The Shaman (17 page)

As
they did, Manalo held his palms out toward the hole as if he were warming them
at a fire, and chanted words of power.

But
the Ulharl was chanting in his pit even as he was gouging handholds, then
kicking them into footholds and climbing up toward the rim. He surged up the
last four feet, head and shoulders shooting into sight, right arm swinging
down, fingers widespread, as he shouted his own enchantment—and a thousand
dripping teeth shot through the air to englobe the sage. But even as they flew,
Manalo shouted his imperative, and a thousand needle-sharp daggers flew to stab
at the Ulharl from all sides.

They
scarcely seemed to concern him. He roared anger at the annoyance, swatting the
blades out of the air with palms that must have been as hard as oak, while his
roar turned into a chant that brought the thousand knives tinkling down.

Manalo
banished the dripping teeth with a snapped phrase and a gesture of irritation.
They did not fall, but simply ceased to be; the air around him was suddenly
clear. Instantly, he began to chant again, molding something invisible in his
hands, forming a large ball that gradually became visible, then began to glow,
brighter and brighter.

The
Ulharl bellowed as he threw himself out of the pit.

The
globe in Manalo’s hand burst into flame as he hurled it into the Ulharl’s face.

Snarling,
the Ulharl swung a huge hand to bat the fireball out of the air—but as he did,
it burst into five separate brands, each hurtling toward him. He swatted at
them, hands a blur, lips pulled back in a snarl of pleasure as he sent one,
then two, caroming back toward the Biriae, then three, four ...

And
the dark sphere in their midst, which had rocketed on unnoticed, struck his
chest and exploded.

The
Ulharl only began to scream; the sound was cut off as he fell, a huge dark
sunburst across his chest—but only across, not within. The Klaja froze,
staring, struck dumb by the fall of their leader—or, perhaps, their herder, for
as the fact of his falling sank in, they threw back their heads and howled—
though it was a howl that seemed to have as much of elation as of fear.

Then
the Biriae shouted with triumph, and the howl definitely became one of panic.
The Klaja dropped their spears and ran. Biriae pounded after them, shouting
their battle cry.

“Stop!”
Ohaern cried. “Do not pursue! They may lead you into division and fall upon you
piecemeal!”

The
eager Biriae hesitated.

“We
cannot be sundered now!” the chieftain called. “There are too few of us left!”

“Too
few, indeed,” Manalo answered him, speaking loudly, “and those few must seek
out the others, whether they be slain or fled. Quickly, there is little time!
My fireball has only marked this Ulharl and sent him to sleep; he shall waken
all too soon, and we must be gathered and gone!”

That
pulled the Biriae back, and they fanned out in search, looking for signs of
tribesmen who might have fled.

But
Lucoyo was looking frantically among the bodies, heaving Klaja forms up and
away until he could look into the face of the Biri beneath. Then, whether it
was dead or merely stunned or wounded, the nomad moved on, searching again and
again, growing more and more frantic as he did.

“He
does as he should,” Manalo said to the startled clansmen. “Seek for your
scattered fellows, for many fled the Klaja and many have fallen to their
onslaught. Bring them together, those who have hidden—but quickly, for there is
little time!”

“The
Klaja will not come back while their champion lies dead,” Ohaern objected.

“I
have told you he is not dead, but only unconscious, and Ulahane still shields
him enough to keep my spells from slaying him! We must be gone ere he awakes!
Speed you!”

They
sped, the Biriae fanning out in every direction, heaving the dead Klaja aside
and slaying those who were badly wounded. Dead Biriae they left where they lay,
in sorrow, for there was no time to bury them. At last Manalo summoned them
back, and they came, with five women, two old men, three girls, and a boy. “These
are all we found, O Sage,” Dalvan said.

“But
Elluaera! Was there no trace of Elluaera?” Lucoyo cried.

“None,”
Dalvan said, his face heavy with pity.

But,
“I saw her fall,” one of the old men said. “A Klaja spear transfixed her, and I
threw myself against the knees of the beast; he fell, and I cut his throat, but
another came on us in an instant. I saw her crawl into a brake, and the Klaja
thrust into it with his spear. Her scream was short.”

The
half-elf threw back his head, keening grief, and sank to his knees, burying his
face in his hands.

