The Shaman (11 page)

“I
have come to free you.” Ohaern groped in the dark, and as the Biri was still
whispering, “What? Free me? How can you? There is a chain, a copper chain, that
holds me to the wall!” Ohaern found the links, took a firm hold, and heaved
with a grant. The links parted with a sharp report, and Ohaern panted, “Now you
are free!”

There
was silence a moment, then the Biri hissed, “Are you a god?”

“Only
a man, but a very strong one.” Ohaern was beginning to wonder at his own
strength. “Do me a favor in return. There is a wise man here, a sage named
Manalo. Has he gone to Ulahane yet?”

“No,
praise Lomallin!” the Biri said. “Come, I will bring you to him!” He pressed
cold links into Ohaern’s palm and chuckled. “Hold my chain!”

He
set off with the air of a man who knows every inch of a familiar room. Ohaern
stumbled along in his wake. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom now—there were
only two small windows set way up high, but they did let in a little of the
moon’s wan light. Tripping and stumbling over objects that cursed, Ohaern
followed his guide to the far wall, which was taken up by stout wooden doors
with tiny windows in them— slots, really, such as might be used for pushing
through a little food. They were held closed by copper hinges and metal hasps
that must have been taken out and replaced every time the door was opened—a
good sign that they were opened rarely indeed.

“What
are these stalls for?” Ohaern whispered.

“For
criminals they deem especially dangerous,” the Biri answered, “ones who might
kill us others, when we might better be offered to Ulahane instead.”

“Manalo
is no murderer!”

“No,
but he served the Kuruites poorly in another way—by never ceasing to preach the
virtues of Lomallin as he nursed us in our illness or sought to heal our
hearts.”

“Dangerous
indeed!” Ohaern said with a grin, then raised his voice a little, more by
urgency than loudness. “Teacher! Sage! Manalo! Do you hear me?”

There
was a second’s silence, then the clank of chains and finally Manalo’s voice
itself! “I hear you indeed, Ohaern.”

Ohaern’s
heart leaped with gladness, and he suddenly realized how deeply afraid he had
been that Manalo might have been dead. “Teacher, I have come to take you out of
this place!”

Manalo’s
laugh was as gentle as always. “Well done, Ohaern, and I will follow you
gladly—if you can open this door and sunder my chains.”

“The
door? Is there a door?” Ohaern waved the Biri away, set one hand on the little
window and the other on the handle, braced a foot against the wall and heaved.
For a moment nothing happened; then a groaning sounded, and the nails in the
hinges began to move. Faster and faster they came out, then sprang loose. The
door jolted wide, ripping the copper hasp. Ohaern staggered backward, then
tossed the door aside and called, “Teacher! Come out!”

“I
cannot,” Manalo answered simply. “There is a spell on this cell that I cannot
overcome with any magic of my own— and I am bound down.”

Ohaern
mouthed an obscenity and went in. The darkness was total here, but his hands
found Manalo’s body—or at least, the cold links that wound around his chest.
Ohaern took hold of the chain, but Manalo said, “There are five of them, one
around my shoulders, one around my elbows and stomach, a third around my wrists
and hips, and a fourth around my thighs. The fifth binds my ankles and is
fastened to the wall.”

“They
really
do
fear you!” Ohaern exclaimed. “Well, that last shall be no
problem.” He bent down, groped over Manalo’s knees and shins, then found the
chain. He set himself against it and pulled. The cell was silent for a moment,
then the links popped. Ohaern staggered upright, saying, “It will take too long
to break each of them—and they are so tight about your body that I cannot get a
proper grip. They shall have to wait until we are far from the town.”

“But
how shall you take me there?” Manalo asked. “Your strength is amazing, Ohaern,
but surely not—” He broke off as the darkness tilted around him and Ohaern
slung him over one hip. Then, holding Manalo fast with one arm, Ohaern said, “Quickly,
that is how! Come, Teacher, before we are discovered!” He strode out of the
cell.

The
Biri gaped. “No human man is that strong!”

“There
was an accident at my birth,” Ohaern said impatiently. “Guide me out, friend!”

Other
men were coming awake and beginning to cry out.

“Silence,
all of you!” Ohaern hissed. “If I escape, you may follow me! Come, but be
quiet, or the soldiers will charge upon you!”

The
prisoners fell silent and crawled to their feet, following him like a host of
dim shadows. The Biri guided Ohaern through the near-darkness, back to the
door. There, the big hunter turned to the prisoners and whispered, “Go
soft-foot, and bring down the sentries at the gate! If you can be gone from the
stockade before they can raise the alarm, you may live! Give them warning
sooner, and you are dead men!”

