The Shaman (18 page)

The
forest path stood empty, but a voice from among the leaves said sourly, “The
lust for blood may cloud their senses, but it is your spell that clouds their
minds.”

“Even
so,” said the sage’s voice. “Be silent now, and let them pass.” He began to
chant softly.

“Revenge
tomorrow shall be as sweet as revenge today,” Ohaern assured his tribesmen. “Bide
in patience.”

“All
well and good for
you
to say,” snarled a young widower. “You have had
your revenge!”

“Not
enough, I assure you,” Ohaern said. “Not even a beginning.”

His
voice was so grim, so thick with banked anger, that his tribesmen fell silent
in sheer surprise. In his thicket, Lucoyo’s grin drew his lips back from his
teeth; he knew in his own heart the depth of hatred from which the chieftain
spoke.

The
wood stood silent a while, except for the occasional scrape of leather against
bark. The chorus of yipping grew louder.

Then
they came, pushing the leaves aside, treading stealthily even though their
conversation was loud—anthropoid torsos and limbs with jackals’ feet and fur,
yapping to one another and snarling back and forth. There was a tension to them
that might have been either apprehension or leashed eagerness. On they went
down the trail, oblivious to the Biriae hidden all about them. They passed
between ranks of men, every one of whom crouched with naked blade, yearning for
a single Klaja to turn aside and stab at him—but none did. Under tree limbs
freighted with Biriae they padded, but never once looked up.

Lucoyo
tracked the biggest one with a barbed arrowhead, but the beast never even
glanced into the undergrowth, only snarled at the other Klaja about him.

Then
they were gone, vanished into the forest’s gloom.

The
path stayed silent for a few minutes; then a voice demanded, “How long, O Sage?”

“Wait
yet a while,” Manalo told him. “When we are sure there are no stragglers yet to
come, we shall resume our journey.”

“I
could have carved out that big one’s liver,” an older Biri growled.

“I
would have been happy enough to see my arrow through his heart,” Lucoyo
answered.

“Yet
you withheld your hands.” Manalo’s voice was warm with praise. “Well done, O
Biriae. Your forbearance today shall win a greater vengeance tomorrow.”

There
was some grumbling at that, but nothing with any real heart to it.

After
a while, leaves rustled, and the sage stepped out onto the path. “There are no
more to come, and the band is far enough past not to hear. Away!”

One
by one they emerged; fifty strong, they followed the sage and the smith along
the path in the direction opposite to that of the Klaja.

Twice
more they hid and waited while groups of jackal-men went past them toward the
Ulharl. Then, as twilight darkened the forest, Manalo held up a hand. “Hist!”

The
Biriae halted, some glowering resentfully at the man who had deprived them of
revenge, some glancing apprehensively at the foliage around them.

“They
come hot-foot,” Manalo told them, has whole body taut, “with their master
whipping them on. Now must you hide in earnest, Biriae—but be ready to strike
your hardest if they discover you!”

“We
could have diminished their strength with safety!” Dalvan howled.

“No,”
said Manalo, “for then they would not need to search for us—they would
know.
There is one party seeking us in this direction, yes, but they are one among
many quartering the forest, for they have no certain knowledge even of the
direction we have taken.”

“Then
we may strike at them?” a younger man asked eagerly.

“Not
unless they strike us,” said Ohaern, “for that would bring the whole host down
upon us, and the Ulharl with them. We must hide again, my friends, and trust in
the sage’s magic to conceal us.”

“But
what of the Ulharl’s magic?”

“As
ever, it is Lomallin’s power against Ulahane’s,” Manalo told him, “locked
against one another in balance, with the spirit and effort of mortals deciding
the issue. Hide, and have your weapons ready!”

Once
again they hid in a thicket; once again Ohaern posted sentries, changing by
watches. Once again the sage wove his spell of concealment, and the night
passed in fear mingled with longing for battle. Many were the eyes that closed,
but few were the warriors who slept.

Four
times during the night they heard the yipping and growling of Klaja coming
nearer and nearer, and men grasped weapons in fierce hope of discovery,
determined to sell their lives dearly, for the only reason they had now for
living was to slay as many Klaja as they could. But soon enough the noises
receded again, the barks and growls and occasional gutturals that the
jackal-men used for speech, as the Klaja passed by. Disappointed, the Biriae
relaxed again—a little.

