The Shaman (28 page)

“But
that is too slow!” Marcoblin cried. “I need thousands, tens of thousands! Make
more, smith, make more!”

“I
tire of it.” Agrapax shrugged his massive, lumpy shoulders. “I am bored with
them and shall leave them to their own doings.”

Marcoblin’s
face grew dark with anger. “You must make more, many more! I have need of an
army!”

Agrapax
turned a very frosty gaze on him. “I must do as I please, Marcoblin, no more.”

“I
shall beat you!” Marcoblin blustered. “Indeed, if you do not do as I say, I
shall slay you, for you shall be of no use to me!”

“Slay
me? Will you indeed? And where shall you get a new spear when your old one
breaks? Where shall you find new armor, if this which you have should burst
beneath an opponent’s axe? Which it shall, at its maker’s death.” Agrapax
grinned into Marcoblin’s face, shaking his head. “No, Marcoblin, I do not think
you shall kill me—and if you seek to beat me, why, you shall have to match your
sword against my hammer.” He hefted the huge tool. “Your sword, which I made,
shall turn strangely brittle as it strikes my hammer—turn brittle, and break!”

Marcoblin
shook with rage, but there was nothing he could do but glare and clench his
fists.

“Oh,
fear not, your artificial army shall prove effective,” Agrapax said, “for they
are very long-lived, immensely strong, and very hard to kill—in fact, they must
be cut into little pieces, which must be scattered, if you wish to stop them.
But me, I shall not stop. I shall craft many more wonders—but no more of these.”
Agrapax slung his hammer over his shoulder and turned away. “I am going back to
my forge. Do not disturb me again.” He marched off, back to his crater of lava
and molten metal.

Marcoblin
glared after him—but the smith had spoken truly; there was nothing he could do.
Well, he would have to manage with a thousand homunculi. He strode down the
mountainside to take command of his new army.

“Was
the Creator angered?” Ohaern asked.

“If
He was, He made no sign,” Noril answered. “In fact, for all anyone knew, the
Creator ignored Marcoblin and the homunculi completely. Marcoblin grew angrier
and angrier, his mood darker and darker, speaking to no one, only marching his
homunculi up and down, watching them increase and preparing them for a battle
that the other Ulin could only wonder at, and shudder.

“But
one Ulin did more. Lomallin was horrified at the blasphemy, and at the
inflicting of existence on the poor Agrapaxians. ‘You have done wrong,’ he told
Marcoblin, ‘and I fear you would do worse! Would you defy the very Creator
Himself?’

“
‘It is no concern of yours, Wizard,’ Marcoblin snapped— for Lomallin was one of
the most skilled of the Ulin in the use of magic. Ulahane was the other, and he
was also skilled in arms, second only to Marcoblin.

“
‘It is my concern, and that of all the Ulin! If the Creator punishes you, He
may punish all of us with you!’ “

“
‘He is not so unjust, and you know it. If He wreaks vengeance upon me, I alone
shall bear it!’ “

Which
was true enough, but Lomallin still went away filled with foreboding.
Unfortunately, he spoke of this to Narlico, who was ambitious. He took Lomallin’s
concern and spoke of it to all the Ulin, haranguing them into thinking that
Marcoblin was about to betray them all, bringing disaster down upon their
heads. Many of them took alarm—almost half—and acclaimed Narlico their chief,
to lead them against Marcoblin and make him stop.

But
the other half of the Ulin hated humans, and applauded Marcoblin for mocking
them and, through that burlesque, mocking also the Creator. They drew their
line against Narlico and his supporters, calling them human-lovers and
demanding they leave Marcoblin alone to do as he would. Narlico, in response,
led all his Ulin to Marcoblin, to demand he make all his homunculi vanish—but
when they came, they found Marcoblin at the head of all the human-haters, with
the sorcerer Ulahane just behind and at his right hand.

“Then
the battle began.”

That
war must have lasted centuries,” said Ohaern, “with gods for warriors!”

“Not
so long as all that,” Noril corrected, “for the Ulin are immortal only in that
they will not die from age or illness—but they can be slain, especially by
another as skilled as themselves. Narlico was the first to be slain.”

Ohaern
smiled. “There was justice in that. He should not have worked up strife as a
means of advancing himself.”

“Who
are you to judge the gods?” Noril demanded, eyes flashing.