“We
will be as silent as a fox stalking a wood hen,” someone promised.

“Be
so,” Ohaern said. “Do not attack the guards on this prison’s door—they are my
own men.”

“Your
own men?” another prisoner asked, astonished. “What happened to the Kuruite
guards!”

“They
still live—I think. Now, go quietly!” Ohaern turned away, but heard a last
whisper at his back: “None can defeat a Kuruite soldier!”

“None
could”
someone else answered darkly.

They
stole out of the prison, and Ohaern caught the Biri by the elbow, steering him
aside. “Wait with me.” They joined Glabur and Lucoyo, and watched as the
prisoners stole out into the night, several laughing maniacally but in
whispers, many limping, but all burning with lust for freedom, and revenge.

“We
all feared to attack the soldiers, for they could not be beaten,” the Biri
whispered, amazed.

“They
do not fear them now,” Ohaern returned. He shifted Manalo’s weight to the other
hip, saying, “Forgive the indignity, Teacher.”

“Perfectly
all right,” Manalo answered in a strained voice.

“Come!”
Ohaern turned away toward the back gate. Glabur, Dalvan, and Lucoyo fell in
behind him. In amazement, the Biri came, too.

They
had just reached the postern when the yelling broke out at the main gate.

“I
feared they would not contain their elation,” Ohaern said. “Come quickly!” He
tore open the little gate, stooped, and led the way through.

They
stayed in the shadow of the wall, moving around toward the front of the
fort—toward it, but not to it. Fifty feet away the sentries were all riveted to
the mob of filthy prisoners storming the portals. The soldiers were shouting
back at them in return, hurling rocks and, when a prisoner managed to climb up
too high, hurling spears.

“Will
they never wrench the gate open?” Lucoyo asked, staring in horror.

“It
is
open,” Manalo replied, his voice strained by Ohaern’s arm. “Those who
wish freedom more than revenge have already fled. The ones who are left are
those who cannot forbear the chance to strike at their tormentors.”

“If
we seek to aid, we are lost,” Ohaern said. “Come!” He turned away from the
wall, running down across the slope to the shelter of the nearest house. He
skidded into its shadow and leaned against the wall, chest heaving, as Glabur,
Dalvan, and Lucoyo came pounding up beside him. They leaned, too, except the
half-elf, who sat on his heels, panting. “Where to now ... O Chieftain?”

“The
river!” Ohaern heaved Manalo upright. “Apologies, sage, but it was necessary.
Now I think we can afford you some slightly greater comfort.”

“I
have not complained,” Manalo assured him, smiling. “I am free; what more
matters?”

“Not
free yet! Not free till we have put this accursed midden behind us!” Ohaern
hoisted Manalo up to sit on one shoulder. “Lead, half-elf! Find us the broad
way!”

Lucoyo
bristled, but realized quickly that, from Ohaern, the term was no
insult—rather, it referred to the elves’ legendary powers of sight and memory.
In his case it was true—that much, at least, he had inherited from his
scoundrel of a father. “Follow!” he whispered, and set off between the houses.
He was going only by dead reckoning, a memory of where the broad path was. He
took what seemed to be the most direct route to it, but the houses were set in
such a jumble that his path was very crooked.

Then,
suddenly, a huge dog leaped out at them, barking furiously.

Lucoyo
shrank back, as much from surprise as fear. Just as he was collecting himself,
Glabur stepped between them, his sword swinging down in an arc to strike the
animal broadside on the head. The beast broke off in mid-bark and fell.

Lucoyo
felt frantic anxiety—dogs had been among the few good creatures in his boyhood!
And this one even looked like the dogs of the plainsmen—almost half wolf. But
the animal’s chest moved with breathing, and he relaxed. He would not want to
be party to the murder of an innocent beast who had only been doing as he had
been trained to do.

A
person, now—that would have been another matter.

Ohaern
beckoned, and Lucoyo stepped around the dog, following the big hunter with the
man sitting on his shoulder. How odd Ohaern looked—and how unfathomably strong!
Surely he was himself more than mortal!

But
not in his emotions—nor, Lucoyo thought privately, in his wit.

They
came to the broad path, and Ohaern stopped in the shadow of a house, nodding to
Glabur, who made a hollow ball of his hands, blew between his thumbs, and made
an owl’s cry that was so real it startled Lucoyo. Then Glabur looked up,
waiting, expecting something. Lucoyo began to fidget; what was he waiting for?
After a minute, he heard a nighthawk cry, and realized that one of the other
hunters had answered.

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!”