The Shaman Read online

  Lucoyo frowned, shaking himself free. “What is your hurry?” Then he glanced at the girls. “Though I must admit I see some urgency in finding more trade goods, too.” He picked up his quiver and bowcase and slung them across his back again. “Farewell, girls! Remember me to your ‘sisters’!”

  “Would you leave us so soon, then?” one of them asked, pouting.

  “Only so that I may return to you sooner!” Lucoyo leaned over for one last kiss to each, and each gave him a last giggle and wriggle. He caught his breath, more for effect than from any real longing, then turned away with a wave.

  Ohaern stalked beside him, throttling the desire to ask how he could so quickly have forgotten his Biri love. Instead he asked, “How old are those two?”

  “The one is seventeen,” Lucoyo answered, “the other twenty.”

  Ohaern walked beside him in numbed silence. Beneath the paint, both women had looked to be in their thirties. How hard a life did they live?

  As they came out of the Street of Lantern Houses, Lucoyo veered into a shop as if he had known where to find it on the instant. Ohaern followed and, looking around, saw many small tables with groups of people sitting at them, drinking from fat pottery cups. Several were also eating, and the aroma reminded him how long it had been since he had tasted food.

  “Mid-afternoon, and time enough for dinner.” Lucoyo sat at a table near the wall. “I have drunk freely, but eaten little.”

  “And how shall we persuade them to give us food?” Ohaern asked, sitting across from him.

  Lucoyo drew out a silver bead. “I lied to their mistress—I had a few beads left.”

  A passing woman, bearing a tray, saw the gleam of silver and veered to the half-elf. “Would you trade that for food and beer?”

  “I would,” Lucoyo said, “though I would expect some copper beads with the platters. Two of each, if you will.”

  The woman nodded and turned away, threading her way between the tables toward a doorway in the wall. Lucoyo followed her with his eyes. “Underneath the sweat and grease and disheveled hair, she is pretty enough.”

  “Can you think of nothing else?” Ohaern said impatiently.

  Lucoyo started to answer, but the whole room froze at the sound of a shout from the doorway. “There!” They looked up and saw five soldiers marching in behind an old man who pointed at their table. Lucoyo paled and reached for his long knife—but Ohaern stopped him with a hand on the pommel. “No fear—it is the priest of Ranol.”

  “Priest?” Lucoyo swung about to stare at him. “A whole morning in a city where every pleasure you can imagine is at your beck and call, and you spent it in a temple?”

  Noril and the soldiers filed through to their table, and the patrons leaped back promptly, pulling their tables clear. As they came up, Ohaern rose, nodding to Noril. “I greet you, Sage.”

  “And I greet you, Ohaern.” Noril returned the nod. “These men with me are the king’s soldiers, come to invite you to his royal hall.”

  “Under the circumstances, I can scarcely refuse,” Ohaern replied, with a quirk of humor to his lips. Lucoyo stared at him as if he were insane, but he went on. “May I ask why the king finds us worthy of his interest?”

  “You are late come from the north,” Noril explained, “and the king has this day had disturbing news from that quarter.”

  Lucoyo swiveled to turn the alarmed stare on the priest.

  Ohaern nodded, guessing the nature of the alarming news. “We will come, and gladly. Will we not?” he asked Lucoyo sternly. “Or would you not be a guest of the king?”

  Lucoyo stared at him, as much surprised at Ohaern giving a double meaning as at the thought itself. The big barbarian had a point—if he kept on stealing, he was likely to be the guest of the king in any event. “Why not opt for the better chamber?” he said, affecting a breezy manner. “Let us go!”

  They followed the soldiers out the door. Behind them the room broke into a hubbub of wild speculation.

  “I can guess how you found me,” Ohaern said to Noril as the soldiers formed a knot about them, “but how did you learn of the news?”

  “The king sent word to all the chief priests of all the temples, asking if their gods had told them anything about the danger,” Noril said, “and I thought that perhaps you might know something of it.”

  “Is the danger a vast troop of men with light-wheeled carts drawn by horses, on their way south?”

