The Shaman Read online

  For his part, Ohaern looked around at his men, noting that they had done as he said—spread themselves out at the edge of the crowd, nearer to the long houses where the soldiers dwelled. There were nine of them, two for each of the soldiers’ houses, to strike down any who might respond to an alarm, and one to knock down any who might come stumbling out of the women’s house at the wrong moment. Ohaern nodded, feeling the tension mount. He knew that five more of his men were hidden in the maze of houses below, all within sight of the main road, all ready to come out and attack any who sought to follow him when he emerged with Manalo—if Manalo were still alive and well, pray Lomallin! There were two more of his men at the edge of the crowd near the prison, and two more opposite them; they would account for the guards. One last Biri was chatting with a stranger not far from the small, one-man gate; he would be the one man, when he had struck down its guard.

  That left Lucoyo and himself to drop any sentries who might be on duty inside the prison. Ohaern had a little mistrust of the half-elf still, but not much, and knew that Glabur would be watching from his post by the barred door, anyway.

  They were ready. He prayed for moonrise—and for clouds.

  Chapter 7

  The moon rose, a thin sickle, and though there were no clouds, it was still dark enough to hide their movements.

  “Now!” Ohaern said. “We shall take the guards at the prison door!”

  “What?” Lucoyo looked up, startled. “Do you mean to charge them?”

  “Aye.” Ohaern frowned down at him. “What else?”

  “What else? They will raise the hue and cry before you are halfway to them, that is what else!”

  “It is dark.”

  “Not dark enough to hide a hulk the size of yours! Only think—if you saw a man of your bulk charging at you with Glabur and Dalvan behind him, what would you do?”

  “You do not mention yourself,” Glabur said with a tone of menace.

  “Me?” Lucoyo spread his hands. “Slight, short me? Who would take notice of me? Who would feel threatened? Nay, you fellows creep around to the sides, so that you may pounce after they have not noticed me!” And he was up and away, walking swiftly toward the prison.

  Glabur started to shout after him, but Ohaern caught his arm. “No, let us trust him. He has done nothing to earn anything else.”

  “But if he should turn traitor now, with hundreds of Kuruite soldiers about us—”

  “If he should not, he will have us into that prison without noise. See! He changes his gait!”

  Glabur looked where Ohaern was pointing and saw the half-elf stumbling, almost staggering, toward the prison. “What stratagem has he in mind?”

  “Only a prank, like as not. Do you and Dalvan circle to the left; I will take the right.”

  Keeping low, Glabur and Dalvan went to the shadow of the wall and followed it until they were out of the guards’ line of sight. Then they dashed across a small patch of open ground into the shadow of the prison wall and crept along it to the corner.

  Ohaern, however, had no obliging wall to shield him—but a happy thought struck him, and he stood up and strode openly and boldly toward the temple. The prison guards looked up, stiffening, and so did a sentry on the wall—but they relaxed as he went to the temple portal. No one thought twice about a worshiper going to Ulahane’s temple in the middle of the night.

  But once in its shadow, Ohaern flattened himself against the wall and crept to the corner that overlooked the prison door. He arrived just in time to see Lucoyo stagger up toward the door.

  Two spears were leveled at his midriff. “Stand!” a guard snapped. “Where do you think you go?”

  “Latrine.” Lucoyo followed the statement with a loud hiccup, then explained, “Burshting.”

  “The latrines are over against the western wall, fellow!”

  “Can’ make it,” Lucoyo slurred. “Flood. Here.”

  “If you dare to think of it, I’ll see you inside that door for good and all! Then you can manage in there, where they have no latrines—or where every scrap of dirt is a latrine!”

  Lucoyo stared at them, owl-eyed, then shook his head slowly. “Dirty,” he said. “Sick.”

  “What matters illness, to those who go to Ulahane? They will not live long enough! Nay, and the few who are kept alive, awaiting judgment, deserve death anyhow—so what matters illness, indeed?”

  “ ‘Deed,” Lucoyo echoed. “You go in there?”

  “Only to serve the prisoners their slop! How dare you say that a soldier of Kuru should dwell amidst such filth!”

