The Shaman (14 page)

When
next he wakened, it was Manalo’s hand that rested on his forehead, then moved
to his wrist, and his face hovered beside the girl’s. “It is the poison in the
jackal’s bite,” the sage was saying.

“But
that made the others ill for only a few hours, and he has been thus for two
days!”

“He
was weakened sorely not long before he joined Ohaern’s band and had not fully
recovered. He has been pushing himself ever since, determined not to hold them
back.”

Hold
them back?
Lucoyo frowned; this man understood very little! He had hidden
his weakness out of sheer vanity, that was all! He had been determined not to
let these Biriae see that he could not keep up!

He
must have spoken aloud, for both faces looked surprised, then amused, but there
was respect in the girl’s eye, and a gleam. “That is the sort of thinking we
Biriae can understand,” she said.

“Laudable,
in its way,” Manalo allowed, “but borrowed strength must be paid back, soon or
late. Rest, archer.” He touched two fingertips lightly to Lucoyo’s eyes, and
sleep reclaimed him.

When
he woke next, he was astounded to find he was fairly clear-headed. He was in a
type of enclosure, with a very little light filtering through some sort of
woven wall. He forced himself up on one elbow, saw there was no one around him,
and pushed himself out of bed. He staggered up to his knees— and fell.

The
wall of branches burst apart, and the girl came running in. She hauled Lucoyo
up, sitting on her heels and dragging his upper body onto her thighs, then
levering him over to the pallet from which he had risen, saying angrily, “Cannot
a girl leave you alone at all, but you must try to be up to wear yourself to
death? Lie still, half-elf—your eldritch blood may give you more strength than
a mortal, but even that is spent.”

Half-elf
again! The surge of anger lent Lucoyo energy before he remembered that here the
term was not an insult. He used it to ask, “What does it matter to you? I am a
stranger, not even one of your own kind!”

“Kind
enough,” she answered. “You saved my life in the battle, and I yours, I think.
That is bond enough for me to care quite strongly. Let us be strangers no more.
I am called Elluaera.”

“I
am Lucoyo.” Lucoyo had to work to show the smile he felt. “You do well to care for
me, for if I were to die, I would not be there to guard your back when other
monsters come.”

She
smiled, the wicked gleam in her eye again. “Or for me to strike a blow to save.
Rest, half-elf—regain your strength, for if you seek to know me better, you
shall need it.”

She
turned away, for which Lucoyo was inordinately glad—he was sure he was staring
like a fish. Had she hinted at what he thought she had hinted? Not at bedding,
no, nor even caressing, but at keeping in her company enough to interest her in
the idea! A woman, attracted to
him!

But
now that he thought about it, she was shorter than most of her kind, perhaps
not much taller than himself ...

He
had time to compose his face before she turned back, holding a bowl of soup. “Eat,
outlander.”

“Outlander,
forsooth!” he snapped. “We are all outlanders, so near to By—” He broke into
coughing, for she had thrust the spoon into his mouth between words and held it
hovering in front of his face, smiling with glee.

“Eat
first, outlander—all right,
fellow
outlander! Regain your strength with
something besides crossness.
Then
we shall talk.”

The
invitation thrilled Lucoyo, even through his weakness. He subsided and drank
the broth she fed him, hoping the bowl would not empty soon. As he drank,
though, he marveled at the resilience of these Biriae—or perhaps it was only at
the resilience of this one woman. To fight and lose to a horde of half-canine
bandits, then flee and fight again, and only hours later be able to smile, and
hint at wishing courtship! Most amazing indeed!

Some
of that resilience was Elluaera’s, but if Lucoyo had been awake the hour after
the battle, he would have been almost as much amazed at her tribesmen’s ability
to rebound as at her own. When the wounded Biriae had been tended, the wounded
Klaja dispatched, and the three dead Biriae buried, Ohaern turned to the oldest
of the fugitives and said, “Now, Cordran! How did it transpire that you and
three score of my countrymen came fleeing so far from home?”

The
light of triumph faded from the weathered old face, and Cordran said, “Home is
no more. Sit, Ohaern—sit, all of you! For it is not a pretty tale that I must
tell!”

