The Shaman (29 page)

“But
I might steal a kiss.” Lucoyo turned his face up to her, and the kiss was long
and lingering.

Ohaern
reddened and directed a question at the other woman. “How does this town punish
theft?”

She
frowned at his tone, but answered, “By cutting off the hand that did the
stealing.”

“Ah!
Then you must need cut off my tongue!” Lucoyo turned his face to her.

“I
would never dream of it,” she said huskily, “for it brings me too much
pleasure.” But the way she kissed him, and moved her body as she did, made it
clear to Ohaern that she was more concerned with inflaming him himself, not
Lucoyo or any other passerby.

There
was no point in this badinage—at least, not for Ohaern. As the woman broke the
kiss, he reached down and yanked the half-elf to his feet. “Come! We have much
to do!”

Lucoyo
frowned, shaking himself free. “What is your hurry?” Then he glanced at the
girls. “Though I must admit I see some urgency in finding more trade goods,
too.” He picked up his quiver and bowcase and slung them across his back again.
“Farewell, girls! Remember me to your ‘sisters’!”

“Would
you leave us so soon, then?” one of them asked, pouting.

“Only
so that I may return to you sooner!” Lucoyo leaned over for one last kiss to
each, and each gave him a last giggle and wriggle. He caught his breath, more
for effect than from any real longing, then turned away with a wave.

Ohaern
stalked beside him, throttling the desire to ask how he could so quickly have
forgotten his Biri love. Instead he asked, “How old are those two?”

“The
one is seventeen,” Lucoyo answered, “the other twenty.”

Ohaern
walked beside him in numbed silence. Beneath the paint, both women had looked
to be in their thirties. How hard a life did they live?

As
they came out of the Street of Lantern Houses, Lucoyo veered into a shop as if
he had known where to find it on the instant. Ohaern followed and, looking
around, saw many small tables with groups of people sitting at them, drinking
from fat pottery cups. Several were also eating, and the aroma reminded him how
long it had been since he had tasted food.

“Mid-afternoon,
and time enough for dinner.” Lucoyo sat at a table near the wall. “I have drunk
freely, but eaten little.”

“And
how shall we persuade them to give us food?” Ohaern asked, sitting across from
him.

Lucoyo
drew out a silver bead. “I lied to their mistress—I had a few beads left.”

A
passing woman, bearing a tray, saw the gleam of silver and veered to the
half-elf. “Would you trade that for food and beer?”

“I
would,” Lucoyo said, “though I would expect some copper beads with the
platters. Two of each, if you will.”

The
woman nodded and turned away, threading her way between the tables toward a
doorway in the wall. Lucoyo followed her with his eyes. “Underneath the sweat
and grease and disheveled hair, she is pretty enough.”

“Can
you think of nothing else?” Ohaern said impatiently.

Lucoyo
started to answer, but the whole room froze at the sound of a shout from the
doorway. “There!” They looked up and saw five soldiers marching in behind an
old man who pointed at their table. Lucoyo paled and reached for his long
knife—but Ohaern stopped him with a hand on the pommel. “No fear—it is the
priest of Ranol.”

“Priest?”
Lucoyo swung about to stare at him. “A whole morning in a city where every
pleasure you can imagine is at your beck and call, and you spent it in a
temple?”

Noril
and the soldiers filed through to their table, and the patrons leaped back
promptly, pulling their tables clear. As they came up, Ohaern rose, nodding to
Noril. “I greet you, Sage.”

“And
I greet you, Ohaern.” Noril returned the nod. “These men with me are the king’s
soldiers, come to invite you to his royal hall.”

“Under
the circumstances, I can scarcely refuse,” Ohaern replied, with a quirk of
humor to his lips. Lucoyo stared at him as if he were insane, but he went on. “May
I ask why the king finds us worthy of his interest?”

“You
are late come from the north,” Noril explained, “and the king has this day had
disturbing news from that quarter.”

Lucoyo
swiveled to turn the alarmed stare on the priest.

Ohaern
nodded, guessing the nature of the alarming news. “We will come, and gladly.
Will we not?” he asked Lucoyo sternly. “Or would you not be a guest of the
king?”

