The Shaman (5 page)

It
was a worthwhile thought, and Lucoyo promised he would give it serious
consideration—if he lived.

But
who was he promising?

Surely
only himself!

Lucoyo
was short, slight, and sharp-faced. Even without the ears, anyone would have
known him on sight as not wholly human—and, of course, everyone in this tribe
of nomads knew what he was and what his mother had done. No man would touch her
after that—he had heard them talk about how none would take an elf’s leavings!
True, his mother had told him that she was too plain to have attracted a
husband, that the elf-man had been her one chance of gaining the baby she had
so ached to hold, but he did not believe her.

He
must
not believe her—or Lucoyo would have to blame her, too, for this
bitter, constant torment called “life.”

So
when the clan folded their tents and followed the great herd of aurochs, it was
Lucoyo’s mother who bore the heaviest burdens, Lucoyo’s mother whom Gorin’s
wife commanded to watch over her own children as well as Lucoyo.

“Is
your pouch filled with stones, Kragni?” little Holkar asked—little, but four
years older than toddling Lucoyo, and already bossing others about.

“Filled!”
little Kragni answered. “Where is the rabbit?”

“There!”
Little Palainir pointed at Lucoyo, laughing.

Her
two brothers laughed, too. The little half-elf stared at them, not
understanding, then started to laugh, too. Whatever the source of the jest, it
must be funny, since they were all laughing.

“No,
sister,” said Holkar, from the lofty superiority of eight years. “Rabbits have
big legs and cotton tails. Lucoyo has only very spindly shanks.”

Palainir
pouted. “How then
do
you find rabbits?”

“By
their noise,” Kragni told her. “They thump the ground with their feet.”

“
He
can find them!” Holkar pointed at Lucoyo. “With those big ears of his. Go find
us a rabbit, Lucoyo!”

And
little Lucoyo, not understanding the insult, not realizing the slight, had
actually gone out and tried to listen for a rabbit—then endured Holkar’s scorn
for not being able to find one. He had felt that he was a failure, deeply and
truly, when he could find no game.

He
remembered that now, convulsed in pain, and the old humiliation burned in him
again. Once having found their choice insult, they used it over and over again,
until, compared to it, a dry bone would have been fresh. They had mocked him,
calling him “Rabbit!” and “Hare!” The worst humiliation of all had come when he
found that someone had sewn a rabbit tail onto his leggings.

That
had been the pattern of their growing: Lucoyo alternately befriended and
insulted by Gorin’s children. For all that, he had thought them friends, until
he grew big enough for them to side with the other children against him. For
all that, he had loved Palainir in his heart of hearts, from the straw-haired
child she had been then to the shapely, golden-haired young woman she was now.
But he had always had sense enough to keep his peace, to endure her mocking and
teasing in silence. Now, though, when he had brought down an aurochs by
himself, with nothing but his own arrows, not even a horse beneath him—now,
when he had brought home the beast’s head, though the other young men had taken
the meat as their own right for hauling it on their ponies—now, he had dared
not even to tell her of his love, but only to ask her to walk alone with him in
the sunset. And it was good he had dared no more, for she had mocked him, and
spurned him, had called her friends to laugh at the temerity of this little
half-elf who would dare woo a real woman!

Lucoyo
managed to straighten up against the pain in his groin, drawing a deep and
shaky breath as he searched his heart for some trace of that love he had felt
all his life—but it was gone now, transformed into the flame of anger that was
burning down into hatred. No, there was no love left there now, and he was a
fool to have ever let there be. She had deserved the spider’s bite, and even
now, facing death, he felt a grim, exultant satisfaction in it.

Surely
he could not really die! Surely there must be a way free of these bonds! He was
half an elf—surely he had half an elf’s magic?

But
he had thought that before, had wished it many times, had yearned, had learned
a rhymed curse and uttered it—but nothing had happened. Perhaps, if he’d had an
elf to teach him how to work elfin magic ...

Perhaps.
Oh, there might have been much that was different if his father had stayed with
him! But he had not, and Lucoyo had always had to face life alone ...

Even
as he now faced death alone.

Looking
up, he was amazed to realize that the sky had lightened with dawn. Could
another day really come? Could he live so long?