“But
I did not
see
her die!” the old man amended.

“Do
not give him false hope,” Ohaern said heavily. “It is far more cruel than the
harsh truth.”

“But
we have not found her body,” Dalvan objected.

“She
may have crawled deeper into the underbrush as she died,” the chief answered, “or
even into the stream, and the current may have whirled her away.” But he did
not say what was uppermost in his mind, what all of them were thinking— that
the Klaja might have borne her body away for feasting. Certainly there were
many bodies missing.

The
fallen giant gave a single rasping groan. Electrified, everyone whipped about,
staring at him—but he still lay on his back, though with no more movement than
the silent rise and fall of his chest.

The
sound brought Lucoyo staring up from his grief. “Can you not slay him?” he
demanded of the sage.

“Yes,
given enough time,” said Manalo, “but he would waken before that. They are
incredibly tough and hard to kill, these Ulharl—they are half immortal, after
all, and though their father can be slain, it would take another Ulin to do it.”

“Hard
to kill, eh?” Lucoyo glared at the supine giant, eyes narrowing.

“Very,”
the sage answered.

With
a cry like a bird of prey striking, Lucoyo threw himself onto the giant’s
chest, stabbing down full-armed—but a hand’s breadth from the Ulharl’s hide,
the blade turned aside as if it had met curving steel. Lucoyo screamed in
frustration and struck again, again ...

“Peace,
archer, peace!” Ohaern seized the half-elf and wrestled him away. “Ulahane’s
spell protects his get; you can do no good!”

“I
can do a great deal of good for my aching heart!” Lucoyo cried, struggling. “Release
me, Biri! Let me at least wear out my anger on his unholy body!”

“There
is not enough time for that, there will never be enough time for that! I know
the depth of your passion, outlander, I have seen it in the way you smite your
enemies! The Ulharl would waken to find you on his chest, and I would lose a
valiant fighter!”

“Lose
me! Let me be lost!” Lucoyo cried, throwing himself back and forth against the
smith’s arm. “If Elluaera is lost, let me be lost, too!” And he thrashed about
from side to side, a howl tearing at his throat—until suddenly he went limp and
slid from Ohaern’s grasp to the ground, where he knelt, sobbing.

“Pick
him up, and take him with us,” Manalo commanded, “for we cannot stay here, and
we must not lose so greathearted a man.”

Glabur
and Dalvan moved in to gather up their fallen comrade, almost tenderly, and
Dalvan carried Lucoyo off over his shoulder.

Manalo
turned to the assembled Biriae. “We have searched and we have found only a few.
Pray to Lomallin to aid those others who have escaped these Klaja, and pray
that most of your tribesmen have done so—but pray for your dead when there is
time, for we must flee now, and quickly, ere this Ulharl awakes and rallies his
poor twisted pack. Come, away!” He turned and strode off, robes billowing,
staff rising and falling with his steps. Ohaern turned back to beckon only
once, then set off after the sage. More slowly, the others followed—but
followed faster and faster the farther they went.

They
vanished among the trees, leaving the fallen giant alone with the dead.

Then
the Ulharl grunted and groaned, and his huge body shivered. One arm jerked up,
then fell back—and the giant lay still again, lit dimly by the ruddy glow of
the still-burning campfire.

As
they walked, Ohaern stepped up beside Manalo and asked, his voice low, “Is
Ulahane, then, so much stronger than Lomallin that you, who draw on Lomallin’s
power, cannot slay one who draws on the power of the scarlet god?”

“Ulahane
and Lomallin are equal in power, Ohaern,” the sage answered, just as softly.

“Then
why could not you, who serve the green god, escape from Ulahane’s prison?”

Manalo
sighed wearily. “Because the two are equal in power, as I have said; it is the
lesser beings, the humans and Klaja and others whom they can each sway to their
sides, that will decide the conflict.”

“As
Ulahane prevented you from coming to the aid of my wife, by imprisoning you?”
Ohaern scowled blackly. “Or do I accord myself too much importance?”

“Every
human being is important to Lomallin,” Manalo answered sharply. “But yes, you
are more important than most, Ohaern. You are the pivot on which a battle shall
swing, perhaps more than one—so if Ulahane can seduce or cripple you, he will.”