  “Oh ... I dunno ...” Lucoyo joined his hands, twiddling his thumbs. He seemed to have heavy going of it—they kept tripping over one another. But he rolled his eyes up, pursing his lips as he contemplated the moon, and the two guards stared at him, beginning to grin, wondering what this foolish drunk would say next.

  “The barbarian hasn’t tasted beer before,” one of them grunted to the other.

  “The first time always takes them like this,” his partner agreed.

  “Ah!” Lucoyo stabbed a forefinger upward. “Found it!”

  The guard stared. “Found what?”

  “Why Kuruite soldier might go in prizhon!”

  “Oh, have you really,” the one soldier purred, and the other demanded, “Why?”

  “ ‘Cauzh he might fall on ‘eml”

  “Fall on them?” The soldier grinned, and his mate laughed. “You talk nonsense, fellow! Why should we fall—”

  The big shadows that loomed behind them raised war clubs and struck down with dull cracks. The two guards stiffened; then their eyes rolled up and they slumped to the ground.

  “That is why,” Lucoyo hissed.

  “Well done, archer!” Ohaern’s eyes glowed with excitement. “Now! You three hold the door!”

  “Can you two wear these soldiers’ helmets and pectorals?” Lucoyo asked Glabur. “I am too slight—no one would believe it.”

  Glabur nodded. “A good thought.”

  “And I shall bring out Manalo!” Ohaern turned to the door.

  “Alone?” Lucoyo stared at him.

  “Yes, alone. The guards are out here—why should there be need for more than one? But if anyone comes near, friend Lucoyo, do you carry on more of these antics you used on these guards.”

  Lucoyo nodded. “No one will think anything of a fool entertaining a couple of bullies. But how shall you get in? There is no latchstring, nor any other means of unlocking it that I can see!”

  “Like this.” Ohaern laid hold of the handle of the prison door, set himself, and heaved. Every muscle in his body stood out; for a few seconds his form was a gigantic bow, straining against wood. Then something snapped, and Ohaern nearly stumbled as the door shot open. But he caught himself, chest heaving, and turned back to his three friends, who were staring, wide-eyed. “Close it after me, but be ready to open when I knock like this!” He struck the door in a brief, complex rhythm.

  Glabur jolted out of his daze and nodded. “We shall, Ohaern!”

  “Good. I should not be long.” Ohaern glanced down at the two prone and now naked soldiers. “Oh, and—hide the refuse.” Then the door closed behind him.

  Lucoyo jolted himself out of a daze. “Has he always been that strong?”

  “Only since he grew up,” Glabur told him.

  Lucoyo shook his head in amazement, then said, “Well, we had better do as he said. You two stay on duty, in case anyone looks this way. I’ll haul.” He laid hold of a guard’s feet and began dragging.

  Glabur glanced at Dalvan and said, “The halfling is trustworthy.”

  “So it would seem,” Dalvan replied. “I pray Ohaern has no difficulty!”

  Ohaern was having a little trouble finding his way in the dark, but the body he tripped over cursed him in his own language, and he bent down to say, “My apologies, Biri. How came you here?”

  “I got drunk,” the Biri snapped, “and they robbed me of all my trade goods. Then they claimed
I could not wander the town with no substance, so they threw me in here. They tell me I go to Ulahane tomorrow night. And you, man of my nation?”

  “I have come to free you.” Ohaern groped in the dark, and as the Biri was still whispering, “What? Free me? How can you? There is a chain, a copper chain, that holds me to the wall!” Ohaern found the links, took a firm hold, and heaved with a grant. The links parted with a sharp report, and Ohaern panted, “Now you are free!”

  There was silence a moment, then the Biri hissed, “Are you a god?”

  “Only a man, but a very strong one.” Ohaern was beginning to wonder at his own strength. “Do me a favor in return. There is a wise man here, a sage named Manalo. Has he gone to Ulahane yet?”

  “No, praise Lomallin!” the Biri said. “Come, I will bring you to him!” He pressed cold links into Ohaern’s palm and chuckled. “Hold my chain!”

