The Shaman (9 page)

He
spoke truly. Lucoyo managed to keep up a brave front— though he was jelly
inside—as he took his place in the center of one of the boats. Four other men
climbed in beside him and pushed off from the shore with their staves—slotted
spear shafts into which they had bound broad wooden blades. With these paddles
they guided the rocking boat out into the middle of the river.

Lucoyo
was terrified. He had seen bodies of water this size before, had even bathed in
them, near the shore, but had never been in a boat of any kind, not even a
raft. He sat rigid, eyes huge, expecting any minute that the boat would roll
over, that he would feel the bloated hands of drowned men in his hair, that he
would be dragged down to the bottom, to become like them ...

But
the boats did not capsize, and after a while Lucoyo became used to the rocking,
and realized that the coracle would roll only so far in one direction, then
just so far in another— provided his companions plied their paddles well. But
they did, and he began to loosen a little, becoming accustomed to the rocking,
no longer feeling it was dangerous. By sunset he had almost relaxed, and when
they stepped ashore to camp for the night, he was surprised to find that solid
ground felt unnatural.

That
was the only night they camped, though. The next day, a man in one of the
left-hand boats gave a shout, pointing, and they all looked to see a dozen
canoes putting out from the western bank, moving toward them. Ohaern called out
a greeting, but it was answered with a flight of arrows. The arrows all fell
short, woefully short, but Ohaern called, “Into the middle of the river, and
paddle hard!”

The
current moved faster in the center of the river, and the paddlers dug in with a
will, united by Ohaern’s war chant. Lucoyo unlimbered his bow, strung it, and
asked, “How can I look over the side?”

“Carefully,”
Glabur answered, and Ohaern nodded, never slackening the chant.

Dalvan
said, “As you move higher, archer, I shall move closer to Ohaern, and we shall
yet be steady. Ready? Up, now—carefully, carefully ...”

Lucoyo
inched his way up the side of the boat, his heart in his throat, but it did not
capsize—and when he arrived there, he was surprised to see the canoes far away
behind them and growing farther, the men in them shaking their fists at the
Biriae. Dimly, he could hear their curses. “Why did I bother?”

“In
case they proved to be better boatmen than they seemed,” Ohaern told him, “and
this sluggishness only a ruse to draw us in.”

“It
is no pretense,” Jannogh said from his place in the rear. “They are so clumsy
it is ridiculous—but surely they would not pretend so when they see us
escaping!”

Ohaern
frowned. “What manner of men are these, who have canoes but know not how to use
them?”

They
rowed in silence while each man pondered the notion. Then Lucoyo offered, “Thieves?”

“There
speaks the voice of experience,” Glabur grunted, “but I think you have found
it, archer.”

“He
has,” Ohaern agreed. “These are plainsmen who have conquered a river village,
and its canoes with it, but have no idea how to use them—or have just begun to
learn, at least.”

“I
hope they will not have learned better when we return,” Glabur said.

“They
are
five to our one,” Dalvan admitted.

“But
what kind of archers are they, whose shafts fall so far short?” Ohaern
wondered.

But
Lucoyo had an answer for that. “They are plainsmen who follow the great herds.
My clan has met some of them, and kept our weapons in our hands as we traded
insults, then finally began to trade goods instead. Their bows are made of
aurochs’ horns, with only an arm’s length of wood to connect them. They will
send an arrow with great force, but for some reason it will not travel far.”

“More
likely, then, that they do not know how to make arrows,” Dalvan opined.

“Do
they know how to wield swords?” Glabur wondered.

“It
grieves me to say it, but I trust we shall not have to find out.” Ohaern
sighed. “We cannot spare the time; each day we tarry is a day Manalo comes
closer to being sacrificed to Ulahane. Perhaps we can fight them
after
we have saved him.”

But
the plainsmen had other ideas—or their first cousins did. The next day, the
river narrowed, and the canoes started out from the shore as soon as the Biriae
came in sight. By the time they neared the village, there were a dozen canoes
already in mid-river, with more following from both banks. Lucoyo readied his
bow, and one man in each coracle readied his spear.

