The Shaman (45 page)

“It
is past, and worth it, from your account.” Lucoyo shrugged impatiently. “That I
have any flesh upon me at all, you may thank the Klaja for; he has hunted and
found small game in a wasteland where I could have sworn nothing lived— and if
there is water in me and, aye, in you, too, you may thank Grakhinox, who found
where it pooled in the earth and brought it forth. Now and then I dribbled some
moisture over your lips, and it sank in—at least enough to keep you from
shriveling before my eyes.”

Ohaern
did not tell him that was far more Rahani’s work than his own, or that his
trance had taken him into her spell, where she had preserved his body unchanged
until it was needed again. He only said, humbly, “I thank you for such faithful
nursing, archer—and you for your provisions, my friends. Well then, we shall
rest and eat and recover our strength.”

“And
then?” Lucoyo demanded with a jaundiced eye.

“Then,”
said Ohaern, “we shall go forth to summon all the bands of beings that will
fight for Lomallin and the younger races. We shall summon them all as we march
upon Kuru at last!”

“And
challenge Ulahane himself,” Lucoyo finished, and sighed. “Well, at least I
might as well die trying to accomplish something. But first I think I shall
finish cooking my stew.”

Thus
they came out of the cavern, a man, a half-elf, a Klaja, and a dwerg. Thus they
came, and marched over the desert by night, the dwerg always leading them to
the next pool of water, the Klaja leading them to one escaped and wandering
camel after another, until they were all riding again. Thus they came up out of
the Sand Sea, three of them riding and the Klaja loping along beside—for no
camel would suffer him to ride. Thus they came, and the lone Biharu who saw
them swell out of the line where the sand met the sky cried out in alarm.

The
Biharu came running up, swords drawn and ready, but when Ohaern waved, and as
he came close enough for the nomads to see his face, Dariad cried out in
joy—but in disbelief, too. “Ohaern, you live! Lucoyo! Klaja! Grakhinox! You walk,
and are not ghosts!”

Ohaern
drew rein beside the nomad and clapped him on the shoulder, grinning, “Aye, we
live.”

“Why
so amazed, Dariad?” The judge smiled, amused. “It was you who would not let us
leave this barren camp, for no better reason than that the sage had said they
would return.” And to Ohaern, “It is only Dariad’s faith in Manalo’s words that
has kept us here.”

Dariad
blushed, looking down at the sand. “That was simple constancy, O Judge, for a
Biharu’s word must be kept.”

“But
you did not believe I would truly come back?” Ohaern smiled. “The more praise
for you then, Dariad, to have honored your promise!”

“You
told
us
they would come,” one of his tribesmen objected.

“And
I knew they would!” Dariad maintained stoutly. “It is just that ... I did not
quite ... believe what I knew.” Then, as his tribesmen laughed, he lifted his
head in indignation. “After all, it has been a month since they followed the
sage into the Sand Sea!”

“Where
is
the sage?” asked the judge. “Where is Manalo?”

Ohaern
grew somber. “In that, at least, you were right to doubt, O Biharu. The sage is
dead.”

The
tribesmen muttered in consternation, frowning and shaking their heads. Dariad,
though, peered more closely at Ohaern and said, “There is something of him that
has passed into you, O Smith. What is it?”

Ohaern
stared in surprise, then said slowly, “Nothing that I am aware of. He taught me
much, and I have his knowledge in my head and his compassion in my heart—but no
more than that.”

“There
is something different in you, though.” The judge agreed.

“There
is,” Ohaern admitted. “I have become a shaman.”

Nothing
was said; indeed, there was only the rustle of cloth as the wind blew through
their robes, and perhaps it was that very silence, that and the upturned
staring faces, that made Ohaern realize how much he had suddenly changed in
their eyes.

“Tell
us the manner of it,” the judge said.

Ohaern
shook his head. “There is too little to tell, and too much to tell. I sought a
vision and found it, as any shaman does. For the rest, I have learned what I
was taught.”

Now
there came a murmur as the Biharu exchanged comments with one another, excited,
but fearful, too. Watching them, Ohaern felt a great sadness seize him as he
realized that he could never again be just a man among friends, but would
always be apart, though held in highest esteem.