  He set off with the air of a man who knows every inch of a familiar room. Ohaern stumbled along in his wake. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom now—there were only two small windows set way up high, but they did let in a little of the moon’s wan light. Tripping and stumbling over objects that cursed, Ohaern followed his guide to the far wall, which was taken up by stout wooden doors with tiny windows in them— slots, really, such as might be used for pushing through a little food. They were held closed by copper hinges and metal hasps that must have been taken out and replaced every time the door was opened—a good sign that they were opened rarely indeed.

  “What are these stalls for?” Ohaern whispered.

  “For criminals they deem especially dangerous,” the Biri answered, “ones who might kill us others, when we might better be offered to Ulahane instead.”

  “Manalo is no murderer!”

  “No, but he served the Kuruites poorly in another way—by never ceasing to preach the virtues of Lomallin as he nursed us in our illness or sought to heal our hearts.”

  “Dangerous indeed!” Ohaern said with a grin, then raised his voice a little, more by urgency than loudness. “Teacher! Sage! Manalo! Do you hear me?”

  There was a second’s silence, then the clank of chains and finally Manalo’s voice itself! “I hear you indeed, Ohaern.”

  Ohaern’s heart leaped with gladness, and he suddenly realized how deeply afraid he had been that Manalo might have been dead. “Teacher, I have come to take you out of this place!”

  Manalo’s laugh was as gentle as always. “Well done, Ohaern, and I will follow you gladly—if you can open this door and sunder my chains.”

  “The door? Is there a door?” Ohaern waved the Biri away, set one hand on the little window and the other on the handle, braced a foot against the wall and heaved. For a moment nothing happened; then a groaning sounded, and the nails in the hinges began to move. Faster and faster they came out, then sprang loose. The door jolted wide, ripping the copper hasp. Ohaern staggered backward, then tossed the door aside and called, “Teacher! Come out!”

  “I cannot,” Manalo answered simply. “There is a spell on this cell that I cannot overcome with any magic of my own— and I am bound down.”

  Ohaern mouthed an obscenity and went in. The darkness was total here, but his hands found Manalo’s body—or at least, the cold links that wound around his chest. Ohaern took hold of the chain, but Manalo said, “There are five of them, one around my shoulders, one around my elbows and stomach, a third around my wrists and hips, and a fourth around my thighs. The fifth binds my ankles and is fastened to the wall.”

  “They really do fear you!” Ohaern exclaimed. “Well, that last shall be no problem.” He bent down, groped over Manalo’s knees and shins, then found the chain. He set himself against it and pulled. The cell was silent for a moment, then the links popped. Ohaern staggered upright, saying, “It will take too long to break each of them—and they are so tight about your body that I cannot get a proper grip. They shall have to wait until we are far from the town.”

  “But how shall you take me there?” Manalo asked. “Your strength is amazing, Ohaern, but surely not—” He broke off as the darkness tilted around him and Ohaern slung him over one hip. Then, holding Manalo fast with one arm, Ohaern said, “Quickly, that is how! Come, Teacher, before we are discovered!” He strode out of the cell.

  The Biri gaped. “No human man is that strong!”

  “There was an accident at my birth,” Ohaern said impatiently. “Guide me out, friend!”

  Other men were coming awake and beginning to cry out.

  “Silence, all of you!” Ohaern hissed. “If I escape, you may follow me! Come, but be quiet, or the soldiers will charge upon you!”

  The prisoners fell silent and crawled to their feet, following him like a host of dim shadows. The Biri guided Ohaern through the near-darkness, back to the door. There, the big hunter turned to the prisoners and whispered, “Go soft-foot, and bring down the sentries at the gate! If you can be gone from the stockade before they can raise the alarm, you may live! Give them warning sooner, and you are dead men!”

  “We will be as silent as a fox stalking a wood hen,” someone promised.

  “Be so,” Ohaern said. “Do not attack the guards on this prison’s door—they are my own men.”

  “Your own men?” another prisoner asked, astonished. “What happened to the Kuruite guards!”