“Keep
them from us, Lucoyo,” Ohaern bade him, and the half-elf did his best. He
filled the air with arrows, arrows that would have found their mark if the
attackers had not dodged so well—they seemed as supple as eels. They were close
enough to see clearly now—stocky, swarthy, bearded men with black or brown hair
coiled under leather caps. They wore copper armbands and leather jerkins, and
were shouting obscenities at the Biriae.

“I
have come this way before,” Glabur said, “and I have never seen such as these!”

“Whoever
they are, they are cousins to those who chased us upstream,” Lucoyo said. “Duck!”
He took his own advice, and a short arrow arced into the coracle. Ohaern
shouted in anger as it struck his boot.

“Are
you hurt, Ohaern?” Glabur cried.

“A
fly’s bite, nothing more—but my boot will need mending.”

“It
will.” Lucoyo plucked the shaft out of Ohaern’s boot heel and sent it flying
back to its source. “I have only two more arrows, my friends!”

“There
are more in my pack,” Glabur answered. “Put them to good use, Lucoyo.”

The
archer did.

Shouts
rang out from the other boats as the Biriae caught the strangers’ arrows on
their paddles, then handed them down to the spearmen, who threw them back at
their attackers. Those were only fly bites, of course, so the stocky men pulled
closer and closer, no matter how clumsy they were in their canoes.

“Give
me a boat like that, and I could fly like the wind!” Dalvan cried.

“Why,
then, I shall!” Ohaern replied as a canoe lurched up alongside. The stocky men
sprang to their feet, and the canoe lurched beneath them. They shouted in
alarm, flailing for balance, and Ohaern slashed with his sword. Bright blood
answered him, the wounded man howled and fell—and the canoe capsized. Over they
went, and the Biriae cheered.

The
other coracles had met with similar fortune. All but three of the canoes had
capsized, and the attackers floundered in the water, eyes white, too proud to
call out in fear but very obviously sinking. The water was churned to froth by
men who could not swim. The few canoes still afloat were doing the best they
could to pick up their drenched friends—with comical results as first one
canoe, then another, flipped over when men tried to climb in.

Through
his laughter Ohaern called out, “Bid them hold to the sides! A canoe will hold
you as well upside down as right side up!”

One
man must have understood him, for he bawled something in a language the Biriae
could not understand, and the men in the water seized hold of the overturned
canoes like leeches grabbing onto warm flesh.

“Grapple
two of those empty canoes!” Ohaern called to the coracle coming after him. “Spoils
of war!”

So
they left the barbarians behind, and the river bore them south. It broadened
again within the mile and stayed broad enough so that they could easily hold
off any more attackers until they had passed them. With the two canoes and the
lighter load in the coracles, they seemed to be traveling faster than word of
their coming could, for none of the other tribes were lurking in mid-river
waiting for them. Indeed, most of them did not even try to paddle out—they only
shot arrows, which almost invariably fell short.

“Why
do they bother?” Lucoyo asked, looking over the edge of the coracle. He had
tried a canoe once, and had quickly opted for the coracle again. “Why shoot when
they know they will lose their arrows?”

Ohaern
shrugged. “Perhaps they wish to make it clear we are not welcome.”

“Well,
they have succeeded in that. Will we find them doing so all the way to Byleo?”

They
did not; a day’s march from Byleo, the riverbanks became reasonably
peaceful—but also amazingly cultivated. The grasslands and the forest ended as
if cut off by an axe, or turned into open fields of bare ground, with men and
women alike out digging.

“What
are they seeking?” Lucoyo wondered.

His
boat-mates exchanged glances; apparently the nomad knew nothing of farming, in
spite of Manalo’s visit. “They are opening the earth to receive seed, Lucoyo,”
Ohaern explained. “Manalo showed us the way of it. They put grains of oat and
barley in the ground and cover them over. Then, late in the summer, they will
have oats and barley to reap by the basketful.”

Lucoyo
stared. “And they
live
on that?”

“If
they have to. It is better than starving. But I suspect they still hunt when
they are done with the planting, and after the harvest.”

“Hunt
where
? They have cut down the forest—and the great herds do not come so
close to the river!”

