The Shaman (46 page)

But
even the shaman had not foreseen that, when they emerged from the pass between
two hills, they would see an army drawn up against them, an army clad in
scarlet leather.

Their
generals shouted commands. The whole army bellowed in return, lowered their
spears, and charged.

The
Biharu whooped and drew their swords, but Ohaern called, “Back! Back into the
pass, and retreat!”

“Nay,
Ohaern!” the judge called. “We have come to fight!”

“Not
here, and not now!” Ohaern shouted back. “It will not help our human folk for
us to die before such an onslaught! It is too soon to fight—we are too few!
Withdraw!” But even as he moved backward on his camel, he raised his hands and
chanted.

“Away!”
Dariad cried, turning his camel and starting back the way they had come. “The
shaman says it! Withdraw!”

Reluctantly,
the Biharu began to retreat, and Ohaern retreated after them, chanting and
gesturing—but where a Biharu moved back, he also stayed. At least, a likeness
of him stayed, and as he moved farther back, he left another likeness, then
another and another, till each Biharu had left ten simulacra behind.

“What
are they, Ohaern?” Lucoyo asked, huge-eyed.

“They
are illusions, waking dreams,” Ohaern answered. “But they are solid enough to
busy Kuru’s soldiers for some little time. Retreat, and quickly!” He turned his
camel and rode after Dariad.

Strangely
heartened, the Biharu clucked to their camels and followed him at the beasts’
long-legged, loose-limbed run that seemed so much slower than it really was.
Back down the pass they rode, while behind them echoed the shouts of war and
the clash of weapons.

“What
do ... their weapons ... clash against, Ohaern?” Lucoyo gasped.

“Those
of their fellow soldiers,” Ohaern called back. “They strike the illusions from
two sides, and their blades meet in the middle.”

The
pass ended, the hillsides opening out, and the Biharu galloped straight into
...

An
army of black men, wearing kilts and bearing short spears. They were advancing
at a kind of trot, until they saw the Biharu. Then they jolted to a halt and
raised their spears, shouting and fitting the spear butts into odd-looking
sticks.

“Trapped!”
Dariad drew his sword, not slackening his pace. “Cut through them or die!” And
he broke into a strange sort of ululating cry. Behind him, his tribesmen took
it up, till the hillsides resounded with it.

The
black men responded with a hum that sprang from their throng and swelled until
it filled the plain.

“Stop!”
Ohaern yelled, in a voice far greater than any human being could ever have
given. In sheer surprise the Biharu reined in; both uluation and hum broke off.

Ohaern
recognized fellow hunters when he saw them. He called out a string of
syllables. Dariad frowned and demanded of Lucoyo, “What does he say?”

“I
have absolutely no idea,” the half-elf answered. Then his eyes widened and he
pointed. “But the black men do!”

A
voice from the center of the throng was shouting out an answering string of
syllables, and the black men stepped aside to allow a shorter tribesman to come
forward. He wore a headdress and was smeared with paint; his arms were adorned
with beaded bands, his ankles with matching anklets. He pointed at Ohaern and
called a question. Ohaern answered in the same tongue.

“Where
did he learn their language?” Dariad asked, wide-eyed, but Lucoyo could only
say, “In his trance. Which of us mere warriors can say what a shaman knows, or
how?”

“Perhaps
their shaman can,” the judge answered. “It is wise man to wise man, now.”

And
so it seemed, for wizard to wizard they conferred. The black men gazed on
impassively, but here and there Lucoyo caught a wrinkled brow, a narrowed eye,
a drawn-down eyebrow, a frown. “I think,” he said softly, “that the black men
do not understand what they say, either.”

Dariad
stared. “You mean they talk in a secret shaman’s language?”

“Ohaern
said something about a shaman’s land, a spirit realm where all the shamans go
in their trances. Perhaps this is the language of that world?”

The
black shaman nodded and turned away to his tribesmen, who gathered around him
with a buzz of talk. Ohaern turned back to the Biharu and said, “We came near
to making a fatal mistake. These are no creatures of Ulahane’s, but free
tribesmen like ourselves, who have come in answer to Manalo’s call.” He
frowned. “But they say that Manalo was black, like themselves ...”