Ohaern
looked up, staring, appalled. “Then may Lomallin protect me! Am I truly singled
out for the spite of the Scarlet One?”

“You
are,” Manalo answered, “but you are also elected for Lomallin’s special
protection. He is wise in that, for even as Ulahane thwarted him in his desire
to save your wife, so you thwarted Ulahane by freeing me.”

“Is
there no way for Lomallin to become stronger than Ulahane?” Ohaern protested.

“Only
by dying, as I have told you before. He can only become stronger than Ulahane
if the Scarlet One kills him.”

“Only
Ulahane?” Ohaern frowned. “He does not become stronger if another Ulin kills
him?”

“I
suppose he might—but who among the few Ulin who remain would do such a deed? Be
sure that if Lomallin dies, it will be Ulahane who slays him. And since Ulahane,
too, has heard that prophecy, he takes great care not to murder Lomallin. To
wound him, to maim him if he can, perhaps— certainly to defeat him in every
other way, to hinder and frustrate and oppose him—but he will not slay the
Green One, for fear of that redoubled strength.”

“But
how can Lomallin become stronger by dying?”

“Only
the Creator knows that, until it shall come to pass,” Manalo returned. “For
now, it is a prophecy that both Ulin accept, though they do not comprehend the
way of it.”

Ohaern
glowered at the ground ahead of them, gnawing over a point that troubled him. “If
the Creator knows how Lomallin shall gain strength, could it be that he truly
prefers Lomallin’s way to Ulahane’s, and lends him strength enough to win in
the end?”

“I
devoutly hope so,” Manalo replied.

“But
we cannot
know
, can we?” Ohaern lifted his head with a grimace of
distaste. “Gods are so stingy with knowledge of why they do as they do. Does
even Lomallin know whether the Creator has given him greater strength than
Ulahane?”

“No,”
Manalo said, with full certainty. “None of us can
know
, Ohaern—we can
only strive to our utmost to accomplish what we believe is right. And that,
perhaps, is the reason the Creator does not reveal the knowledge.”

“I
feel that I am a toy being played with,” Ohaern grumbled.

“Do
not we all?” Manalo smiled. “Nevertheless, we can strive until we know our
circumstances, and work to use them to best advantage. That is still a great
deal, Ohaern, and if our circumstances make us toys, then certainly our
manipulation of them must make us a great deal more.”

Ohaern
looked up at him, frowning. “You speak as if our lives were a game of
jackstraws.”

Manalo
laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Perhaps they are, Ohaern—perhaps they
are like to jackstraws. But remember—only ‘like.’ “ His hand still on the smith’s
shoulder, he steered him onward down the woodland path.

They
had been on the road perhaps half an hour when they heard shrill yips ahead.
Lucoyo’s head snapped up; then, with a growl, he drew his long knife. About
him, bereaved husbands and fathers likewise drew swords and raised spears, the
whole group emitting an angry rumble.

“Nay,
down!” Manalo said urgently. He waved them back, saying, “In among the trees,
quickly! Their master summons them back, and if they do not come, he shall know
where we are!”

“Let
him know,” said a grizzled veteran. “Let him come. We shall carve his dogs for
his dinner.”

“We
must not,” Manalo countered, “for though we may prevail, we shall pay heavily
for the victory. You are diminished by half already; if the victory costs you
the other half, it is no triumph at all, no matter how few Klaja survive. This
Ulharl may lose, but his master shall win. Into the brakes with you now, so
that you may fight tomorrow, and again the day after, and whittle down the
enemy shaving by shaving, till there are none of them left, but many of you!
Hide!”

The
bereaved stood a moment, glowering and wavering; then Ohaern stepped forward to
herd them off the track and into the underbrush. Unwillingly, they went.

Other
Biriae were already climbing the trees. When they had, they held spears poised,
and Lucoyo strung his bow.

“Strike
only to defend yourselves,” Manalo counseled. “If they do not strike you, let
them pass.”

“How
can they miss us,” Glabur demanded, “with their jackals’ sense of smell?”

“It
is clouded by the aroma of blood in their nostrils, by their eagerness for it.
They do not expect you here and are therefore less likely to see you.” Manalo
stepped into the undergrowth, too.