It
had begun like any day in the life of the hunters—women out seeking nuts and
berries, a few men coming in from the hunt with a dead boar slung on a pole,
small children playing in the dust and larger ones howling through the wood as
the trackers found the tracked and threw themselves into a mock battle.

Then
they were drowned out by another sort of howling altogether. A horde of furry
bodies burst from the trees, brandishing spears, canine teeth dripping in long,
pointed muzzles. The children’s cries from the forest broke into shrieks, and the
attackers tore apart the first few women and elders. But the extra time spent
in wanton cruelty cost some of them their lives; the hunters turned from the
carcass of the boar with their own spears stabbing, and some Klaja howled as
flint blades transfixed their chests. Others only gurgled as the spearheads
found their throats.

Then
their pack-mates surrounded the hunters and stabbed from all sides, drawing
back bloody spears as more and more Klaja poured out of the wood.

But
the villagers set up an ululation of their own, high and vibrant, as they drew
the new iron swords Ohaern had forged for them, cut through the Klaja spear
shafts and sliced through fur as Cordran bellowed, “To me! Women and children
inside! Form the circle!”

The
circle was the shape sacred to Lomallin, and now it proved its strength.
Warriors herded women and children into the center and took up posts about
them, parrying and slashing, each easily a match for his half-furred opponent,
each slaying and slaying as iron sword bested bronze spearheads and wooden
shafts. But for each Klaja that died or fell wounded, two more sprang up in its
place.

Suddenly,
Biriae warriors burst from the forest, bolting quickly back from the hunt, and
fell on the rear of the Klaja clustered around the villagers. They did not roar
their battle cry until their swords had bitten deep; then they cried indeed,
loud and hard. The Klaja screamed with fright, bounding away— and old Cordran
shouted, “To the trees!”

The
Biriae circle began to back away toward the trunks. Emboldened by the sight of
retreat, the Klaja surged back with renewed vigor, howling for blood—then
falling back and choking on it, choking on their own.

“Surround
them! Engulf them! Do not let them escape!” thundered a huge voice, and a human
shape lumbered from the wood—human, but ten feet tall and three feet wide, its
face handsome, but with a brutish gleam to its eyes. It wore a tore—a collar of
metal about its throat—and the draped cloth, bare legs, and sandals of the
south. There was a sigil in his tore, an emblem of inlaid stone—a stylized
jackal’s head—and the sigil also gleamed in the band about his curly hair, hair
as red as blood. “Slay them!” he bellowed. “Blood for Ulahane!”

He
drove the Klaja nearest him with blows of a huge whip, and they howled in
fright and turned upon the humans in their rage. The circle backed closer and
closer to the trees, gathering stray villagers as it went—chanting praises to
Lomallin as the warriors’ arms grew heavy.

Suddenly,
the Klaja found that only a few of them could come at the circle at any
time—and those few died, and those who came after them died, again and again.
What they did not see was the groups of Biriae, five at a time, who were
sprinting from the circle to the shelter of the huge evergreens and climbing
into their branches, nor the women who wore swords across their backs and
perched on lower branches, watching, waiting ...

Then
Cordran barked, and suddenly the circle burst apart, the warriors leaping back
into thickets and dodging behind trunks. Amazed, the Klaja stood for minutes
staring, for now there were no more Biriae to be seen.

Then
the giant roared in anger and waded in among the trees, showering the Klaja
with blows. He could not bring his whip into play among the trunks, so he
struck with a huge fist, and the Klaja dodged out of his way, but the slower
ones slammed back against bark and slid to the ground, crushed. The others
turned, noses to the ground, and began to sniff.

In
a while they had all joined together on one common trail, and were off to
follow it. The giant caught a dozen of them, slapped them back toward the
village and barked commands in a language the Biriae could not understand. The
Klaja ran from him, ran to obey him, back to the village—and within minutes the
houses burst into flame. Then there were a few more human shrieks, but only a
few, before the only sounds were of fire and wind.

The
pursuing Klaja passed out of sight toward the south. Then the trees rained
Biriae, who landed lightly and fled, off to the east.

But
the clan had been split apart, and Ohaern’s infant son was not in this band.

Now,
two days later, Ohaern had mastered anger and grief enough to ask, “Who laid
the false trail?”