“You
mean he appears to each people in their own likeness?” Dariad asked in
amazement.

It
was Lucoyo who nodded. “He was a sage, after all.” He did not reveal the true
reason why he knew that the figure they had all seen was not Manalo’s true
form.

The
wind blew them a distant roar echoing through the pass. Ohaern called out
something in the shaman’s tongue, then said to Dariad, “We must ride, and
quickly! The Kuruites have discovered my deception, and are doubtless running
to catch us!”

“Let
them come,” the nomad said with a grin of anticipation. “Surely with these
black men, we are their equals!”

“We
are not,” Ohaern contradicted. “You have no idea how many Kuruites there are,
my friend, but I assure you, we are not yet enough to fight them and win. More
importantly, we have not come to be slain in a series of skirmishes, but to lay
siege to the city of Kuru and fight its soldiers there, on the plain about it!
Come, ride—or can your camels not run as swiftly as these black men?”

“A
man, run as fast as a camel?” Dariad scoffed. “Impossible!” And he clucked to
his mount, then called to his fellows. The Biharu ran forward like a leisurely
wave, but the black men ran faster. Dariad frowned and urged his camel to its
fastest speed, and they began to catch up to their allies.

But
Ohaern’s camel was faster, and even it seemed surprised to find itself passing
the army of black men and swerving around to their fore. Ohaern called out to
the black shaman, and the two of them turned off the road, pounding across a
new-mown field. The camels followed, protesting.

Finally
the shamans called a halt and the armies stopped, milling about. Ohaern rode
back to the Biharu. “We are distant enough from Kuru so that their soldiers
will no longer follow,” he said. “They must stay close enough to go back to
defend the city if attackers should come down from the north.”

“But
there will be no northern attackers!” Lucoyo protested. “The Vanyar hold the
lands there, and they are Ulahane’s!”

“You
know that and so do I, but the Kuruites do not—and neither, for that matter, do
I, really. Manalo visited all manner of men from all number of countries.”

Dariad
frowned. “But how will those tribes know not to attack Kuru alone?”

“Because
their shamans will meet me in the spirit world,” Ohaern explained, “when they
are within two days’ march of Kuru.”

“Then
you must go to the spirit world now!” Dariad exclaimed. “Some could be waiting for
you there already!”

“He
cannot just sit down and go,” Lucoyo answered. “We must guard his body while he
is gone, and that means we must have a stronghold to guard
us.”

Dariad
smiled. “Why, then, let us find one!”

They
found the refuge toward sunset, or it found them. Ohaern led them back to the
line of hills that seemed to be the boundary of Kuru’s territory. He led them
up toward high ground.

“This
seems unwise,” said Dariad, frowning. “Should we not be farther from the
soldiers of Kuru?”

Lucoyo
shrugged. “He is a shaman. He knows what he is doing—I hope.”

It
seemed Ohaern did, for a very short, very stocky man with very long arms
stepped out from behind a boulder and hailed Ohaern.

Africans
and Biharu alike pulled back, and a hubbub of superstitious exclamations rolled
out of their ranks.

“It
is only a dwerg!” Lucoyo protested.

“Only!”
a Biharu cried. He turned to a black man, pointing at the dwerg, and said, “Only!
A creature from the netherworld, one never seen by mortal men, and he says ‘only’!”

The
black man nodded, not understanding a word, and pointed at the dwerg, too,
pouring forth a complaint of his own in an indignant tone. The Biharu, also not
understanding a word, nodded firmly and said, “That is right!” Then he frowned
and looked at the African more closely. “I am Shokla. Who are you?” He pointed
to his chest and repeated, “Shokla!”

“Ah!”
The black man nodded vigorously and pointed to his own chest. “Burayo!”

They
were friends forevermore.

Lucoyo
looked closely, but saw the dwerg was not his friend Grakhinox. He was talking
to Ohaern quite earnestly, beckoning and pointing farther up the slope. Lucoyo
only hoped he could be trusted—though truthfully, he saw no reason to doubt one
of his comrade’s kind, perhaps even kin.

Ohaern
nodded, and the dwerg set off up the slope. The shaman followed, not even
bothering to call back. The nomads and hunters muttered rebelliously, but
followed.

