The Sage by Christopher Stasheff Read Free Book Online Page A

the mob dwindle
behind her. When they were silent, she collapsed against a huge old elm and let
herself weep. The tears poured and poured, but finally began to slacken.
    That
was when she heard the laugh, low and menacing.
    She
stiffened, tears drying on the instant. She knew better than to ask.
    “So
you'd have sent me to the noose, eh?” Shchambe stepped into a patch of
moonlight, shadows painting his face into a mask of evil.
    Kitishane
leaped to her feet, snatching an arrow, frantically trying to string her bow.
    Shchambe
stepped in to strike it aside with a snarl. “Goreh's a weak old fool not to
give you the punishment you deserve!”
    “ You deserve!” Kitishane shouted. “You slew Cheorl so that you could have Alluye!”
    “And
you were there to watch it, were you?” Shchambe growled. “Well, I'll give you
the punishment Goreh should have! Oh, I'll have Alluye, when she's done
mourning—but first I'll have you!” He seized her with one bearlike arm, pawing
at the fastenings of her tunic with the other, then reaching for the neckline—but
he had forgotten that she still held the arrow. Kitishane drove it up as hard
as she could, and Shchambe gave a strangled yell, falling back from her,
doubled over, the arrow sticking out just below his rib cage. Kitishane stepped
in, yanked his dagger loose, then stabbed with it, stabbed again and again,
feeling no guilt or compunction, for as Goreh had said, death was the
punishment for murder—and, as far as she was concerned, should have been the
punishment for the rape Shchambe had tried to commit.
    When
his body had stopped moving, even the slight rise and fall of breath, Kitishane
tore his swordbelt loose and turned away into the wood, appalled at what she
had done—but within her elation formed and grew. She was alive! Alive, and he
who had sought to slay her lay dead!
     
    Ohaern
woke from sleep and lay taut, waiting to discover what had waked him.
    An
owl hooted.
    Ohaern's
eyes flicked from tree to tree till he found it—the huge white owl again! It
stared back at him, eyes glowing from the light of his fire, and hooted again,
demanding.
    “As
you will, my love,” Ohaern muttered, and rolled to his feet. He buried his fire
quickly, shouldered his pack, caught up his staff, and went toward the owl. It
was off in a flurry of wings, but landed on another tree fifty feet away. When
Ohaern was only halfway to it, the bird flew on again.
    It
was urgent, then. Was the hero-clay passing soon? Or facing a monster that
might slay him? Ohaern picked up his pace, hurrying as much as he could with
the weight of his pack and the awareness that he might have a long way to go.
    The
owl perched and waited impatiently until he came near, then flew on.
     
    Bone-weary,
Kitishane let her pack drop and began to gather kindling for a fire. She had
wandered through the wood for three days, not caring where she went so long as
it was away from her village and the horrible bloody thing she had left
behind—and surely they would hang her for its death, if they found her! While
the sun was up, she had glanced at the shadows frequently, making sure they
stayed before her in the morning, behind her in the afternoon. She had stopped
to pitch camp only when it was too dark to go any farther, slept lightly and
poorly, then waked and begun marching again before the sun was up. Now she was
about to pitch camp once more—when she smelled wood smoke! She went rigid,
heart bounding in panic. But she fought down her fear, strung her bow, and
crept silently through the darkened forest. They might be harmless travelers,
perhaps even women lost in the wood—but if they were not, she intended to
strike while she still could. She hastened toward the scent of smoke until she
began to hear voices. Then she slowed, creeping toward the sounds, and
crouched, watching the people through a screen of leaves—a big man and, by
Heaven, two gnomes!
    “Be
done with that stew, Lua, and bring it!” the big