The Shaman Read online

  One traveler was standing in front of the pony’s head and he held up his hands, laughing. “Peace, my friends, peace! We cannot answer all your demands at once! We will stay a day or two, if you will have us, and will have time enough to hear your news and give ours, to take your tin and amber and give you the pottery and cloth and jewelry of the south! Have any of you found any gold?”

  “None was in our round this time,” answered Rubo the chief. “Why you southerners are so fascinated by that yellow metal, I cannot see! Oh, it is pretty enough when you polish it, and works well to make trinkets for the ladies, but what good is it otherwise?”

  “As much good as the amber we seek,” a second trader answered. “The people of the cities will give us yards and yards of cloth for a piece of amber, because it makes such pretty ornaments.”

  “The tin, though, they need for making bronze.” The lead trader held up his own blade. “We have saved some of these for you, even though we have come so far north!”

  “You need not have bothered,” Rubo said proudly. “We have found iron ore, and we have a smith!”

  The trader wrinkled his nose at that. “Iron! It will break under a blow from a bronze sword forged by a really good smith! No, you may keep your iron, and I will keep my bronze.”

  “Well, some of us might want it,” said another man.

  The head trader shrugged. “I will trade gladly—that is what I brought it for. But tell me, who taught you to forge iron in this one year since I came last?”

  “The wise man, Manalo,” Rubo answered. “He came in the winter, stayed a month, and taught us much.”

  “Manalo?” another trader said, frowning. “Is that not the name of the wanderer who angered the captain of the soldiers of Kuru at their trading fort of Byleo?”

  Ohaern stiffened, suddenly paying close attention.

  The lead trader nodded. “Yes, it is. He had the foolishness to preach the virtues of Lomallin to the Kuruite soldiers. The captain threw him in their jail and swore that the sage would forswear Lomallin and worship Ulahane, or be sacrificed to him.”

  “Manalo imprisoned?” Ohaern leaped forward, catching the man by the shoulders. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I am that you squeeze too tightly.” The lead trader frowned, trying to twist free, but Ohaern held him in a vice grip.

  “Where is this Byleo?”

  “Atop a hill where your Segway River flows into the Mashra, and a town has grown up about its walls already. Surely you have heard of Byleo!”

  “I have.” Ohaern scowled. “And what I have heard is not good.”

  The people muttered in agreement. Ominous stories were told of the soldiers at Byleo—how strangers disappeared there, but shrieks were heard coming from the fort at midnight; how no pretty girl dared be seen by one of the Kuruite soldiers; how they had taken hostages to compel several tribes of hunters to bring in every ounce of food they could find. Of course, they paid those hunters well and promised them that Ulahane would make them rich—but they were no less compelled for all that.

  Hostages—Manalo! That was why they had imprisoned him instead of killing him out of hand! But why would they then threaten to kill him for their sinister god’s pleasure?

  “When do they mean to sacrifice him?” Ohaern demanded.

  “Take your hands from me and I will tell you.”

  Shame-faced, Ohaern withdrew his hold—but there was still frantic urgency in his voice and in his face. “No wonder he did not come!”

  “Not come?” the leader asked. “Did Manalo promise to visit you again?”

  “No, but ... Never mind! My wife is dead because he came not, and that I will revenge upon these soldiers!”

  The trader looked up at Rubo in alarm. “Is the man mad? You cannot fight the soldiers of Kuru!”

  “Oh, I can fight them well enough,” Ohaern said grimly. “I may die from that fighting, but that matters little. Tell me, when do they mean to sacrifice the sage?”

  “They had not named a day when we were there,” the trader said, “and I doubt that they will do it at all, for several of the tribes who serve them love Manalo for the good he has done them. He is of far more worth to them in prison than upon the altar of Ulahane.”

  “If he is alive, he shall be free,” Ohaern said grimly, “or I shall be dead!” And he turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Alarmed, Chaluk started after him, but Rubo caught his arm and shook his head. “Let him be, Chaluk. Solitude is the medicine he must have now.”

