The Shaman (39 page)

“Neither
his, nor Lomallin’s, nor that of any of the Ulin. Indeed, we would be foolish
to ignore even the power of another human being. No, we know that the beings
you call ‘gods’ are far more powerful than mere humans—but we also know that
they are not omnipotent. They are an elder race, a more powerful race—but they
are not truly gods.”

And
what could Ohaern say, when his own teacher had told him the same thing?

He
could change tactics, though. “If you know the Star-Maker to be the most
powerful god, do you Biharu not feel you should extend His rule over all the
world?”

Dariad
shook his head, smiling. “He already rules the whole world.”

Lucoyo
did not understand how Dariad could say such a thing, when Ulahane strove
against Lomallin so harshly, and with such determination to bring about the
suffering of all humankind, not to mention the rest of the few surviving Ulin.
He said as much, he strove and argued and pointed out the contradictions inherent
in believing in only one god—but his doubts did not bother the young herdsman
at all. He proceeded to answer each of Ohaern’s arguments with a placid
demeanor, even though some of his ideas must have been inspired at that moment.

Oddly,
his imperturbable, unshakable behef in his God did not ruffle Ohaern, either;
he understood what the herder meant, though he could not explain it to Lucoyo
when the half-elf complained that a world with only one God made no sense.
Ohaern was not skilled with words, as Dariad seemed to be, and anyway, this
went beyond language. All he could say was, “I cannot see that it makes much
difference, Lucoyo. Greater men or lesser gods, what matter?”

In
similar fashion, Ohaern could not explain why he knew that Dariad, who seemed
so simple in his serenity, was really a very important man. Perhaps it was
because, in his very simplicity, he was so completely dedicated to Goodness and
Rightness, and was so greathearted, so enthusiastic and compassionate, that his
personality was staggering. But Ohaern knew him for a marked man, marked for
Ulahane’s destruction. He was an excellent fighter, though, and Ohaern quickly
realized that his simplicity was that of a completely unified, harmonious soul,
and had nothing to do with intelligence. Indeed, Dariad was very intelligent,
but had found no occasion to use his capacity. He was so easygoing and so
clumsy in his happy abstraction that he came in for a great deal of
good-natured teasing. The rest of the clan seemed to view him with fond condescension.

So
the companions passed an enjoyable, if quiet, five-day convalescence and were
just beginning to feel strong enough to follow Manalo further in his mad quest,
when the caravan came winding its way through the wasteland toward the oasis
where the herders were camped.

The
Biharu greeted the caravan with delight. The traders, initially wary, let go of
the axes and swords that hung on their saddles and climbed down with broad
grins to exchange greetings with the nomads, and trade wine for water. They
pitched tents of their own, lit campfires, and settled down to some serious
bargaining. Ohaern was amazed at the trade goods the Biharu brought
out—bracelets and jewelry of fine workmanship, and rugs and carpets of
intricate design and vivid color. Eavesdropping shamelessly, he learned that
nearly every Biharu was an expert crafter, making these wonders in leisure
hours stolen from the hard business of survival. He was even more amazed to
discover that the Biharu were shrewd bargainers, exchanging their creations for
an equal weight of raw metal and dyes, plus polished gemstones, wines, and
other luxuries.

However,
he also noted that only half a dozen of the forty traders actually did the
bargaining, while the others strolled about the camp, surveying the Biharu
entirely too casually. He began to stroll himself, suspicion growing—then
crystalizing when he saw three of the traders standing in a tense group,
muttering to one another and casting furtive glances at one particular nomad
...

Dariad.

It
was reassuring to know that someone else thought the man had special qualities,
but Ohaern did not think he liked the nature of their interest. Accordingly,
for the rest of the evening he made sure he was never very far from Dariad.
When the fire was lighted, the meat roasting, and the wineskins passing, he
brought Lucoyo to a place near the tranquil nomad, ostensibly to have a better
look at the dancing; and when the Biharu and the traders reeled unsteadily back
to their respective camps, Ohaern contrived to keep Dariad in sight as he
strolled back to his tent.

So
he was very near when five traders appeared from behind the tent and fell on
Dariad in coldly ruthless silence.

Ohaern
shouted an angry warning and ran toward the fracas. Dariad whipped about, and
Ohaern saw a knife gleaming in his hand just before three of the attackers fell
upon him. Then the other two fell upon Ohaern, one leaping for his head, the
other coming in low with a dagger. Ohaern shouted in rage, drawing his own
knife in a broad sweep, and the lower attacker had to pull back for a
moment—just long enough for Ohaern to catch the jumper by the throat. A fist
rocked his head, and the night scene was shot with tiny points of light, but he
threw the man from him, straight into his companion, then fell back in guard
stance, shaking his head to clear it. The attackers unsnarled themselves and
came for him again, but more warily this time, one advancing while the other
waited to strike from behind, still in that uncanny silence.

But
if they would not shout, Ohaern would. “Biharu! Help! Your kinsman is attacked!”