Finally
the forest lightened with a foretaste of dawn, and Manalo banished the
concealment spell with a mutter and a gesture. Ohaern rose up. “Come, men of
mine! We have survived the night and can press onward to some true vengeance.”

“Press
onward!” a grizzled warrior cried in disgust. “Six times now you have cheated
us of the chance to sell our lives in that pursuit!”

“To
what purpose?” Ohaern replied. “We would only have taken a small number of the
Klaja, and there is no point in that. They are not the enemy.”

A
chorus of protest answered him. “Not the enemy? They have slain our people,
they have destroyed our village! If they are not the enemy, who is?”

“The
one who drives them,” Manalo answered, “and the one who drives the driver.
Ohaern speaks truth. The Klaja are tools, and unwilling ones at that; I doubt
that any of them has even the ghost of a notion of choice, between obedience
and death at the Ulharl’s hands. Ulahane warped the union of jackal and human
to bear fruit; Ulahane made them; Ulahane drives the Ulharl who drive the
Klaja. It is with Ulahane that your quarrel lies, not with his poor victims.”

The
glade fell silent, each Biri glancing at his neighbor, then away, feeling the
touch of terror in his vitals. “Who can fight a god?” Glabur whispered. “Who
could dare to go up against Ulahane?”

“A
fool mad for revenge,” Ohaern answered, “and such a fool am I. Who will go with
me to strike against the Scarlet One?”

The
clearing held in silence, the Biriae staring at the big smith as if he had
taken leave of his senses.

“Remember,”
said Manalo, “that the powers of Lomallin and Ulahane are equal, and locked in
balance. It is mortal folk who may decide the issue, whether they be Klaja or
human or Ulharl—and the Ulharl may be very hard to kill, but they do die.”

“Then
if we wish to strike against Ulahane,” Glabur said, “ought we not to strike
against his mortal minions?”

“So
we must,” Ohaern agreed. “Where is he strongest in human followers?”

The
Biriae muttered and shifted, for they all knew the answer. Finally, Dalvan
spoke it aloud. “In Kuru,” he said, “for that is the Scarlet One’s citadel.”

“You
have spoken well and truly,” Ohaern answered grimly, “and therefore shall I go
up against Kuru. Who will go with me?”

There
was no silence, not a moment’s hesitation; fifty voices cried, “I!” with a
savagery that surprised even Ohaern. But it braced him and set him a broad
smile. “Well, then, we go, we who are left of the Clan of the Hawk!”

“There
may be others who fled, and hid so well we could not find them,” said one of
the grizzled veterans. “Oh, I pray to Lomallin, let it be so!”

“Let
it be so,” Ohaern agreed, “but if it is, they are so well hid that even we
could not find them.”

“Pray
the Klaja will not find them either!” the veteran cried.

“I
shall,” Ohaern told him, “so that the clan may not die. But to better their
chances, let us give Ulahane a greater concern. Southward! We march to the
river, and ride it to Kuru!”

The
men answered with a ferocious shout and followed the smith—a smith no longer,
but a war chief now.

Lucoyo
strode with searing anger and hatred rekindled: the anger he had felt for the
clan that had reared him, redoubled and double-heated now, but directed at
Ulahane. How temeritous of a man to assail a god! How impossible a task, how
hopeless! But how else was he to find any meaning in life, or any reason for
living?

As
for Ohaern, he forced his steps, hiding the deep and bitter depression that
dragged at his heels and bade him he down and wait for death, for Ryl was no
more, and the child she had birthed, Ohaern’s son, was lost with the rest of
the clan, probablylost in death, never to be seen in the world again. He had
never even named the babe! Yes, Ohaern had indeed a strong grievance against
Ulahane—and no other reason to live.

Unlike
Lucoyo, though, it never occurred to him to think of attacking a god as
arrogance. He only knew that Ulahane was the true source of his misery, and
must suffer for it as Ryl had suffered—and, more importantly, that the Scarlet
One must be eliminated, or humanity would never be happy again. Indeed, if
Ulahane lived, humanity would die.