“Down,
elf-get!” Hard hands tore at the knots, snapped the thongs from his wrists,
scraping them raw; hard boots kicked him away from the rock, kicked him down to
the ground. Lucoyo started to shout a curse, but one of those hard hands
pressed down on the back of his head, grinding his face into the dirt, filling
his mouth with loam. “She lives, elf’s bastard!” Gorin’s voice hissed in his
ear. “She lives, so you will only suffer as she has suffered—and perhaps die,
as she might have died. Turn him over!”

The
hard hands lifted him up, flipped him, and slammed him down again; Holkar and
Kragni pinned his arms to the dirt while two more held his feet and a dozen
others stood about watching, eyes burning with gloating satisfaction.

Gorin
tore Lucoyo’s shirt open and slapped a cup of bark down, open side against the
skin. “
Three
white crones, woman-striker!” he said between his teeth,
and began to drum on the bark. Lucoyo felt one of the spiders bite and stifled
a curse. But Gorin saw his pain and his fear, and grinned. “Now let us see
whether or not the bite kills
you!”

Lucoyo
twitched again, pressing his lips tight.

“Did
another bite?” Gorin jibed. “Or did you only pretend? No, I think I will play
my drum a while longer, dagger-nose— long and long, until your skin is freckled
with their venom.”

And
he did.

At
last he took the cup away and snarled, “On his feet!” Holkar and Kragni yanked
him upright and threw him forward. Lucoyo stumbled on feet gone numb from squeezed
ankles, then fell. A boot dug into his side, harsh laughter echoed around him,
and the hard hands yanked him upright again, then sent him stumbling once more.
“Out into the world, traitor!” Gorin bellowed. “If the company of your ... of
this clan does not suit you, go find one that does! If any will take in a
bastard halfling. If you cannot respect your betters, go leave us!”

“What
betters?” Lucoyo grated, even though he knew he was too lame to dodge the blow
that came and rocked his head. Through the buzzing, he heard the massed bellow,
and the chief’s shout, “Go! And do not linger within ten miles of us, for from
this day forth, any who finds you may kill you out of hand, without breaking
our law! Go find life if you can—or death, as my daughter might have!”

Lucoyo
limped away, not deigning to humiliate himself by asking if he could have food
or water; he knew the answer, knew how savagely they would delight in denying
him. He limped away, jaws clamped tight against the savage insult he ached to
return—for in spite of it all, he wished to live. He limped away, hearing the
woman’s keening behind him, back where she could not even see him, knowing it
was his mother, barred even from saying good-bye.

His
heart filled with scarlet fury, and in that heart Lucoyo swore revenge.
Ulahane,
he prayed silently,
I am yours henceforth. Only give me
vengeance, and I will serve you in every way I may! Vengeance against these
small minds and hard hearts, vengeance against all who mock the weaker—
vengeance against all their kind! Human-hater, save my life—so that I may slay
humans, aye, and slay them in torment!

But
Ulahane did not answer. Why bother? Lucoyo realized that, with sick irony, the
god’s answer would be in his own life or death.

Palainir
had been bitten by one spider, but Lucoyo had been bitten by three. For days he
lay in torment, the fever burning him, the chills shaking him apart. For a week
he lay in the little cave by the water under the oak’s roots, sipping from the
muddy drops that trickled near him when he could, shivering and cursing when he
could not, and dreaming, always dreaming—of the huge and mighty Ulahane,
surging forth to battle the human-lovers, roaring with rage, dwarfing even his
own bastard sons by human victims; dreamed of the reeking sacrifices that were
the sinister god’s delight; dreamed of the agonies and tortures in which he
reveled ...

Dreamed
of revenge.

Revenge
against all that was human, revenge against all that was elfin—revenge against
all that lived but was not Ulin.

Then,
finally, the fever passed, and Lucoyo woke to discover, with amazement, that he
still lived. So the scarlet god had saved him after all! He still had to crawl
out in the mud to grub for roots to sustain him, he still had to lie hidden for
weeks while slowly, slowly, he gained his strength again. He still had to crawl
down to the river to drink as dogs drink, crawl back up to hide in the
bracken—but finally he was once again strong enough to throw stones and bring
down rabbits and squirrels to eat. They were the only food that came near,
other than tubers, but that was enough, and it felt good to kill. He dared not
kindle a fire that might attract men to kill
him,
but that, too, was as
well—he found that he enjoyed the taste of blood. Enjoyed the taste, and reveled
in the thought of human blood to come.