  He was right, though not for medicine—Ohaern needed to be alone to pray to Lomallin. He took station beneath an oak, looked up into its budding branches and thought, with intense concentration, Lomallin, forgive me! I have wronged you in laying Ryl’s death upon your shoulders, I see that now! It was the servants of Ulahane who held Manalo from us! O Lomallin, give me strength, give me wisdom, give me insight! Aid me, and I shall free your sage!

  For surely, it had come time for him to show his thanks to Manalo—the sage had refused all other rewards, but Ohaern did not think he would refuse thanks for his child, thanks for saving Ryl from death in childbed. He could only repent his anger, his rashness, in doubting Lomallin when she died—but he could also haul Manalo out of that sink of depravity called Byleo!

  When Ohaern came back to the village, dusk was falling, and the travelers, done with the day’s trading, had settled down to telling the news of the wondrous cities of the south. But all fell silent when Ohaern came out from the trees—fell silent and stared at him in apprehension, feeling his grim purpose.

  He came into the center of them, stood by the fire and looked all about him, his face stone. Finally, he said, “I will go up against Byleo. I shall bring back Manalo, or die there.”

  They stared at him, riveted by his words. The traders inched away, watching him warily, thinking him mad.

  “Who will come with me?” Ohaern demanded. “Who truly feels the need to thank Manalo for his teaching?”

  “Ohaern,” Rubo said darkly, “this is—”

  “I.” Geht stepped forward. “Manalo withdrew the demon that could have burst my child’s belly!”

  “I!” Farren stepped forward. “If he had not spoken to her father, I would not be wed to Oril!”

  “I!” Toan stepped forward. “He saved my wife from the raging fever that not even Mardone’s herbs could abate!”

  One by one they stepped forward, and with each, Ohaern stood a little straighter, smiled a little more firmly, and Rubo’s misgiving seemed to lessen a little. Finally, nineteen men stood before the clan, and Ohaern’s eyes glowed, his chest expanded with pride. Rubo nodded grudgingly, and there was a gleam of pride in his eye, too. “It is well,” he judged. “Manalo has given much to this clan. I would be sad indeed if any of you did not come back—but it is our due to him.” He raised his head, a faraway look coming into his eye, and Ohaern said quickly, “No. You are the chief. What would the clan do without you? Leave it to us, Rubo. We shall come back with Manalo, or not come back at all.”

  “I cannot ask you to go if I am not willing myself!”

  “You are willing,” said Geht. “We are all witnesses to that. But you must not go, Rubo.”

  So the chief did not. Ohaern set forth from their forest village with nineteen men behind him and burning purpose in his heart.

  There was burning purpose in Lucoyo’s heart, too, as he trudged quickly down the roadway. He had recovered from the fever almost completely—enough to have made himself a bow and some arrows, to have chipped a flint head and lashed it to a pole for a spear. There was fire in his eye and fury in his heart How he knew where to go, he could not say—but know he did. It must be Ulahane at work within him, he thought, just as it was Ulahane who had brought him back to life after the spider bites.

  He came to a crossroad—to a place where five roads met. He stared at it in surprise for a moment, then grinned. Such a meeting was rare indeed, and fairly spoke of Ulin magic working within hum
an beings—and since the five roads could be the vanes of a pentagram, Ulahane’s symbol, the Ulin in question must have been the blood-god! Here, then, was the goal to which Ulahane had been leading him—but where were the people to slay?

  Coming, something within him seemed to say. Lucoyo raised his head, smiling. Of course! Ulahane had even brought him here ahead, so that he might find the best place for ambush!

  He looked around him. The roads met not far from the forest, and there were tall trees overhanging the crossroads. One was a pine, and looking up, Lucoyo could see a large branch clearly, thick where it joined the trunk, thirty feet up. From such a perch, he thought, a man might shoot down upon any who came by either of these roads—and falling from such a height, the arrows would strike even harder.

  He grinned and went to the tree. Leaping, he caught the lowest branch and pulled himself up—groaning and gasping; he certainly had not recovered his former strength! In fact, he had to rest a few minutes, sitting astride the branch and holding to the trunk to steady himself. When he felt restored, he stood carefully, then stepped up and sideways to the next branch. From this point it was easy.