Never
a man among friends, except for Lucoyo. Ohaern resolved to take very good care
of the half-elf henceforth.

“Why
have we waited?” Dariad asked quietly.

As
one, the Biharu turned their gazes toward the nomad, and Ohaern saw that if he
had gained an immense amount of prestige by his sojourn in the desert, Dariad
had gained almost as much by his simple steadfast faith and refusal to turn
away from a promise given.

No,
not at all—Dariad had gained prestige because events had proved him right.

“We
must fight the Scarlet One,” Ohaern told them quietly.

The
eyes swung back to him, and fear was written on every face—then instantly
replaced by determination. Ohaern was struck by the courage and hardihood of
these Biharu. If he had ordered them to march into a dragon’s lair and bring
him its head, they would have done so, or died trying.

If
he
had ordered them . . .

For
the first time in his life Ohaern realized just how deeply other people clung
to his words and were swayed by his mere presence. He wondered if this was also
the first time in his life that his presence had been so strong.

Dariad
nodded gravely. “Why must we do so?”

“Because
the Sand Sea is Ulahane’s work,” Ohaern replied. “As long as he lives, the
drought will deepen and the Sand Sea will spread. Destroy him, and the drought
will cease; the desert will gain oases and, in your grandchildren’s time, will
become moist enough for grazing again. If Ulahane lives, your grandchildren
will have to flee to other lands.”

“Then
we shall do it,” Dariad said, and the tribe shouted agreement. Ohaern looked
out upon them and smiled.

“How
shall we destroy Ulahane?” Dariad asked. “How can a man kill an Ulin?”

“Remember
that he is not a god,” Ohaern replied. “None of the Ulin are gods, only beings
of an elder race, as you yourselves have told me.”

“That
is true,” said the judge, “but they are nonetheless mighty, far more mighty
than we ephemeral mites. How could a mortal man slay an Ulin?”

“Leave
that to other Ulin,” Ohaern told him. “But to prevail against the Scarlet One,
they must have minions withheld, so that they may give all their attention to
Ulahane. It is to us to hale down Ulahane’s packs of monstrosities and the
Ulharls who drive them.”

“Can
Ulharls die?” a tribesman asked.

“They
can,” Ohaern assured him. “They are half human, after all, and even an Ulin can
be slain. How much more easily, then, their Ulharls?”

“If
a man can do it, we shall!” cried a tribesman, and the rest shouted agreement.

“We
shall,” Dariad agreed, “but how shall we go about it?”

“I
must work magic,” Ohaern told him. “Do you break camp and load your camels
while I do. Then we shall ride against Kuru!”

The
Biharu roared approval, then turned and ran back to their tents.

“What
magic is this you shall work?” Lucoyo asked nervously.

“The
Call,” Ohaern answered. “When Manalo visited all the tribes, he gave each of
them a call-sign, and when they saw it in the sky, they were to march toward
Kuru.”

“But
how do they know—oh, of course!” Lucoyo said in self-disgust. “Manalo told them
in which direction to march.”

“And
told them what obstacles lay in their path, I suspect,” Ohaern agreed. “He
taught me the spell that will make all the signs appear—but it will take some
minutes to work.”

A
shrill shout of delight came from the camp.

“What
is that?” the dwerg asked, staring.

“It
is the women, the elders, and the children,” Lucoyo answered. “I suspect they
have just learned that they may finally leave this place.”

Ohaern
nodded. “None are sorry to strike camp.” He dismounted from his camel and began
to trace designs in the sand with his camel stick. Lucoyo watched, frowning,
and the dwerg and the Klaja came up to watch with him.

Ohaern
finished the designs and began to move among them, chanting. His chant grew
louder and more musical as his movements grew more fluid, more stylized, until
he was dancing among images of his own making. Then the dance slowed, and
Ohaern finished his chant with a slow turning in place, arms lifted toward each
of the quarters of the world. Then he gave a shout and sank to his knees in the
sand, panting.

Lucoyo
ran to his friend. “Ohaern! Are you well?”

“Aye
... well .. .” Ohaern panted. “But magic . .. takes effort . .. Lucoyo. Almost,
I think ... more than battle.”

“Well
then, you have done your fighting, and may rest.” Lucoyo took him by the arm
and helped him to his feet.