“That
is true. They must hunt small game, and perhaps deer. Those crops must attract
a great number of such.”

“They
certainly must! There is so much of them! When do these people find time to do
anything else?”

“It
does make you wonder,” Ohaern admitted. “At least they are peaceful.”

But
the fields did not leave much room to make a landing. They ate hard biscuit and
dried meat, and drank from the river. The next morning they came to Byleo.

“Lucoyo,
awake!” Something nudged the half-elf.

Lucoyo
looked for something to throw, found nothing, and grudgingly levered himself
up. “Why?”

“We
must go ashore and hide the boats! Quickly, before the sun rises!”

Lucoyo
frowned up at the big hunter. There was urgency in Ohaern’s voice, but also
eagerness. The half-elf decided it was not time to argue. He pulled himself up
to look over the edge of the boat and saw, on the horizon, the shapes of
lodges—for surely those odd, squared shapes could be nothing else—dark against
the false dawn.

But
so many! They spread out on the eastern shore as far as he could see—long and
low, but very many. A hill thrust up out of their center, a low hill with a
black crown of many points. “What is that atop the slope?” Lucoyo asked,
feeling a chill of dread.

“It
is a wall made of trees set upright side by side, and sharpened on top,” Glabur
told him. “I was here once before, to trade furs for bronze blades. They would
not give me bronze, but they offered me a great deal of elegant pottery and
pretty beads.”

Lucoyo
gave a snort of laughter. “You did not come again, did you?”

“No,
I did not!” Glabur said grimly. “Pots are useful, but not worth the trip, and
we can make beads enough at home. But it is more than that—these Kuruites are
so suspicious, they give off such an air of malice, that you shudder just being
near them—and whenever they look at you, you cannot help but feel that they are
gauging how good a sacrifice you would make, to their scarlet god Ulahane.”

Lucoyo
felt another chill, but he forced a sour smile. “They will not do much
business, will they?”

“I
hope not,” Glabur answered, but he did not seem sure.

They
clambered ashore, stowed the coracle skins, and sank the frameworks under a
bank, where few would think to look for them. Then the hunters set to hiding
the canoes, muttering about it being nearly impossible without forest cover.
But Lucoyo was amazed—before his very eyes the canoes disappeared. Soon there
was nothing left but a long, low mound on the bank, of dried grass and last
year’s fallen leaves.

Glabur
turned to Ohaern. “What now, chief?”

It
was the first time anyone had said it, but Lucoyo realized it was true—Ohaern
was the chief, at least of this little band. The term raised his hackles, but
he reminded himself that this was Ohaern, not Gorin, and let the antagonism
subside.

“Did
you go inside the stockade?” Ohaern asked Glabur.

“Yes,
for that is where they do their trading.”

Ohaern
smiled. “It was well for you that you were willing to trade, or you might have
walked out of there without your furs after all.”

“And
lucky to walk out with his life,” Dalvan said darkly.

Ohaern
nodded. “They must have had sacrifices enough that month. It is large, then?”

“Large
enough to hold two villages the size of ours! Indeed, it does hold one—if you
can call four long houses of Kuruite soldiers a village. There is a fifth
house, too, for their women.”

Ohaern
frowned. “Odd that the wives would not live with their husbands.”

“I
did not say they were wives.”

“But
how else—” Ohaern broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. The ways of these
southern city-people are such that I will never understand them. Is there only
the one gate?”

“No,
there is a smaller one, wide enough for only one man at a time, at the back,
behind the temple.”

Lucoyo
stared. “They have a temple in there?”

“Did
I not say it could hold two villages? Yes, they have a temple, to worship
Ulahane. The prison is next to it—in fact, they share a wall.”

“All
the easier to make sacrifices of criminals,” Ohaern said grimly. “Are the gates
shut at night?”

“They
are, and held closed by a tree trunk squared enough to be a great bar. There is
a small gate on the southern side, but it, too, is closed and barred.”

“What
can be closed can be opened,” Dalvan growled.

“Without
question,” Ohaern agreed, “but I would rather open a small gate than a big one.
There should only be one guard there, for one thing, or perhaps two. Well,
then, my friends—which of you wish to go into the fortress and trade?”