  Finally, he settled down upon his chosen branch, leaning against the trunk. He slipped his bow around from his back to string it, then took an arrow from his quiver and set it against the string. Then he relaxed. Of course, Ulahane might have brought him here a day or more before his quarry came—but somehow Lucoyo didn’t think so. He settled down to wait.

  The sun was halfway down the sky when he heard the chanting. Looking up, he saw a group of men approaching from the northeast—not a very large group, he counted twenty as they came closer, and mere hunters, not even so advanced as his own ... as the people who reared me! he corrected himself angrily. But these hunters were human, and he had no doubt that if it had been they who had reared him, they would have treated him just as badly as his nomad clan. He raised his bow and pulled back the string, taking aim at the leader, a big fellow with massive shoulders and arms and a chest like a basin, if the archer was to judge by the bulk of his furs. He couldn’t miss, Lucoyo thought.

  Just as he was about to loose, though, a shout broke his concentration—a shout from the south. Lucoyo flinched, and barely managed to hold the arrow on the string. Relaxing the bow, he turned to see . ..

  A troop of soldiers who came striding toward the crossroads, wearing the scarlet kilts and bronze pectorals of Kuru, their heads protected by coiled-rope caps—protected, and warmed; other than that, they had blankets draped around their shoulders, but even from a bowshot’s distance, Lucoyo could see how thin those blankets were. Those soldiers must be cold indeed! He was surprised that the southerners had not learned to deal with this northern chill any better than that. Of course, he could see their point—those pectoral tabards would turn an arrow easily enough.

  Fortunately, their sides were unprotected under the flimsy cloth. Lucoyo raised his bow.

  The lead soldier, the one with his arms left bare so all could see his armbands of rank, shouted angrily at the hunters and motioned his men to speed up. They broke into a quick-step, leveling their spears.

  Lucoyo looked back and forth from one band to the other, delighted and confused. Which should he attack?

  Chapter 5

  Ohaern grinned—how considerate of the Kuruite soldiers to come to meet him, still two days’ march from Byleo! “Charge!” he called to his men. “If they do not give way, cut them in half!” He drew his sword, swinging it high then down, to point at the soldiers as he leaped into a run.

  The soldiers arrived first and clustered at the crossroad, a rough oval of thirty men, spears forward. “Halt!” the leader snapped. “Give way to the soldiers of Kuru!”

  “The roads are free to all!” Ohaern shouted. “Give way before us, outlander, for these forests are ours!”

  “Brave talk, from a bush-crawling barbarian!” the soldier sneered. “We are thirty to your twenty! Surrender or die, and those who survive shall be permitted to live as our slaves!”

  “No Biri warrior shall be a slave!” Ohaern roared, and in the tree above, Lucoyo suddenly knew which humans to begin slaying.

  The two forces crashed together, the Biriae with wild war cries, the Kuruites with ritualized shouts of anger. The Biriae beat the spears aside with axe and sword and cut at their owners. The Kuruites, though, proved more adept than they looked, blocking swords with the copper bands on their spear shafts, then striking down with the sharpened edges of the points. Here and there a spearhead found its mark, plunging deep or leaving a red trail behind—but there and here an axe chopped through a spear shaft and a sword plunged past into flesh. In minutes the two forces had become a churning melee of single combats.

  Above them Lucoyo swung his arrowhead back and forth, sighting along the shaft, waiting for a clear shot at a Kuruite soldier . ..

  There! A Biri fell with a red gash along his upper arm, his sword falling from nerveless fingers. The Kuruite lifted his spear high.

  Lucoyo drew and loosed. Even as he watched his arrow strike home and the soldier fall, he was pulling the next shaft from his quiver and nocking it to the string. There again! Another Kuruite soldier turned away from a fallen, bleeding Biri, looking for another foe . . .