  Noril stared at him. “Then you do know something of them!”

  “That is why we have come to Cashalo,” Ohaern said, “to warn you against them—but I did not know how to do it.”

  “The king’s scouts have done that for you,” Noril told him, “and the barbarians are still several days away, if they travel no faster than they did when the king’s spy saw them as he came south.”

  “Then there is time to do something, at least.” Ohaern nodded. “What does the king intend?”

  Noril replied slowly. “I think that is what he means to ask you.”

  The king was a tall man, almost as tall as Ohaern, and built as heavily—but he wore royal robes instead of a fur kilt, and had the beginnings of a potbelly. “You are a chieftain, then,” he said as he pressed hands with Ohaern. Lucoyo had made certain the monarch knew that.

  “I am,” Ohaern replied, “and I am gratified that you know our language, O King!”

  “You are gracious.” Perhaps because Ohaern was a chief, the king spoke to him as to an equal. “Our traders deal frequently with the tribes of the Biriae, and I strive to know the tongues of all the nations with whom we trade—though I know my accent must be as heavy as sand.”

  “You are better than me in that,” Ohaern returned, “since I speak your language not at all—though I think my companion may have learned a word or two.”

  Lucoyo reddened and cleared his throat, looking away.

  “But those are not words to be spoken in a king’s presence?” The monarch smiled. “Never fear, my friend—I know them all.” Then he frowned, looking at the half-elf more closely. “Are you truly a Biri?”

  “Only by adoption,” Lucoyo said, “but I, too, have seen the Vanyar.”

  “Vanyar, yes, that is how they are called.” The king turned back to Ohaern. “How closely have you seen them?”

  “We have fought them,” Ohaern replied. “They are tough and hard, and take a great deal of beating.”

  “Alas, then!” The king turned away, wringing his hands in agitation. “My scout said they covered the plain as far as he could see! Surely they must outnumber my poor army a hundred to one! How shall we stand against them?”

  “In the first place,” Ohaern said slowly, “they travel as a tribe, not as a war group only—so perhaps a quarter of those you saw were warriors.”

  “Only a quarter? Much better, much! They shall only outnumber my men twenty-five to one!” The king shook his head. “Not enough, my friend, not enough! How shall we stand? Or should we surrender?”

  Lucoyo spoke up. “If you surrender, they shall rape all your women, enslave those of your children they do not kill, and slay all your old folk along with most of your warriors—or men who are of an age to be warriors. Those they let survive, they shall castrate and lame.” He shook his head. “It may come to the same in the end—but I would fight.”

  “Indeed,” said Ohaern, “if it will come to the same in the end, why not fight?”

  “Well thought—and well said.” The king nodded, frowning. “What else can you tell me of them that will help us to beat them back?”

  “They serve Ulahane,” Ohaern said slowly, “so you must set a close watch on the temple of the Scarlet One, and on as many of his worshipers as you know of.”

  “You do not think they would fight against their own city!”

  “Oh, surely not!” Lucoyo smiled. “But why chance it?”

  “True.” The king nodded heavily. “What else?”

  “We have heard the Vanyar boast of villages being easy meat,�
� Ohaern said, “because they have no walls.”

  “Yes,” Lucoyo said, “they say they can ride their ‘chariots’ right into the center of the village, slaying as they go.”

  “Then we must build a wall!” The king frowned. “But how, in only a few days?”

  “Every man must work,” Ohaern told him—and, with the surety of a tribal chieftain, “and every man must fight. You have a great strength that you know not of, O King—for every able-bodied man in your city can become a warrior at need, and every woman can make arrows for them.”

  Lucoyo nodded. “Let them work at the wall for two hours at a time, then send them to me for a rest—and I will train them in archery.”

  “Yes, with Biriae bows!” Ohaern’s eye caught fire. “The Vanyar bows are powerful, but their range is short! If you can find two hundred archers who can become accurate with the Biriae bow, they can fell a great number of Vanyar before they come close enough to strike!”

  “But where shall we find so many bows in only a few days?” Lucoyo frowned. “Wood must have time to cure!”

