The Shaman Read online

  They went out onto the path, though surely there must be some grander name for a stretch of packed earth thirty feet wide. Glabur made another owl’s cry, and this time it was answered immediately by another owl off to their left, then a minute later on the right by some other night bird, one Lucoyo did not know. So they went on down the path, with Dalvan and Glabur taking turns making birdcalls, until the other two Biriae had answered.

  “Where are ... the nine who ... watched the soldiers’ ... houses?” Lucoyo asked, panting as he ran.

  “Following,” Ohaern answered. “More slowly. Between ... the houses.”

  Suddenly, a half-dozen soldiers rounded a corner ahead of them.

  Glabur halted, but Lucoyo pushed him back into a run. “Keep going! They may think we are on a lawful errand!”

  Glabur stared in surprise, then grinned, even as he lumbered back into movement.

  But the soldiers did not come to that conclusion—they saw running men, heard shouting and the clash of arms from the citadel behind them, and came to the sensible conclusion. They shouted and charged.

  “Do we fight, chief?” Dalvan asked, grinning as he hefted his axe.

  “We fight!” Ohaern drew his sword.

  There was no room for a bow. Lucoyo, heart in his throat, drew one of his new long knives.

  Then the soldiers were on them, shouting and jabbing their spears. Glabur chopped through a shaft, but another spear scored his left arm. Dalvan drew his dagger with his left hand, using it to deflect a spear, then seizing it with his right and wrestling it out of the soldier’s grasp. Blows rang on Manalo’s chains but glanced off; Ohaern thrust and cut fiercely, knocking spears away, chopping through shafts—but three streaks of crimson adorned his chest and arms. Lucoyo ducked as a spear thrust over his head, then he came up right next to the soldier, jabbing with his dagger. The soldier twisted aside and cursed as the knife scored his ribs, then dropped the spear and wrapped his hands around Lucoyo’s throat, squeezing. Lucoyo felt panic rise as the pain choked off air, but brought the knife around to stab at the soldier’s side. Then another soldier shouted, and a spear shaft cracked down on Lucoyo’s hand. Agony shot through his fingers, and the knife clattered to the ground. The soldier’s face, the whole street, seemed to darken, and sparks of light shot through it as his lungs clamored for air, his face growing hot with pent-up blood—

  Something struck the soldier’s forehead; redness welled up, and the soldier slumped, his hands loosening. He fell, revealing one of the Biriae who had been guarding the soldiers’ houses. The rest of the nine seemed to rise up behind the Kuruites, axes and swords chopping down. The soldiers fell, senseless, some pumping blood.

  “Glabur! Dalvan! Lucoyo!” Ohaern looked about frantically, reassuring himself that his men were still alive. He found Lucoyo last and sprang to him. “Are you well, halfling?” Amazingly, he sounded afraid.

  Lucoyo nodded, too busy letting the breath rattle in down his throat—then tried to answer, but all that came was rasping.

  “He lives,” Manalo said from his perch on Ohaern’s shoulder. “He will be well.”

  “Praise Lomallin for that!” Ohaern looked about. “You grow too heavy, Teacher, and I fear for you if there is another such brawl.” He set Manalo down. “Here—let us take these chains from you now!” He grasped the top links, his hands on either side of the rivets, and pulled. Again, for a second, he seemed to be frozen, muscles standing out in huge curves; then with a sudden spang! the rivets popped out and went flying away. Breathing hard, Ohaern broke the second chain, then the third, then the fourth. At last there were only the shackles on Manalo’s wrists left. “I hesitate to part that one, for fear of hurting your hands,” Ohaern said. “Come, kneel and set the chain on the ground. Glabur, your axe!”

  Chapter 8

  Manalo knelt, holding his hands far out in front of him, the chain stretched taut between them, without the slightest sign of fear. Ohaern stood facing him, swinging the axe above his head. He took careful aim, holding the axe in one hand, then brought it sweeping down. It cracked into the copper and sliced it cleanly through. Manalo breathed a shaky breath and held up his hands. “I shall wear bracelets till we have come to your camp, Ohaern. Now quickly, let us go!”