It
took Ohaern aback, but he rallied. “I judge Ulahane to be evil, Sage. Was
Narlico so much better?”

“He
was on the side of right, at least,” Noril grumbled.

Meaning
our side.
But Ohaern remembered the dead of his own clan, and the maimed
fishermen, and did not say it aloud. “Who, then, took his place?”

“An
Ulin named Daglorin, who had all the motives Narlico lacked. He believed
ardently in loyalty to the Creator and fairness to the new races.”

Ohaern
frowned. “What of Lomallin in all this—he who bred the cause for the fight?”

“He
stood staunchly at Narlico’s right hand, then stood as valiantly at Daglorin’s—but
claimed he was no fighter, though a great wizard, and no leader to boot. Many
Ulin died—on both sides, but more among the human-lovers than the human-haters,
and Daglorin turned in desperation to Lomallin . ..

“Build
us a fortress, Lomallin,” Daglorin said, “for if we have no stronghold, we
shall perish. It is an irony supreme that Marcoblin has sent his Agrapaxians
against us, when we fight to free them!”

“He
has told them we seek to free them from life,” Lomallin said bitterly, “by
putting them to death. I never said that—I only said that he was wrong to bid
the smith make them, and should now leave them free to pursue their own
destiny. Is it not ironic that Agrapax holds aloof from all this?”

“At
least he has forgone making more weapons,” Daglorin said, “but we shall be
reduced to throwing stones if we lose many more!”

“Throwing
stones . . .” Lomallin gazed off into the distance, then went away, muttering
to himself.

He
climbed down to the earth far to the south and east, and there raised up mighty
stones. He set them in a circle, twice the height of an Ulin, four times the
height of a man, and capped their ring with stone lintels. Then he charged each
stone with the power of his magic, power that wove an invisible wall between
each pair of uprights, stronger and more impenetrable than the stone itself.
Daglorin was delighted with the stronghold, and the human-lovers flocked to it,
where at last they could rest securely. But their very first night there, a horde
of goblins burst out of the ground about the megaliths, yowling and clamoring
and beating against the unseen wall— and while the Ulin were distracted in
trying to discover why the small, ugly beings were so angry with them,
Marcoblin and his host stooped upon them unawares, thinking the sky above the
ring was unprotected. But Lomallin had woven his unseen force there, too, and
the human-haters struck against it with howls of rage and disappointment.

“Even
here they would pounce upon us without warning!” Daglorin shouted. “They have
seduced one of the younger races to distract us, and would slay us in our beds!
This treachery must end here and now, my kinsmen! Out upon them!” And he led
the human-lovers out, ravening for the blood of their own kind.

“Short
and vicious was that battle, O Friend, as Marcoblin sought to cut through the
throng to slay Daglorin, whom he fancied to be his worst enemy, and Daglorin
sought to cut down Marcoblin’s bodyguard, so that he might slay the king,
thinking he was the keystone of the whole battle. Deft blows grew crude as the
Ulin wore one another down, and most forgot magic in their rage, so that it was
brute force against rough blows, and as they tired, little enough skill even in
that. But at last the goblins swarmed up the megaliths, seeking still to
distract the human-lovers, and they did succeed in distracting Lomallin, who
turned from protecting Daglorin long enough to send a charge of heat through
the stones, burning the feet and hands of the goblins so that they dropped off,
shrieking—and since that day, all goblins have sworn enmity to Lomallin,
forgetting that their ancestors’ burns healed and they still lived, but that
many Ulin died. For, while Lomallin was chasing goblins, Marcoblin at last
hewed his way through to Daglorin, and the two set to their final battle with
edged steel, Daglorin’s sword and buckler against Marcoblin’s axe and shield.

“Sparks
flew from the strikes of blade against axehead, sparks that flew a hundred
miles and set fire to whole forests; blood fell, and gathered into a sea,
flowing down into rivers. It is there yet today, charred and glazed, a sea of
glass, of Ulin blood. But at last Daglorin, wearied, brought his buckler up too
late, and Marcoblin’s axe bit through his chest. Even as it did, though,
Daglorin’s great sword severed the king’s head. It flew many leagues and fell,
striking a huge great bowl in the ground, with a dark hole at its center where
the head sank down to the fire beneath the ground—and who knows but that it may
have swum up again, to become part of one of Agrapax’s new marvels. But
Daglorin’s body fell down upon the unseen roof of the fortress, and the few
Ulin who remained stepped back, lowering their weapons in unspoken truce,
stunned by the amount of blood that had been shed and the numbers of Ulin who
had died. As the human-lovers gathered up the body of their leader and carried
it away into the mountains for burial, the human-haters turned away and, one by
one, sought solitude far from mortal eyes—or those of other Ulin—to let their
wounds heal, and study peace.”