  “Many of my people already have bows,” the king said slowly, “for they still shoot fish in the shallows.”

  “That is scarcely what I call a long range, but they might suffice. Tell me, are they made of long staves? Or of two horns joined by a foot of seasoned wood, like the Vanyar bows?”

  “They are made of the bones of the whales of the Middle Sea—Umber and strong, but not wooden.”

  Lucoyo stared. “Fish-bone bows? Nay, this I must see!”

  “Do you think they will shoot as far as the ones you speak of?” the king said anxiously.

  “I will delight in discovering the answer!” Lucoyo caught Ohaern’s arm. “Come, smith! There is much to do!”

  But the king caught Ohaern’s other arm, staying him long enough to stare into his face with a sudden wild hope. “Smith? You are a smith, then?”

  Ohaern nodded. “I am.”

  “Do you know magic?”

  “Only a few spells, and those for proving and tempering the iron and bronze,” Ohaern cautioned.

  “That may be enough.” Noril came forward, eyes glowing. “In the temple of Ranol, that may be more than enough.”

  Chapter 19

  The fishermen, of course, knew how to use a spear, though theirs had three prongs—they were accustomed to spearing fish, with a cast rarely longer than two yards. A spear cast is a spear cast, though, and they learned quickly to hurl a leaf-bladed spear—but more importantly, to thrust with it. Ohaern and Lucoyo discovered that, because of the old art of fishing with a bow, the people of Cashalo were skilled archers; in fact, it was their favorite sport, and evenings saw men and women alike assembled in the parks, shooting at straw targets tied cleverly to resemble huge fish. Lucoyo had only to stand the fish upright, and it approximated the shape of a man. He was quite pleased with their bows, too—apparently the whales who had contributed so generously from their rib cages had exceptionally long, limber ribs, and the bows were naturally curved at the ends. Their range, though not as good as Lucoyo’s bow, was nonetheless far greater than that of the compound bows of the Vanyar.

  They were also avid wrestlers, almost as enthusiastic about grappling one another at close range as they were at shooting straw fish at long range. But that was the extent of their fighting skills; they knew nothing of any other forms of combat. Ohaern taught them the use of the staff which, when combined with thrusting, made excellent spear-play—but he shied at the thought of these peaceful fishermen and merchants, with only a few days’ training, bearing swords against seasoned warriors.

  Instead he taught them how to turn aside a sword stroke with their staves, and he set the smiths to shoeing and binding those staves with iron. That was all the time he could spare before he went into seclusion with Noril, learning magic.

  Lucoyo stifled the urge to protest, and went on training archers. By good fortune, Cashalo had many experienced builders, with warehouses full of tree-trunk logs from the north mixed with costly rare woods and building stone from the south. The king silenced his merchants’ cries of distress by reminding them that they would have nothing left at all if the Vanyar took the city—nothing, most likely including their lives, and their wives and children’s virtue. They opened their warehouses, grumbling about repayment and recovering their goods when the crisis was past. So the merchants, fishermen, and laborers alike took their turns on the archery field, then on the wall, and the builders directed them in raising what was surely the most expensive barrier ever to surround a city—the bulk of it being ordinary fir and pine, mixed in with granite and basalt from the nearby quarries—but adorned here and there with marble and cedar and ebony.

  All this time, the king’s agents were very busy, though seldom seen. Many of Ulahane’s worshipers disappeared—they were later found, outraged but unharmed, in the cellar of the king’s hall—and the one priest of the scarlet god who set foot outside the temple was found lying in an alley, his own blood pooled about him. The other priests showed very little desire for an outing after that.

  While all this went on about them, Ohaern and Noril were seen only as passing silhouettes behind the columns of Rand’s temple. Clouds of vapor issued from those colonnades, though. Odors sharp and pungent alternated with exotic perfumes. Everyone wondered what magic the sage and the smith were brewing together, but the only people curious enough to sneak close to look, disappeared into the shadows. They were in the forefront of those later found in the king’s cellar, still loudly protesting their innocence—but since they bore the jackal’s-head tattoo of Ulahane’s ardent worshipers, the king heard their pleas with a skeptical ear.