  “To the river!” Ohaern set off trotting, and the Biriae followed him, all twenty of them alive and functioning. It seemed a miracle to Lucoyo—but perhaps these Biriae were better fighters than he had thought. Not that he had thought badly of them—but the soldiers of Kuru had a reputation that was ferocious indeed. That, at least, seemed to have been inflated like a blown bladder—either the Biriae were excellent fighters, or the Kuruites were nowhere nearly as good as rumor had them.

  Or, a voice whispered inside him, you had the protection of a god.

  But so had the Kuruites, had they not? They worshiped Ulahane, after all. Was Lomallin stronger than the God of Blood?

  He decided to worry about it later—right now, he needed to devote his mind to staying alive. After Glabur and Dalvan he went, and was surprised to see that Manalo was not only keeping up—he was even keeping pace beside Ohaern to say, “I can run faster.”

  The chief only grunted, but picked up the pace; down the road they ran, the gleam of the river coming closer, closer . ..

  With a roar, a monster erupted from the water, some sort of huge lizard, fifty feet long, with a crested head and as many fins as legs, with a twenty-foot tail that ended in huge flukes and jaws five feet long by three feet wide.

  “A dipsosos!” Manalo skidded to a halt, throwing his arms out to stop the tribesmen. “One of Ulahane’s unnatural creatures! Beware—it spits poison!”

  Ohaern glanced back at the hilltop and saw a troop of soldiers erupting from the gate. “We cannot go back! Surround it, men! Some must die, that others may live!”

  The Biriae paled, but they spread out around the monster, swords and axes in hand. Manalo held his ground, hands out in a fan, chanting in a language they did not know. Lucoyo strung his bow, nocked an arrow, and stood directly in front of the dipsosos, waiting for a clear shot, hoping for it to open its mouth.

  So, of course, it was at him that the monster rushed. Its mouth gaped wide—and Lucoyo loosed his shaft, then leaped aside just before a gout of dark liquid struck the ground where his feet had been. The earth smoked, then boiled, and Lucoyo turned pale, so riveted that he did not see the huge tail swinging around. It struck him behind the knees, and he fell with a shout. He landed rolling, rolling up to his feet, but his knees wouldn’t hold; they gave way, and down he fell again—just as the huge tail swished back, sizzling through the air above his head.

  Then Ohaern’s hand caught his arm, Ohaern hauled him bodily to his feet, Ohaern held him up with one hand while he brandished the axe against a monster that turned away from a torn and sectioned body, blood dripping from its jaws, to lunge at the chieftain ...

  ... and froze in mid-movement.

  Ohaern and Lucoyo stared; so did all the Biriae. Then, as one, they looked up at Manalo, whose fingers writhed as he brought his hands up from his hips to his shoulders in a slow, graceful arc—and as they watched, the dipsosos began to fall apart, right before their eyes.

  First it began to shake, faster and faster. Then scales fell off, then bits of flesh—but there was no blood, for the whole body seemed to have solidified, like mud under the heat of the sun. Like mud indeed, for its shreds crumbled to flakes even as they fell to the ground—and in minutes there was nothing left of the monster but a pile of dust.

  Ohaern drew a long, shuddering breath. “Teacher,” he said, “you know magic other than healing!”

  “There is seldom need for it,” Manalo answered. “Go, Ohaern! You must run, for the soldiers rush down upon you!”

  Ohaern looked up, startled—he had completely forgotten the Kuruites, but sure enough, here they came, halfway down the hill and howling like wolves. “Come!” the chief snapped. “Along the riverbank, till we find a place for crossing!”r />
  They turned to go, but Glabur lingered by the torn and bloody remains. “Alnaheg ...”

  “We cannot take his remains home for burial—there is no time! We shall have to gather the tribes and come back to raze this pesthole in his honor! Come, or you shall join him!”

  Ohaern started up the riverbank, and Glabur reluctantly turned away to join him. Lucoyo felt an odd sadness tug at his heart, odd because he had scarcely known the man—but he consoled himself with the thought that if they only lost one, they would have come out of this very well.

  Still, he wondered that he should feel any grief at all.

  He followed the chieftain down the path by the water, feeling the strength ebbing from his limbs, feeling his injuries flame up, but not daring to slow—especially since, ahead of him, Manalo kept pace with Ohaern without effort and, Lucoyo thought, Manalo was twice his own age at least!

