocote remembered Illbane's training. He reared back, balancing on
short, stumpy legs, and swatted the talons aside with one paw, then bit the leg
from which they sprang. He did not bite hard—he still did not wish to hurt a
good person. His reward was a buffet with the hawk's wing; then the leg yanked
itself out of his mouth, ripping itself on his teeth. The hawk squalled with
pain, and its blood tasted acrid in Yocote's mouth. It spiraled high, and as it
flew it called, “Bolenkar, hear your worshiper! Come now to aid, and give me
victory!” Then it began to sing a song of blood and death and maiming.

A
red aura sprang up all around the hawk. It swelled in size; its talons glinted
with sharpness.

What
else could Yocote do but call upon his own protector? “Lomallin, if you hear
me, lend your strength to aid! I battle in the shaman's world with one I would
befriend, but she fights with the remnants of Ulahane's power, left within the
soul of his misbegotten son Bolenkar! Come, I plead! Lend me the strength of
your goodwill to oppose the malice of your old enemy!”

The
world seemed to turn light green about him, and he knew Lomallin's aura
surrounded his badger-form.

The
hawk screeched in surprise and fright—but the scarlet aura about it deepened
almost to black. Crazed with blood lust, it folded its wings and struck.

Yocote
knew better than to use the same tactic twice—and sure enough, the hawk veered
at the last second and struck from the side. But Yocote was already falling
away from it, and the claws only pushed him, making him fall harder. He felt
warm wetness spreading over his side and knew the talons had scored through his
fur—but he kicked with his hind paws, striking with claws of his own.

Black
badger's claws met tan talons—and light exploded all about them, sound blasting
their eardrums.

Yocote
held on to consciousness, though he was frozen stiff by the energy coursing
through and around him. The light about him seemed to darken, leaving the whole
day indistinct and murky. Then suddenly light shone again—green light, rich
green, the green of forest leaves. It showed him the hawk lying senseless on
its back, claws up in the air.

Strength
returned, and Yocote leaped to his feet in alarm. He surely had not wanted the
Vanyar shaman dead! But the green light gathered about him and coursed away,
burying itself in the hawk's body, then springing forth to form an aura all
about it. After a minute the light sank back, pulling itself within the hawk's
feathers, then was gone, and the even, pearly light of the always overcast
shaman's world remained.

Yocote
froze, knowing he must not try to help any further.

The
hawk tipped over and rolled to her side. Slowly, then, her wings opened; she
pushed herself to stand on her talons, shaking her head as if dazed. Her gaze
alighted on Yocote, and she stared at him, wings shuddering then closing—but
even as those wings closed about her, the hawk began to change, its form
fluxing and growing until a young and comely woman stood before him, wearing
Vanyar leggings gartered under a brown dress bright with embroidery in
geometrical designs that Yocote recognized as mystic symbols, though not the
ones he knew.

Yocote
understood. He stood up on his hind legs again, willing himself to return to
his proper shape. The world blurred about him for a few minutes, then steadied
again, and he glanced down, seeing again his gnome's hands and arms, body,
legs, and feet. He looked up at the young woman, then gave a little bow. “I
salute you.”

“And
I you.” The Vanyar shaman returned the bow, then swept a gesture that included
all of herself. “This is how I appeared when I was young—and how I still see
myself inside.”

“Must
we still fight?”

“No,”
the Vanyar shaman said. “I have seen for myself which force is
greater—Bolenkar's or Lomallin's. Your god is a channel for the life-force from
its Source to us—and that life-force has vanquished the death-force of
Bolenkar.”

“Of
Ulahane, rather,” Yocote said, “and he is dead.”

Masana
stared. “Can gods die?”

“He
was not truly a god, only a man of the Ulin—an elder race,” Yocote said. “He
hated all the younger races and sought to slay us all. Has Bolenkar not told
you of him?”

“We
have never seen Bolenkar,” Masana said. “How often do humans see a god? No, we
have seen those who carry his word—but none of them have ever spoken of this
Ulahane, nor any of the elder race.”