  “They still live—I think. Now, go quietly!” Ohaern turned away, but heard a last whisper at his back: “None can defeat a Kuruite soldier!”

  “None could” someone else answered darkly.

  They stole out of the prison, and Ohaern caught the Biri by the elbow, steering him aside. “Wait with me.” They joined Glabur and Lucoyo, and watched as the prisoners stole out into the night, several laughing maniacally but in whispers, many limping, but all burning with lust for freedom, and revenge.

  “We all feared to attack the soldiers, for they could not be beaten,” the Biri whispered, amazed.

  “They do not fear them now,” Ohaern returned. He shifted Manalo’s weight to the other hip, saying, “Forgive the indignity, Teacher.”

  “Perfectly all right,” Manalo answered in a strained voice.

  “Come!” Ohaern turned away toward the back gate. Glabur, Dalvan, and Lucoyo fell in behind him. In amazement, the Biri came, too.

  They had just reached the postern when the yelling broke out at the main gate.

  “I feared they would not contain their elation,” Ohaern said. “Come quickly!” He tore open the little gate, stooped, and led the way through.

  They stayed in the shadow of the wall, moving around toward the front of the fort—toward it, but not to it. Fifty feet away the sentries were all riveted to the mob of filthy prisoners storming the portals. The soldiers were shouting back at them in return, hurling rocks and, when a prisoner managed to climb up too high, hurling spears.

  “Will they never wrench the gate open?” Lucoyo asked, staring in horror.

  “It is open,” Manalo replied, his voice strained by Ohaern’s arm. “Those who wish freedom more than revenge have already fled. The ones who are left are those who cannot forbear the chance to strike at their tormentors.”

  “If we seek to aid, we are lost,” Ohaern said. “Come!” He turned away from the wall, running down across the slope to the shelter of the nearest house. He skidded into its shadow and leaned against the wall, chest heaving, as Glabur, Dalvan, and Lucoyo came pounding up beside him. They leaned, too, except the half-elf, who sat on his heels, panting. “Where to now ... O Chieftain?”

  “The river!” Ohaern heaved Manalo upright. “Apologies, sage, but it was necessary. Now I think we can afford you some slightly greater comfort.”

  “I have not complained,” Manalo assured him, smiling. “I am free; what more matters?”

  “Not free yet! Not free till we have put this accursed midden behind us!” Ohaern hoisted Manalo up to sit on one shoulder. “Lead, half-elf! Find us the broad way!”

  Lucoyo bristled, but realized quickly that, from Oh
aern, the term was no insult—rather, it referred to the elves’ legendary powers of sight and memory. In his case it was true—that much, at least, he had inherited from his scoundrel of a father. “Follow!” he whispered, and set off between the houses. He was going only by dead reckoning, a memory of where the broad path was. He took what seemed to be the most direct route to it, but the houses were set in such a jumble that his path was very crooked.

  Then, suddenly, a huge dog leaped out at them, barking furiously.

  Lucoyo shrank back, as much from surprise as fear. Just as he was collecting himself, Glabur stepped between them, his sword swinging down in an arc to strike the animal broadside on the head. The beast broke off in mid-bark and fell.

  Lucoyo felt frantic anxiety—dogs had been among the few good creatures in his boyhood! And this one even looked like the dogs of the plainsmen—almost half wolf. But the animal’s chest moved with breathing, and he relaxed. He would not want to be party to the murder of an innocent beast who had only been doing as he had been trained to do.

  A person, now—that would have been another matter.

  Ohaern beckoned, and Lucoyo stepped around the dog, following the big hunter with the man sitting on his shoulder. How odd Ohaern looked—and how unfathomably strong! Surely he was himself more than mortal!

  But not in his emotions—nor, Lucoyo thought privately, in his wit.

  They came to the broad path, and Ohaern stopped in the shadow of a house, nodding to Glabur, who made a hollow ball of his hands, blew between his thumbs, and made an owl’s cry that was so real it startled Lucoyo. Then Glabur looked up, waiting, expecting something. Lucoyo began to fidget; what was he waiting for? After a minute, he heard a nighthawk cry, and realized that one of the other hunters had answered.