  “Here!” Manalo seized Ohaern’s arm, skidding to a halt. “The water grows shallow, no deeper than your chest at its worst!”

  “We can swim more quickly!” Glabur made as if to dive, but Ohaern checked him with an outstretched hand. “Teacher—the dipsosos! Had it any cousins? And would they not wish revenge?”

  “They might,” Manalo agreed, “but I shall distract them with a spell, and they shall not notice you.”

  Ohaern frowned. “How shall you do that while you are swimming?”

  “I shall wade,” Manalo said simply. “I have told you it will not come above your chest.”

  “My chest, and your shoulders! Besides which, with those manacles still on your wrists, you cannot gesture long without wearying!”

  “Long enough,” Manalo assured him.

  “I trust your honesty, Teacher, but not your limbs.” With a sudden heave, Ohaern hoisted Manalo up on his back and waded into the water.

  “Ohaern! This is not necessary! I can walk, I can—”

  “You can keep the monsters away! Enchant, Teacher, and I shall wade for both of us!” Ohaern stepped down, and the water rose to his knees.

  Manalo knew when to give over. He began to make passes in the air, chanting in a strange, singsong rhythm.

  Behind them, the Kuruite soldiers raised a shout as they came into view. As one, the Biriae threw themselves into the river. They were halfway across by the time the Kuruites came close enough to cast their spears. Shafts cut the water to left and right, but the Biriae swam with an eye back toward the bank, and twisted aside ere the points landed. Each soldier bore three spears; each threw them all. Here and there trails of blood stained the water, but only one Biri sank, then rolled up again with a spear through him. Dalvan seized his arm and towed, oblivious to what the blood might bring—after all, there was flow enough from his own chest. Manalo saw, and his chant grew louder, more commanding. A Kuruite soldier howled a curse, and a last spear shot toward the sage, now only above the water from his belly up as Ohaern labored beneath him. Manalo snapped out a word, and the spear suddenly veered aside, sailing over Lucoyo’s head to splash into the water beyond the Biriae. Something roared in pain, making the whole river shake, and a mighty form surged out of the waves, then threw itself toward the Kuruite soldiers. They howled in alarm and ran.

  “Well-aimed ... Teacher!” Ohaern gasped.

  “A fortunate coincidence,” Manalo assured him. “I should bear my own weight, Ohaern, ere you founder!”

  “Only five yards ... more!” the chief gasped.

  Lucoyo was overwhelmingly glad to hear it. His legs were leaden, his whole body ached, and each arm seemed to weigh as much as the dipsosos; he could scarcely lever it out of the water and throw it ahead to propel him another foot. Then, suddenly, he saw Ohaern’s form rise up before him, wading higher and higher, till the water was only at his waist. With a glad cry, Lucoyo swung his feet down—and felt the mud slide out from beneath them. He toppled face first into the water.

  He floundered in desperation, trying to thrust his head into air again, but his weary arms seemed no longer to answer his commands. Panic was just beginning to seize him when a huge hand closed upon the back of his jerkin and hauled him upright. “I have ... lost two men ... already tonight,” Ohaern panted. “I ... do not wish ... to lose you .. . too.”

  Ohaern scarcely had enough breath left to protest as Manalo hopped down off his shoulder and waded the rest of the way ashore. Ohaern followed, hauling Lucoyo and himself up onto the bank, where he dropped the smaller man and stood panting, chest heaving. Lucoyo simply flopped down onto the grass and lay gasping like a beached fish. All along the bank the other Biriae hauled themselves out and threw themselves down on the grass, limp with relief, drawing huge lungfuls of air.

  “Do not rest too long,” Manalo cautioned. “They have barges—huge flatboats that can carry both horses and men. They shall cross, and they shall pursue you with small carts pulled by their horses!”

  Ohaern frowned, still panting. “What is a ... cart?”

  “It is a sort of half pot on wheels, big enough to hold a man.”

  “Like a ... travois ... I think he ... means.” Lucoyo levered himself up on his elbows.

  “What is a ‘travois’?”

  Lucoyo started to explain, then said, “Never mind. It will be just as quick for him to tell us what a ‘wheel’ is.”

  “Think of a log,” Manalo said. “Now think of cutting off a slice of it, as you would cut a slice off a roast.”

