The Shaman (12 page)

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!”

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.”