  When the scouts reported the Vanyar horde only a few day’s march from the new city wall, Ohaern left the magic to Noril and Rahani’s priestess—who had joined them because Noril trusted her, and she had offered to help. So Ohaern left the two of them to stew in their own magic, and picked a small band of the king’s soldiers to lead out against the enemy.

  “Why should you lead us?” demanded the Captain of the Guard. “We have been soldiers all our lives! You, you have only been a soldier when it pleased you!”

  “I have been a warrior,” Ohaern corrected, “and still am. Biriae are always warriors, even when we are hunting or fishing—or forging iron. And a warrior of the forests knows ways to come upon an enemy that a soldier of the field never learns.”

  The captain set himself, eyes narrowing. “You are audacious to say that to our faces!”

  “I will do more than that,” Ohaern promised. “I will prove it—but only to those of your men whom I have chosen, not to you. You know the ways of the city far better than I; you must stay here to guard.”

  The captain’s lip curled. “Is that your strategy? That you should lead troops outside the wall, while I command them here?”

  “Part of it,” Ohaern confirmed, “though Lucoyo must command the archers.”

  “I, stay here?” the half-elf cried. “I am twice the sneak you are, huntsman! Twice as deft, twice as slight!”

  “Twice the archer,” Ohaern countered.

  Lucoyo set his jaw. “You know only the forests! I was raised to follow the great herds! Surely I will know the way these cow-drivers think far better than you!”

  “I know them well enough,” Ohaern returned, “for I can say where their chariots will roll. You must stay, Lucoyo. When it is time to lead out the archers, you may sally forth.”

  Then Ohaern went.

  He went with a band of twenty, out along a watercourse that had worn its way down ten feet below the level of the plain. He went north, toward the place where the Vanyar had been sighted—and as he went, he taught his men how to hide among the rocks and bushes, so that by the time they came to the Vanyar, they could disappear in seconds. A good tracker could still trace them, and a warrior who knew that an enemy might be hiding near could have found them—but the Vanyar would not.

  As soon as they could smell th
e smoke of the Vanyar’s fires, they went into the shadows of the bank and moved from bush to bush and rock to rock, as Ohaern had taught them. They were still visible, but did not catch the unwary eye—and the Vanyar slave women who clambered down the bank to fetch water were not wary at all. The warriors froze, then edged back out of sight and waited until the mutter of,bitter and dispirited talk faded above them as the slave women climbed back up the bank. Then they edged forward, until they could smell the stench of too many horses in too close a space and went to ground, invisible to all but the most experienced eye. There they waited until dark, until the singing and stamping and quarreling were done, until the camp was quiet above them. Then Ohaern beckoned his men forward, gathered them together, and breathed, “Seek for sentries, and take them first. Then loose the horses.”

  “May we not slay them?” whispered one fiery-eyed youth.

  “Only as you leave the camp,” Ohaern answered.

  Then up they went, up and out of the watercourse, slipping silently through the night past tents full of snores and past slaves who slept fitfully on hard ground. One by one they came up behind the sentries; only one managed to cry out— and that cry was strangled quickly—before the garrotes did their work. The volunteers were all guards who had killed before, when criminals had attacked them; now they were grim and hard-faced at having to kill from behind, the more so as the Vanyar thrashed and twisted furiously. Ohaern had warned them that the Vanyar were hardened to pain and took a great deal of killing, and he was right—but at last each pair of soldiers lowered its victim to the ground and crept toward the circles of horses.

  Here and there a beast whinnied with uncertainty as his hobbles were cut and his picket rein, too—but the soldiers were almost done before they heard a sleepy voice demand something in the Vanyar tongue. They froze, all looking toward Ohaern—but he nodded and pantomimed a slap, and they all turned to whack the horses on the rumps, filling the night with shouts and bloodcurdling howls. The horses screamed and burst out of their circles, bolting in fright for open ground.