“Borin,”
Cordran answered. “What befell him and the men who went with him, we cannot
tell—but be sure the trail faded after a league or so, and the Klaja floundered
in frustrated rage.”

“So
Borin and his men are likely well, but just as much wanderers upon the earth as
you are,” Ohaern summarized.

“More,”
said Cordran, “for they were only a handful, and we are a hundred. But the
village is lost to us, and a quarter of the clan with it.”

“This
must call up a strong revenge,” Ohaern said darkly.

Manalo
raised a cautioning hand. “He who thinks of revenge, Ohaern, blinds himself to tomorrow.
Let yesterday be as if it had never been; think only of how you and your
clan-mates may survive to see another sunset, then another and another.”

“Is
there to be no justice?” Ohaern demanded.

“There
will be,” Manalo assured him, “though it may be long in coming. In any case, if
you wait to see it, you will waste your life.”

Cordran
spoke from anger then. “Is Lomallin so much weaker than Ulahane that he cannot
give justice?”

“The
Creator’s power is stronger in Lomallin than in Ulahane,” Manalo answered, “and
by itself will act as a wall, witholding Ulahane’s malice from humankind. But
human wickedness and perversity can breach that wall and give Ulahane a way in,
to harass people and make them suffer. Then humankind can magnify Ulahane’s
power, so that his strength is balanced against Lomallin’s—and human beings
must determine the balance according to where they throw their weight.”

“Fair
words,” Cordran scoffed, “but where was the human wickedness that breached the
wall of virtue that guarded our village?”

“Far
away from you,” Manalo told him, “far to the south and the east, where nomad
tribes with too many children became greedy for their neighbors’ lands and the
crops of the farmers, and offered maidens in sacrifice to Ulahane. From those
poor girls, and the jackals who follow corrupted meats, he wove these depraved
beings and sent them against you.”

“Then
the fault was not ours! Why therefore are we punished?”

“You
are not punished, you are assaulted. Cleave to Lomallin and bring as many other
human folk with you as you can, and Lomallin will gain strength to prevail
against Ulahane.”

“But
how can he,” Ohaern demanded, “if the Ulin are equal to one another in
strength?”

“By
dying,” Manalo said, “and ask me no more than that, for I do not understand it.
An Ulin bard, inspired by the Creator, spoke that prophecy in a trance, and all
the Ulin have shuddered to hear it—for how can one gain strength by dying?”

“Surely
you must have gained
some
notion,” Glabur protested.

Manalo
shrugged. “Only a guess—and I have told it to you. If enough mortal beings put
their trust in Lomallin, no matter how badly he fares against Ulahane, the
strength of their faith will magnify his spirit even after death—and having
died once, he can die no more, and will be invulnerable to Ulahane’s assaults.”

“So,”
Ohaern said, frowning, “Ulahane dares not slay Lomallin, for fear he will
become greater in death.”

“You
are quick to perceive,” Manalo told him, eyes glowing with pride, “and yes,
that is so—though if he thinks he has turned all but a handful of human folk
against Lomallin, I think Ulahane will risk the fight.”

“But
how if it is
not
human belief that will strengthen Lomallin?”

“Then,”
Manalo said softly, “Ulahane will have a very nasty surprise.”

“Surely
Lomallin dares not slay Ulahane,” Cordran objected, “for if one Ulin will gain
strength by dying, will not another?”

“Oh,
no,” Manalo said, very quietly. “Lomallin would quite willingly die if it would
rid the world of Ulahane.”

“But
how if it did not? How if Ulahane gained strength after
his
death?”

“The
prophecy spoke not of that,” Manalo told him.

Ohaern
frowned. “Strange that Lomallin should gain strength after death, when Ulahane
will not.”

“Perhaps,”
Manalo said, “or perhaps it is only that Lomallin seeks union with the Creator,
while Ulahane seeks to overthrow Him.”

The
Biriae were silent, appalled at the audacity and arrogance the statement
implied. Then, finally, a woman gasped, “Surely he dare not!”

“Ulahane
dares anything,” Manalo told them, “and right and wrong have nothing to do with
it, nor even wisdom and folly Therein lies his eventual doom.”