  Ohaern still frowned. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “Because the log rolls,” Manalo answered, “and if you put a heavy load on top of two logs, you can move it easily as the logs roll.”

  “Interesting,” Ohaern allowed, “but it will roll off the log.”

  Manalo nodded. “So they take two log slices, fasten them to each end of a pole in such a way that they can turn freely, then fasten the pole to the bottom of a huge basket—and the basket will not roll off the pole, but will roll along with it.”

  “What an ingenious idea!” Ohaern’s eye lit with delight.

  “Is it not? And the Kuruites have such things—they call them ‘carts,’ and when they are drawn by horses, they can go much faster than a man can run.”

  “And they will catch us with them, as soon as they can bring them to this side of the river!” Ohaern turned to his Biriae. “Up, men of mine! We must flee while we can, and find a place to hide that the Kuruites cannot discover!”

  Groaning, the men came to their feet, complaining but mobile. Two of them lashed a cloak to two spears and slung their companion’s body between them, then set off after Ohaern.

  Lucoyo marched next to Glabur. “Why did you not use your spears on the soldiers?”

  “Swords and axes are for men,” Glabur answered. “Spears are for animals.”

  “As I said—why did you not use them on the Kuruites?”

  Glabur stared at him, then guffawed and gave him a slap on the back that sent him stumbling. “Well asked, Lucoyo, well asked! I shall have to remember that as a riddle, as a famous riddle! Oh, well asked!”

  Lucoyo reflected wryly that it was nice to be appreciated, but these Biriae took it to an extreme. One would think they had never heard jests before, that he himself had invented humor.

  Well, perhaps he had—for them.

  Since they had crossed back to the western shore, it wasn’t long before they found themselves back in forest country. By morning they were among stout old oaks, and there was still no sign of the Kuruites. The Biriae were weary, but nonetheless stood a bit straighter, walked a bit more firmly, looked with a brighter eye, for being back in their natural environment. Lucoyo, on the other hand, was edgy and apprehensive. He felt as if the trees were closing in on him, as if the very air were thick in his nose and throat.

  Ohaern stopped by a tangle of bushes and brambles among some oak trees. “Here,” he said, and his men set to, some cutting at the underbrush, some gathering more to heap upon it. Lucoyo watched them, wondering if they were mad, wondering what they hoped
to accomplish.

  “Now! Your bracelets!”

  Lucoyo turned to see Ohaern setting Manalo’s wrist atop a big rock, though not so big that the two did not have to kneel. Then Ohaern took a small, dull gray tool from his pouch and a war club from his belt. He set the beveled edge of the tool against the top of Manalo’s cuff. “Your pardon in advance, Teacher, if I cut your flesh.”

  “You are pardoned, Ohaern—but I do not think you will need it; I trust your skill as a smith. It is a matter of pride for the teacher when the student surpasses him. Still, I would ask you to cut at the side of the wrist, so that if you do slip, you will not sever one of the great veins.”

  “Done,” Ohaern grunted, and reset the tool, then raised the war club only as high as his shoulder, lowered it to rest briefly against the end of the chisel, then swung it up to his shoulder again, hard and fast, and struck down harder, all with only a snap of the wrist.

  The copper parted with a sizzling sound, and Manalo sighed with relief as Ohaern peeled the metal off the sage’s flesh. “Do not look for blood, Ohaern—there is none, not even a scratch, or I would have felt it.”

  “Not always.” The smith still sounded anxious.

  Manalo held up his wrist, displaying smooth, unmarked skin. “You struck well and truly, Ohaern.” He set his other hand down on the rock. “Do so again.”

  Glabur came up just as the second manacle came off. “It is done and ready, Ohaern.”

  Ohaern looked up at the thicket and nodded. Lucoyo couldn’t discover what he was so pleased about—the thicket looked just as it had, except that there was more greenery atop it, woven into its sides, and heaped along the bottom of its roots.

  “The plainsman sees nothing,” Glabur said with a grin. “Let us hope that the city men see nothing, too. Come, archer—look upon our handiwork.”

  Frowning, Lucoyo followed the hunter. Kneeling down, Glabur pulled aside a bush—and Lucoyo saw a leafy tunnel with open space beyond it. “Enter,” Glabur invited.