Ohaern
frowned. “But there
was
no peace.”

“For
a time, there was,” Noril corrected, “for some centuries.”

“But
then?”

“Then
Ulahane took up the mantle of the fallen king,” Noril sighed, “and his cause,
also. But Ulahane is a far mightier wizard than ever Marcoblin was, and cares
more for seeing the lesser races all slain than for his own glory—so he is a
far worse enemy than ever Marcoblin was.”

“But
Lomallin is equally great in wizardry.”

“Equally
great, and now schooled in the ways of war.” Noril nodded. “Ranol would choose
not to fight if he could—but he cannot, so fight he does. But there are few
Ulin left now, and fewer of them who wish to be caught up in Ulahane’s mad,
suicidal cause—so the God of Blood seeks to mobilize all the lesser races
against Lomallin. If he can ever strike down the green god, he will turn his
powers against the very races that have fought for him—but few of them believe
that. They think the notion to be only a lie spread by Ranol’s worshipers.”

“And
will learn the truth only as they die in pain,” Ohaern said grimly. “But the
Agrapaxians were freed?”

“Freed
to seek their own destiny,” Noril agreed, “save that they were made without
one. But who knows what the Creator had in mind when He permitted Agrapax to
craft them? Who knows but that He may have had a destiny in mind for them after
all?”

“Who
knows, indeed?” Ohaern agreed. “But what of the prophecy, Sage? The prophecy
that only by his death can Lomallin become more powerful than Ulahane? How can
the scarlet god dare slay him?”

“Perhaps
he does not,” Noril replied. “Perhaps he seeks only some way to immobilize
Ranol, to bind him tight with cold iron and spells that he cannot break.”

Ohaern
shuddered. “I would prefer a clean death.”

“Clean
death,” said Noril, “is not what Ulahane would give.”

Ohaern
came out of the temple refreshed in his heart, but also confused. He had never
before heard the details of the gods’ jealousies. How could they be gods if
they were jealous of men? He thought that perhaps Ranol was different from
Lomallin after all, or the old priest did not have the story right.

That
was all of utmost importance, of course, but not of immediate concern. The
current problem was to warn Cashalo of its coming doom—the Vanyar horde—and to
help prepare them to meet it.

If
they believed him. If they chose to fight.

He
went looking for Lucoyo.

He
found the half-elf sitting on the steps of the house in which Ohaern had left
him, a goblet in his hand, chatting with two giggling, if overblown, beauties.
Looking at them, Ohaern was shocked—first by the thickness of the paint on
their faces, then, peering beneath it, by the ravages of dissipation—so his
voice was sharper than he intended when he spoke. “Ho, archer! What do you here?”

Lucoyo
looked up, surprised and ready for a fight—then, seeing it was Ohaern, leaned
back with an insolent grin. “Why, drinking the wine of the far south and
chatting with two agreeable girls. I have already tasted the grapes of Kuru and
of Henjo, borne from afar by industrious trading ships. They are all excellent,
though this of Egypt is tart.”

“Tart,
yes,” Ohaern said, with a glance at each of the women. If they were young
enough to be girls, he was a bear’s father! “But why do you loiter on the doorstep,
instead of within?”

“It
is hot inside—” Lucoyo paused at the women’s giggles and gave them a knowing
grin, then turned back to Ohaern. “—and the evening is cool. Besides, I have
given them all my gold beads, and the silver, too. I shall have to get more.”

“Indeed
you must!” said one of the “girls,” while the other giggled and tipped the
goblet against his lips.

Ohaern
felt a thrill of alarm. How many robberies could Lucoyo commit before he was
caught? “Then are you not stealing these women’s favors?”

“No,”
said the one on Lucoyo’s left, “for we choose freely to come chat with him, and
our master thinks we may attract customers.”