Ohaern
shook his head. “There is much to do, and not enough time for it all. As soon
as the Biharu are packed, we must go!”

“So
must we,” the dwerg said, coming up. “The Klaja and I have spoken and agree
that we may serve you better by going to raise our own people against Kuru.”

Ohaern
stared at the Klaja in dismay. “Your own kind will slay you—they, or the Ulharl
who drives them!”

The
Klaja shrugged and said, in his guttural voice, “It may be that they shall—but
a life estranged from my own kind is no life. If I knew I could never know
fellowship, or embrace a female, I would wish to die. Better to raise a dozen
who hate the Ulharl enough to die fighting.”

Ohaern
nodded gravely. “They will most likely die in any case, for they will be thrown
into the forefront of the battle.

Very
well, go and persuade—and I hope I shall see you again, with an army at your
back.”

“I
hope that you shall.” The Klaja grinned and clapped the shaman on the shoulder.
“Do not mistake me for an enemy, Ohaern!”

“Well
thought.” The shaman took off an armband and slipped it over the Klaja’s paw. “I
shall know you by that token, even if I cannot see it. Never let it from your
sight.”

“I
shall not,” the Klaja promised, “and I
shall
see you again.” With that,
he turned and trotted away.

Ohaern
gazed after him, face creased with anxiety. “I hope he shall be well.” He
turned to the dwerg. “Well, friend, I cannot bar you from going to your own
kind—but I hope I shall see you again, too.”

“Be
sure you shall,” Grakhinox promised, “but before you see us, you shall feel
us—or our work, at least.” Then he stretched out his arms and began to pivot,
turning about and about in place, faster and faster, until he sank down into
the earth, like a drill into a stone—and into stone he must have gone, for the
earth closed over his head and filled in the hole he had made.

Lucoyo
and Ohaern stood staring at the small mound, which was all that was left to
show their friend had stood there. Then the half-elf said, “What did he
mean—that we would feel his works? Pray he did not mean that swords he made
would cleave our skulls!”

“I
cannot think that would be so,” Ohaern said slowly, “for we have been
shield-mates, and we have saved him from bondage as surely as he has aided us.
We are friends and comrades. Surely he would not!”

Lucoyo
felt a bit reassured to discover that the new Ohaern did not know everything.

Dariad’s
camel came loping up, and the nomad called down, “The women and children will
travel to our summer grazing grounds, while our warriors are ready to march,
Ohaern! Which way?”

“Toward
the northeast,” the shaman answered. “There lies the city of Kuru!”

They
marched for several days, the nomads singing with the sheer joy of having left
the Sand Sea. But as they came out of the wasteland and the vegetation grew
thicker about them, the Biharu quieted and began to grow nervous, as if the
alien sight of fertile land made them apprehensive.

“What
are all these green stalks in the fields about us, Ohaern?” Dariad asked. “Surely
they cannot be grass!”

“A
kind of grass,” Ohaern answered. “They are stalks of barley.”

“Barley!
Is
that
where the grain comes from?” Ana Dariad stared, as astonished
and awed as if he stood in the middle of a city and stared about at buildings
four and five times his height.

Now
and then they spied men working in the fields who looked up, saw them, and
stared, as astonished at the sight of camels as the Biharu had been by the
sight of barley. But here and there a man would turn and run.

“Do
they fear us so?” Dariad asked.

“Perhaps,”
Ohaern said, but privately he thought otherwise.

Unevenness
on the horizon swelled into lumps as they rode, then grew into low mounds,
purple with distance.

“Hills?”
Dariad frowned. “And not of sand?”

“They
are indeed hills,” Lucoyo answered, “and covered most thoroughly with trees and
grass.”

“I
have heard of trees,” Dariad said, gazing at the hills with wondering eyes.

“You
shall see them,” Lucoyo said grimly, “but you may see more than you wish.”

Ohaern
nodded in agreement. “On the other side of those hills, Dariad, begins the land
Kuru claims as its own.”

Dariad
looked up at him in surprise, and Lucoyo could see he was about to ask how
Ohaern knew—but the nomad held his tongue, and Lucoyo nodded in approval.
Ohaern, after all,
had
become a shaman. That did not mean he knew
everything, of course—it only meant that no one would be surprised at what he
did
know.