to rape me—but I am no murderer!”
“No
killer of your own kind.” Illbane nodded, and though he still looked grim,
Kitishane sensed approval; it reassured her. “And, though we may not think of
this hulk as our kind, he is nonetheless human.” He prodded Culaehra with his
staff. “Up, son of infamy!”
Culaehra
sat bolt-upright, as if something had yanked him straight. Then his eyes
opened—and squinted with pain. He moaned and rubbed his jaw, then saw the
gnomes and the maiden watching him. Memory struck, and he swiveled his head to
look up at the tall old stranger.
“Yes,
I have beaten you, lump-face, and shall do so again if you seek to disobey me!
Up, now, and shoulder the pack!” He nodded at Culaehra's makeshift sack.
Kitishane
fought to keep her face impassive in spite of her surprise at the change in
Illbane, from the understanding protector to the tyrant—and at his choice of
insults. She surely wouldn't have called Culaehra “lump-face.” In fact, she
would have called him handsome—quite handsome, if he hadn't been such a brute.
“My
head hurts,” Culaehra grunted.
Illbane's
hand struck like a snake, rocking Culaehra's temple. With a roar the big man
surged up—but Illbane sidestepped, struck Culaehra's head as he blundered past,
then kicked his legs out from under him. “You had better learn something about
fighting, lumbering ox, before you try to strike me again!” Illbane dropped
down, one knee on Culaehra's spine, the other pinning his arm. Culaehra tried
to roll, then yelled as the bony knee dug into a nerve. He whipped about and
tried to roll from the other direction, then howled as the other knee dug in.
He lay frozen for a moment, and Illbane whipped an iron chain about his neck,
holding the two ends together as he chanted some words that seemed mere
nonsense syllables— but fire flashed from the two ends, and when it died, the
chain was seamless. Illbane shoved himself to his feet, stepping back.
Culaehra
howled from the heat of the links as Illbane dropped them. He shoved himself
up, pawing at the steel collar—then freezing as his hand found the small iron
ball at his throat.
“It
is an amulet,” Illbane told him sternly. “It is magic. If you so much as think of doing something wrong, it will grow cold, and the more you think
of wrong deeds, the colder it will grow. Think of right works, and it will grow
warm.”
Culaehra
roared, clasping the chain with both hands and pulling. The muscles of his arms
bulged, his face reddened—but the chain held.
“You
shall not break it, no matter how hard you try,” Illbane told him, “for it is
magic that holds it, not the strength of iron alone. It is the collar of a
slave, and a slave you are indeed! Now rise, and take up the pack!”
“I
am no man's slave!” Culaehra bellowed. “Especially yours!”
“Oh,
yes you are, as rightfully as you enslaved the gnome-woman!” Illbane kicked
Culaehra hard in the side. The big man yelled, but cut it off short, pressing
his hand to the hurt—and Illbane swung the staff against his buttocks.
Culaehra
clenched his teeth, keeping the shout down to a grunt, and Lua cried out in
protest. Kitishane agreed. “You do not need to cause him so much pain, Illbane!”
“If
he thought it right for him to hurt you, then he cannot deny that it is right
for me to hurt him!”
“Or,”
Yocote pointed out, “if he thinks it wrong for you to hurt him, then he must
admit that it was wrong for him to hurt us.”
“Never!”
Culaehra snapped, and Illbane struck again, leaning down to slap Culaehra's
head—but Culaehra saw the blow coming and, quick as a scorpion, rocked back to
catch the old man's wrist with a cry of vindication.
Illbane
planted a foot in his belly.
The
cry turned into strangling as Culaehra curled around the pain. Illbane stepped
back and spoke with contempt. “Yes, you cannot rise to your work if you cannot
breathe, can you? Very well, I will wait a few
“No
killer of your own kind.” Illbane nodded, and though he still looked grim,
Kitishane sensed approval; it reassured her. “And, though we may not think of
this hulk as our kind, he is nonetheless human.” He prodded Culaehra with his
staff. “Up, son of infamy!”
Culaehra
sat bolt-upright, as if something had yanked him straight. Then his eyes
opened—and squinted with pain. He moaned and rubbed his jaw, then saw the
gnomes and the maiden watching him. Memory struck, and he swiveled his head to
look up at the tall old stranger.
“Yes,
I have beaten you, lump-face, and shall do so again if you seek to disobey me!
Up, now, and shoulder the pack!” He nodded at Culaehra's makeshift sack.
Kitishane
fought to keep her face impassive in spite of her surprise at the change in
Illbane, from the understanding protector to the tyrant—and at his choice of
insults. She surely wouldn't have called Culaehra “lump-face.” In fact, she
would have called him handsome—quite handsome, if he hadn't been such a brute.
“My
head hurts,” Culaehra grunted.
Illbane's
hand struck like a snake, rocking Culaehra's temple. With a roar the big man
surged up—but Illbane sidestepped, struck Culaehra's head as he blundered past,
then kicked his legs out from under him. “You had better learn something about
fighting, lumbering ox, before you try to strike me again!” Illbane dropped
down, one knee on Culaehra's spine, the other pinning his arm. Culaehra tried
to roll, then yelled as the bony knee dug into a nerve. He whipped about and
tried to roll from the other direction, then howled as the other knee dug in.
He lay frozen for a moment, and Illbane whipped an iron chain about his neck,
holding the two ends together as he chanted some words that seemed mere
nonsense syllables— but fire flashed from the two ends, and when it died, the
chain was seamless. Illbane shoved himself to his feet, stepping back.
Culaehra
howled from the heat of the links as Illbane dropped them. He shoved himself
up, pawing at the steel collar—then freezing as his hand found the small iron
ball at his throat.
“It
is an amulet,” Illbane told him sternly. “It is magic. If you so much as think of doing something wrong, it will grow cold, and the more you think
of wrong deeds, the colder it will grow. Think of right works, and it will grow
warm.”
Culaehra
roared, clasping the chain with both hands and pulling. The muscles of his arms
bulged, his face reddened—but the chain held.
“You
shall not break it, no matter how hard you try,” Illbane told him, “for it is
magic that holds it, not the strength of iron alone. It is the collar of a
slave, and a slave you are indeed! Now rise, and take up the pack!”
“I
am no man's slave!” Culaehra bellowed. “Especially yours!”
“Oh,
yes you are, as rightfully as you enslaved the gnome-woman!” Illbane kicked
Culaehra hard in the side. The big man yelled, but cut it off short, pressing
his hand to the hurt—and Illbane swung the staff against his buttocks.
Culaehra
clenched his teeth, keeping the shout down to a grunt, and Lua cried out in
protest. Kitishane agreed. “You do not need to cause him so much pain, Illbane!”
“If
he thought it right for him to hurt you, then he cannot deny that it is right
for me to hurt him!”
“Or,”
Yocote pointed out, “if he thinks it wrong for you to hurt him, then he must
admit that it was wrong for him to hurt us.”
“Never!”
Culaehra snapped, and Illbane struck again, leaning down to slap Culaehra's
head—but Culaehra saw the blow coming and, quick as a scorpion, rocked back to
catch the old man's wrist with a cry of vindication.
Illbane
planted a foot in his belly.
The
cry turned into strangling as Culaehra curled around the pain. Illbane stepped
back and spoke with contempt. “Yes, you cannot rise to your work if you cannot
breathe, can you? Very well, I will wait a few
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