The
question was whether humanity could be saved. From what Manalo had been telling
him, more and more people were devoting themselves and their lives to Ulahane,
out of greed or due to false promises, and they very well might overwhelm the
good folk, who were dedicated to Lomallin. Ohaern set his face toward the
south, determined to find out for himself just how much evil there was in the
world, and how much good to set against it. Unlike other men who have
undertaken that quest, he had a very practical reason.

Of
one thing he was certain: the evil of the city of Kuru must not be allowed to
persist.

When
they stopped to rest at midday, Ohaern asked, “Where are we bound for on our
first stage, Teacher? To the river, surely—but where shall that river take us?”

“To
Cashalo,” Manalo answered. “It is a city two hundred leagues from Kuru, but
which is loyal to Lomallin and has thus far held steady against Ulahane and his
minions. There are many cities in the south, and only a few have fallen to the
worship of the Scarlet One. When you come to any city, be circumspect until you
have discovered to which Ulin it is devoted. Some, such as Cashalo, will
shelter you for no better reason than that you are strangers who might wish to
trade, or to work among them.”

“But
none will shelter us for being Ulahane’s enemies?” Lucoyo asked.

Manalo
smiled sadly. “Alas, no—they may not worship Ulahane, but they fear him. And be
wary of thinking of yourselves as Ulahane’s enemies, archer.”

“Yes,
I know,” Lucoyo said sourly. “Are the flies who seek to drink my blood my
enemies? Are mice? Surely I am theirs—but are they dangerous enough to be mine?”

“Say,
rather, the serpent who sinks his fangs into your flesh,” Ohaern returned, “who
bites your heel even as you seek to crush him with your foot!”

The
Biriae rumbled agreement, but Manalo shook his head. “Do not embrace the viper
in your hearts, O Biriae. Remember that your totem is the hawk, who strikes
boldly and suddenly, and does not slink upon you in secret. Be mindful that the
hawk pounces on prey—he does not seek revenge.”

“But
how can we do anything else?” Ohaern erupted. “We, who have lost all we love
because of Ulahane’s malice!”

“You
can wipe out a menace,” Manalo replied, “as you would slay a rabid wolf. But do
not feed your hate, or dote on vengeance, for then is Ulahane in your heart,
and you are half swayed to the Scarlet One even by your own hatred for him. If
you must slay his slaves and his servants, do so to ensure that they will not
slay more innocents, not to slake your thirst for vengeance.”

“But
if a man has hurt me,” Lucoyo said, “I must hurt him in return, so that he will
know not to hurt me again!”

“Ulahane
will ensure that there are always more who seek to hurt you, no matter how many
hurts you give in return,” said Manalo. “He hates you for no better reason than
that you are human—even you, Lucoyo, for he hates all the younger races almost
as much as he hates humankind. No, revenge against Ulahane and his pawns will
not lessen his will to hurt and slay you and your kind—but it will lead you
into his power.”

Ohaern
scowled. “You do not mean that lust for revenge on Ulahane will make us his
worshipers!”

“No,”
said Manalo, “but it will give him a handle by which to grasp you, and once
having a hold on you, he will draw you in, to slay you.”

“So.”
Lucoyo leaned forward, brow wrinkled with the effort of understanding. “We
should fight Ulahane’s creatures because they are a threat, not because we wish
to punish them, or are angry at them.”

“Even
so,” said the sage.

“We
are not to strike in anger, or in hatred, or because they have hurt us.”

Manalo
nodded. “Evil motives against evil enemies ensure evil results. If you wish to
defeat Ulahane, you must not use his weapons, or they will turn in your hands,
turn against you and cut you apart.”

“Well,
I can accept that,” the half-elf sighed, leaning back. “It rankles, mind you—it
will go hard, but I shall manage it.

At
the last, I care not why I kill Ulahane’s creatures—so long as they die.”

“That
will have to suffice.” Manalo hid a smile of amusement. He rose and addressed
himself to the clan. “Come; we must be on the road again. If you go up against
Kuru, you must begin by visiting the most northerly of the southern
cities—Cashalo—for there you will find ships and captains that can take you to
the eastern lands far more quickly than you can walk.”

“Cashalo?”
Dalvan frowned. “I have heard of that city. But how shall we find our way?”