  An arrow shaft appeared in his chest as if by magic. He shouted with pain and died. With savage elation Lucoyo nocked another arrow. Revenge had begun! None could exile him for it now—and his head was already any man’s for the taking. He could kill and kill and kill, and none could do any worse than they already had. He sighted along the shaft, aimed just to the right of another Kuruite pectoral, drew, and loosed. The feathers blossomed in the soldier’s side like a deadly flower. The soldier stared down at it, amazed, only just beginning to feel the pain when his eyes rolled up and he crumpled. Lucoyo nocked his next arrow, reveling in the slaughter, sighting on another soldier of Kuru, drawing, loosing, watching avidly as the blood welled out around his arrow, feeling like a true servant of Ulahane, then finding the next foe, and the next, and the next ...

  Suddenly, there were no more. Suddenly, the men of Kuru were all fallen, except for the half dozen who fled across the meadow as if all the wolves of all the northern forests were at their heels. They almost were, for a half-dozen Biriae charged after them, but stopped at the big leader’s call. “Enough! We needed the road clear, nothing more! We are Biriae! We do not kill for pleasure!”

  That, Lucoyo thought, is the difference between you and me, Biri.

  But the Kuruite leader looked up with dying eyes and saw his nemesis in the trees above him. He tried to shout, but it was only a croak—a croak that carried. “May you die in agony, barbarian! I lay Ulahane’s curse upon you! May Ulahane shred your flesh and grind your bones!” Then his body went loose and his eyes went dull.

  Lucoyo stared, feeling his stomach sink, feeling a raw and empty gulf of dread within him. He had chosen the wrong side! He, who thought he served Ulahane, had fought against him! And he knew, with a hollow certainty, that whatever god he worshiped in the future had better be strong enough to protect him from Ulahane.

  But perhaps he could even the score, win the scarlet god’s forgiveness! Frantically, he snatched another arrow from his quiver ...

  But the Biriae were looking up, too, pointing, finding the slender archer among the leaves and calling to one another. Silently, Lucoyo cursed his luck—so much for the thought of continuing the slaughter with the Biriae!

  “Come down, friend,” the big leader called. “We must thank you mightily for aiding us against our enemies.”

  Lucoyo hesitated. He had never heard anyone thank him before—except his mother.

  “You are our ally, and a brave man, to dare the wrath of Ulahane,” one of the other men said. “Come down, halfling.”

  Rage spurred. Lucoyo’s eyes narrowed as he bent the bow.

  “He mislikes the term,” the big leader said in astonishment.

  “I pray you, pardon me, friend!” the other
Biri said quickly. “I meant no offense.”

  “To us, the half-elfin are honored,” the leader explained, “for we worship Lomallin, and they are his allies.”

  Lucoyo stared. Could it be true? Had he chosen the wrong god after all? But Lomallin was so gentle! How could he stand against Ulahane?

  The big leader smiled, holding out a hand. “Take the risk,” he urged. “We will not even ask you to unstring your bow, or set the arrow back in your quiver. Here, we will give you room.” He waved his men back a good thirty feet from the trunk, then looked up at Lucoyo again. “If we seek to betray you, you can be back up that tree before we can reach you— but we are friends, and you will be safer with twenty allies than you would be alone, even if some of us are wounded. I am Ohaern.” He held out his hand again.

  Lucoyo wavered, looking down at the open, honest faces smiling encouragement, and felt the longing within him surge up. He quashed it sternly—but told himself that he knew a good bargain when he saw one. He relaxed the bow and said, “I am Lucoyo.”

  The hunters cheered.

  “Come down, then, Lucoyo,” Ohaern urged, “and let us take what little loot we can from these Kuruite dogs, then march on a little way and break bread together.”

  Lucoyo forced a smile—at least, he told himself it was forced—and began to drop down, branch by branch, but still holding the bow, and saying, “I like the sound of loot well enough. As to the bread, I can only gain by the bargain, for I have none.”

  “Well, ours is hard journey biscuit, but it is bread.” Ohaern held up an open palm as the half-elf landed on the ground. “Peace and alliance between us!”

  Lucoyo pressed his palm against Ohaern’s, never taking his gaze from the war chief’s eyes. “Peace,” he said slowly, “and alliance.”