Lucoyo
stared at him, as much surprised at Ohaern giving a double meaning as at the
thought itself. The big barbarian had a point—if he kept on stealing, he was
likely to be the guest of the king in any event. “Why not opt for the better
chamber?” he said, affecting a breezy manner. “Let us go!”

They
followed the soldiers out the door. Behind them the room broke into a hubbub of
wild speculation.

“I
can guess how you found me,” Ohaern said to Noril as the soldiers formed a knot
about them, “but how did you learn of the news?”

“The
king sent word to all the chief priests of all the temples, asking if their
gods had told them anything about the danger,” Noril said, “and I thought that
perhaps you might know something of it.”

“Is
the danger a vast troop of men with light-wheeled carts drawn by horses, on
their way south?”

Noril
stared at him. “Then you do know something of them!”

“That
is why we have come to Cashalo,” Ohaern said, “to warn you against them—but I
did not know how to do it.”

“The
king’s scouts have done that for you,” Noril told him, “and the barbarians are
still several days away, if they travel no faster than they did when the king’s
spy saw them as he came south.”

“Then
there is time to do
something,
at least.” Ohaern nodded. “What does the
king intend?”

Noril
replied slowly. “I think that is what he means to ask
you.”

The
king was a tall man, almost as tall as Ohaern, and built as heavily—but he wore
royal robes instead of a fur kilt, and had the beginnings of a potbelly. “You
are a chieftain, then,” he said as he pressed hands with Ohaern. Lucoyo had
made certain the monarch knew that.

“I
am,” Ohaern replied, “and I am gratified that you know our language, O King!”

“You
are gracious.” Perhaps because Ohaern was a chief, the king spoke to him as to
an equal. “Our traders deal frequently with the tribes of the Biriae, and I
strive to know the tongues of all the nations with whom we trade—though I know
my accent must be as heavy as sand.”

“You
are better than me in that,” Ohaern returned, “since I speak your language not
at all—though I think my companion may have learned a word or two.”

Lucoyo
reddened and cleared his throat, looking away.

“But
those are not words to be spoken in a king’s presence?” The monarch smiled. “Never
fear, my friend—I know them all.” Then he frowned, looking at the half-elf more
closely. “Are you truly a Biri?”

“Only
by adoption,” Lucoyo said, “but I, too, have seen the Vanyar.”

“Vanyar,
yes, that is how they are called.” The king turned back to Ohaern. “How closely
have you seen them?”

“We
have fought them,” Ohaern replied. “They are tough and hard, and take a great
deal of beating.”

“Alas,
then!” The king turned away, wringing his hands in agitation. “My scout said
they covered the plain as far as he could see! Surely they must outnumber my
poor army a hundred to one! How shall we stand against them?”

“In
the first place,” Ohaern said slowly, “they travel as a tribe, not as a war
group only—so perhaps a quarter of those you saw were warriors.”

“Only
a quarter? Much better, much! They shall only outnumber my men twenty-five to
one!” The king shook his head. “Not enough, my friend, not enough! How shall we
stand? Or should we surrender?”

Lucoyo
spoke up. “If you surrender, they shall rape all your women, enslave those of
your children they do not kill, and slay all your old folk along with most of
your warriors—or men who are of an age to be warriors. Those they let survive,
they shall castrate and lame.” He shook his head. “It may come to the same in
the end—but I would fight.”

“Indeed,”
said Ohaern, “if it will come to the same in the end, why
not
fight?”

“Well
thought—and well said.” The king nodded, frowning. “What else can you tell me
of them that will help us to beat them back?”

“They
serve Ulahane,” Ohaern said slowly, “so you must set a close watch on the
temple of the Scarlet One, and on as many of his worshipers as you know of.”

“You
do not think they would fight against their own city!”

“Oh,
surely not!” Lucoyo smiled. “But why chance it?”

“True.”
The king nodded heavily. “What else?”

“We
have heard the Vanyar boast of villages being easy meat,” Ohaern said, “because
they have no walls.”

“Yes,”
Lucoyo said, “they say they can ride their ‘chariots’ right into the center of
the village, slaying as they go.”

“Then
we must build a wall!” The king frowned. “But how, in only a few days?”

“Every
man must work,” Ohaern told him—and, with the surety of a tribal chieftain, “and
every man must fight. You have a great strength that you know not of, O
King—for every able-bodied man in your city can become a warrior at need, and
every woman can make arrows for them.”