Lucoyo
ate and rested and regained his strength, planning his revenge.

Ulahane,
he prayed,
send me someone upon whom to vent my anger! Send me a victim for
vengeance! Someone of my own erstwhile tribe, by preference—but I will take
whomever you send me! Only let it be human!

He
liked to think that the scarlet god heard.

Ryl
gave a racking cough, then thrust herself up to catch Ohaern’s hand. “Husband
... please .. .”

“Hush,
dear one. Lie still.” Gently, Ohaern pushed her back down on the pallet. “You
are ill, my love. Conserve your strength.”

“But,
Ohaern . . .” Her hand tightened on his, and he fought against the sudden tears
in his eyes. “Husband, hear me. I ... if I ... die ... our son . . . who shall
...”

“Hush,
hush!” Ohaern spoke through the tightness in his chest. “I know I am a great
worthless hulk when it comes to small babies, but there are women enough in
this village to see that the child is well cared for. Rest, and recover; your
friends shall ward your babe for you.”

“But
if I should die!”

“You
shall
not
die,” Ohaern commanded. “The fever will break!” But his
stomach was hollow within him, for he knew it might not.

Ryl
started to speak again, but he pressed a finger over her lips. “For now, be still.
Lie and sleep during the hours of darkness—for the child’s sake. For mine.”

Her
body tensed to struggle against his hand again—but she saw the pleading in his
eyes and sank back. He took a deep breath and murmured, “Rest, and gather your
strength to fight the illness. That is the greatest thing you can do for all of
us now.”

She
swallowed, eyes closed, then nodded. “As you wish it.”

“Dear
lady.” His hand closed around hers and he bent to kiss her again, then
straightened—and saw Mardone watching him, eyes stern.

Ohaern
nodded, patted Ryl’s hand again, then rose and stepped aside, so that Mardone
might kneel by the sick woman, bathing her forehead and face with a cold, wet
compress.

A
touch on his arm startled him. Ohaern looked up and saw Chaluk, the clan’s
other shaman. Chaluk beckoned, and Ohaern followed, with one last, anxious look
back at Ryl.

By
the doorway, Chaluk whispered, “That was well-spoken—but you must not stay here
any longer. She will feel more fear from your fear, and that will keep her from
the sleep she needs. Go outside, Ohaern.”

“No—”

But
Chaluk held up a hand, and Ohaern closed his mouth, biting back a refusal.

“Be
sure, I shall summon you if she nears death—but step outside, Ohaern. You can
do no more here. Leave her to sleep, and to those of us who know the spirits
that bring illness.”

“What
spirit plagues her now?” Ohaern hissed.

“One
sent from Ulahane, of course.” Chaluk frowned. “What else?”

What
else, indeed? Just as Lomallin did all he could to bring humans happiness,
love, and life, so Ulahane did all he could to bring them misery, loneliness,
and death. But why Ryl? Why this one poor woman, twice in three months?

There
was no answer to that, nothing the shamans could tell him that he did not
already know—because told him they had, and several times each. Ryl had been
weakened, that was all— and where there was a weakness, Ulahane would seek to
break through and destroy. He was a god and could do what he pleased; all that
stopped him were Lomallin and the gods who were Lomallin’s allies.

Ohaern
looked back at the still form of his wife, so small, so frail, her eyes so
unnaturally huge as they fluttered open and gave him another stare filled with
the agony of helplessness. Fear wrung his heart again, then a surge of
tenderness followed. He turned back to Chaluk, closing his eyes and nodding in
submission. “As you will, Chaluk. But tell me.” His fingers bit into the shaman’s
shoulder.
“Will
she live? Can she?”

Chaluk
gazed steadily into his eyes, then slowly turned away to look at the young
woman. “That is a matter for greater shamans than me,” he said, as if the words
were dragged out of him, “but they are not here.” Then he spun on his heel,
pushing through the hides that covered the doorway, out into the night air.
Ohaern swept the skins aside with a forearm and followed.