The
dwerg stopped by a huge boulder, set himself, and rolled it aside, revealing a
cave mouth. The Biharu and Africans exclaimed in amazement, for it would have
taken ten of them to shift that huge rock even half that distance. Then their
exclamations turned to doubt and wariness; neither forest men nor desert men
trusted a cave.

“Be
of good heart,” Ohaern called. “There is more than enough room for all of us to
stretch out to sleep, and even to stable your camels.”

“If
there is, then the whole hill must be hollow!” the judge exclaimed.

Ohaern
nodded. “It is.”

So
it was, as they saw to their amazement: a huge dome above them, with light
filtering in from cracks here and there. Those cracks admitted enough water to
form stalactites and stalagmites, joined here and there to form columns. The
few sun rays that penetrated the cave lit it most wondrously, bringing out a
wealth of gemlike colors and sparkling gleams from bits of mica and rock
crystal.

Where
those sun rays pooled, there stood a statue.

“Manalo!”
Dariad cried, even as several of the black men cried the same name. Then they
turned to stare at one another, amazed.

Surely
the statue’s face did look like that of the sage—and there was no confusion as
to the color of his skin, for it was painted green.

“How
is this, dwerg?” Ohaern asked, then repeated it in a language that sounded like
gravel being ground under rolling boulders. The dwerg replied in the same
grating sounds, and Ohaern turned to his companions. “He says that a nation of
hunters carved this statue long ago, to honor the sage who brought them fire
and barley, and taught them to plant and hunt Different tribes of that nation
would come here to remember him and pray, then go away. Their
great-greatgrandchildren worshiped the fire-bringer as a god.”

“By
what name did they call him?” Lucoyo stared up at the familiar, almost beloved
face, feeling his back and scalp prickle in response to the eerieness of the
place.

“They
called him ‘Nimola.’ “

“Then
this is a temple.” The judge clucked at his camel, and it knelt, protesting. “Down,
all of you! We worship no god but the Star-Maker—yet this statue is that of a
hero, and one of the Creator’s most excellent works!”

The
nomads climbed down off their camels and faced their judge as he began to chant
the praises of the Star-Maker, while the black men faced the statue and began a
chant of their own.

But
Ohaern went and sat at the foot of the statue, gazing up into that face that he
knew so well, marveling all over again that Lomallin could have chosen himself,
an ordinary smith of a wild forest people, for a traveling companion—and
student! He lost himself in a reverie, asking Lomallin’s ghost for aid, for
protection from the soldiers of Kuru, asking that spirit to respond, to touch
his mind, to answer within his head, to advise ...

Then
he felt the most gentle of touches on his shoulder and heard Lucoyo’s voice,
very low, very gentle: “Ohaern. Where are you?”

The
shaman stirred with regret and looked up at his friend. “Here,
Lucoyo—unfortunately.” Then he saw beyond the half-elf, saw the cavern in
darkness, lit only by small fires here and there, fires that gave off very
little smoke but showed him a vast assemblage of sleeping bodies. “I am here,”
he said regretfully. “I have not left this cavern.”

Lucoyo
sighed with relief. “It would be hard to keep this host together if your spirit
went wandering again! What were you doing?”

“Seeking
speech with Lomallin’s ghost,” Ohaern answered, “but if Rahani is right and his
spirit has survived his body, he has a maddening way of not answering when it
is convenient for those who call upon him.” He gazed out over the sleeping army
and nodded. “Well then, they sleep.” He tested his own body and said, “I feel
as if I have slept, too—this sort of contemplation must be as good a rest as
sleep.”

“
‘This kind’?” Lucoyo repeated. “How many kinds
are
there?”

“Only
two that I know of so far,” Ohaern answered, “and I must now try the other
kind—the one that uses up strength, and does not restore it.” He turned back
toward the statue, leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes.

“No,
Ohaern!” Lucoyo protested, but the shaman shook his head.

“I
must tell the other tribes where to march and what to do. For that, I must
speak to their shamans, and the only way is to meet them in the spirit world.”

“Well
... do not be long, then.” Lucoyo glanced apprehensively over his shoulder. “I
do not know how long I can hold them here if you do not come back.”

“Be
calm, my friend,” Ohaern said. “I go not to learn this time, but only to
confer. I shall be back ere dawn.”