Lucoyo
nodded. “Let them work at the wall for two hours at a time, then send them to
me for a rest—and I will train them in archery.”

“Yes,
with Biriae bows!” Ohaern’s eye caught fire. “The Vanyar bows are powerful, but
their range is short! If you can find two hundred archers who can become
accurate with the Biriae bow, they can fell a great number of Vanyar before
they come close enough to strike!”

“But
where shall we find so many bows in only a few days?” Lucoyo frowned. “Wood
must have time to cure!”

“Many
of my people already have bows,” the king said slowly, “for they still shoot
fish in the shallows.”

“That
is scarcely what I call a long range, but they might suffice. Tell me, are they
made of long staves? Or of two horns joined by a foot of seasoned wood, like
the Vanyar bows?”

“They
are made of the bones of the whales of the Middle Sea—Umber and strong, but not
wooden.”

Lucoyo
stared. “Fish-bone bows? Nay, this I must see!”

“Do
you think they will shoot as far as the ones you speak of?” the king said anxiously.

“I
will delight in discovering the answer!” Lucoyo caught Ohaern’s arm. “Come,
smith! There is much to do!”

But
the king caught Ohaern’s other arm, staying him long enough to stare into his
face with a sudden wild hope. “Smith? You are a smith, then?”

Ohaern
nodded. “I am.”

“Do
you know magic?”

“Only
a few spells, and those for proving and tempering the iron and bronze,” Ohaern
cautioned.

“That
may be enough.” Noril came forward, eyes glowing. “In the temple of Ranol, that
may be more than enough.”

The
fishermen, of course, knew how to use a spear, though theirs had three
prongs—they were accustomed to spearing fish, with a cast rarely longer than
two yards. A spear cast is a spear cast, though, and they learned quickly to
hurl a leaf-bladed spear—but more importantly, to thrust with it. Ohaern and
Lucoyo discovered that, because of the old art of fishing with a bow, the
people of Cashalo were skilled archers; in fact, it was their favorite sport,
and evenings saw men and women alike assembled in the parks, shooting at straw
targets tied cleverly to resemble huge fish. Lucoyo had only to stand the fish
upright, and it approximated the shape of a man. He was quite pleased with
their bows, too—apparently the whales who had contributed so generously from
their rib cages had exceptionally long, limber ribs, and the bows were
naturally curved at the ends. Their range, though not as good as Lucoyo’s bow,
was nonetheless far greater than that of the compound bows of the Vanyar.

They
were also avid wrestlers, almost as enthusiastic about grappling one another at
close range as they were at shooting straw fish at long range. But that was the
extent of their fighting skills; they knew nothing of any other forms of
combat. Ohaern taught them the use of the staff which, when combined with
thrusting, made excellent spear-play—but he shied at the thought of these
peaceful fishermen and merchants, with only a few days’ training, bearing
swords against seasoned warriors.

Instead
he taught them how to turn aside a sword stroke with their staves, and he set
the smiths to shoeing and binding those staves with iron. That was all the time
he could spare before he went into seclusion with Noril, learning magic.

Lucoyo
stifled the urge to protest, and went on training archers. By good fortune,
Cashalo had many experienced builders, with warehouses full of tree-trunk logs
from the north mixed with costly rare woods and building stone from the south.
The king silenced his merchants’ cries of distress by reminding them that they
would have nothing left at all if the Vanyar took the city—nothing, most likely
including their lives, and their wives and children’s virtue. They opened their
warehouses, grumbling about repayment and recovering their goods when the
crisis was past. So the merchants, fishermen, and laborers alike took their
turns on the archery field, then on the wall, and the builders directed them in
raising what was surely the most expensive barrier ever to surround a city—the
bulk of it being ordinary fir and pine, mixed in with granite and basalt from
the nearby quarries—but adorned here and there with marble and cedar and ebony.

All
this time, the king’s agents were very busy, though seldom seen. Many of
Ulahane’s worshipers disappeared—they were later found, outraged but unharmed,
in the cellar of the king’s hall—and the one priest of the scarlet god who set
foot outside the temple was found lying in an alley, his own blood pooled about
him. The other priests showed very little desire for an outing after that.