The
merchant forgot caution in his haste to silence Ohaern and leaped forward,
thrusting with his knife. Ohaern caught his wrist and bent it outward. The man’s
mouth opened wide in a silent shout of agony; then Ohaern’s knife fist cracked
into his chin, closing his jaw for him, and the smith threw the unconscious man
into his friend, who was just pivoting in to thrust. The knife caught his
companion in the back; then Ohaern caught the assassin, and his knife hilt
slapped into the base of the man’s skull. He longed to use the point, but was
afraid of starting a war with the traders. He threw the unconscious pair aside
and stepped forward, frantic with worry for Dariad.

The
nomad stood breathing heavily, a rivulet of blood marking his cheek just below
the eye and another streaking his forearm—but he was grinning a wolf’s grin,
and three men lay at his feet. Blood pooled from one and painted another. Their
slayer looked up at the smith. “Thank you for my life, Ohaern.

I
do not think I could have struck down all five—they were very good with their
knives.”

Ohaern
could only stare. Was this really the tranquil, mild-mannered young man who had
spoken so calmly to him about his God?

Then
the shouting registered, and he spun about, side by side with Dariad, ready to
defend—but it was the nomad’s tribesmen who came running up, swords and daggers
at the ready. “Are you hurt, Dariad?”

“Only
a scratch,” Dariad panted, “thanks to Ohaern.”

The
Biharu drew up, staring down at the assassins. “The traders? Murderers among
the traders?”

“Murderers
trained for it.” Ohaern knelt and pried one man’s jaws open, then another’s and
another’s. “Their tongues have been cut out to be sure they would attack in silence
and could not say who had sent them.”

The
nomads stared, aghast. Then one asked, “But were they
of
the traders, or
only traveling among them in disguise?”

“Assume
they are as much traders as any!” The Biharu leader drew his own sword,
whirling about. “Protect your wives and children!”

The
Biharu stared in amazement, then gave one massed shout as they ran toward the
traders’ campfires.

“Beware
treachery!” Dariad cried. “These men strike from behind!”

Without
breaking stride, a score of his tribesmen fanned out on the opposite side of
the camp, following Dariad. Ohaern stood in the center of the Biharu camp,
looking about him, not knowing which way to turn.

Lucoyo
came running up, Labina’s sword in his hand. “Ohaern! The traders! Look!”

Ohaern
did look, just in time to see the traders casting aside their robes to free
their sword arms—and the campfires showed them standing in the harness and
kilts of soldiers, leather and cloth dyed the scarlet of Kuru—of Kuru, and of
Ulahane!

“Archer!
Your bow!” Ohaern cried.

“Useless
how!” Lucoyo swung about, back-to-back with Ohaern. “They are too close! Five
of them for every one of us, Ohaern!”

“Five
at the least!” Ohaern agreed, just as a Kuruite soldier came charging down on
him, howling a battle cry and swinging a sword as if it were an axe. Ohaern
blocked the blade and kicked him in the belly. As he fell back, two more surged
up in his place. Ohaern blocked and parried in a whirl of dagger and sword,
then ended one life with a slash and another with a thrust. Four more came at
him, half a circle; two tripped over their fallen fellows, one fell trailing a
ribbon of blood from Ohaern’s sword—but the other opened the smith’s chest
before Ohaern beat him back. In battle-frenzy, he did not feel the pain,
scarcely knew he was wounded at all. He blocked the blows of the next two,
scrambling back to their feet now, and the two charging up after them.

Behind
him Lucoyo’s battle cry cut clear and high above the bull roars of the
Kuruites, heartening Ohaern as he cried, “Fall down!” and enforced the command
with edge and point. A spear thrust at him; he leaned aside in the nick of
time, then slashed the hands that held it. The Kuruite fell with a howl— but
his spear point was red. Ohaern paid it no heed, only ducked under a thrust
from his left. The Kuruite stumbled, falling against Ohaern’s shoulder, and the
smith brought his dagger up under the enemy’s breastbone. The man gave a single
sharp cry; then Ohaern was surging up, throwing the man off, slashing to block
a sword coming from his right, counterslashing, then circling his sword around
and stabbing. The man’s eyes bulged as he leaned forward over the sword, then
dulled as he fell. Ohaern yanked his blade free and glared about him, chest
heaving ...

The
frenzy parted for a minute, and he saw Grakhinox and the Klaja back-to-back,
each striped with blood but still fighting valiantly. Then the churning melee
hid them from view again; all about him nomad robes whirled as they stabbed and
slashed at Kuruite cross belts and kilts. Ohaern stared in amazement, for each
of the Biharu stood in a loose ring of bodies, three or four to a man. Even as
he watched, several of the nomads dispatched the last soldiers who faced them
and turned to help their tribesman. In minutes the battle was done, and not a
single Kuruite was left standing. The Klaja and the dwerg emerged from the
melee, blood-marked but walking, and the Biharu spoke to them with respect and
friendship.

Dariad
came up, breathing hard, his teeth still set in a feral grin. “They are good
fighters, these Kuruites. Three of my tribesmen are dead, and a dozen more are
wounded too sorely to ride. Indeed, we shall have to stay at this oasis a week
longer than we had intended.”

“I
do not think that is wise.” Manalo appeared out of the darkness. “The Kuruites
know where you are now and may send more against you. It is time for your
people to disappear into the sands.”

Dariad
frowned. “Will the judge say so?”

“I
shall confer with him.” Manalo went off to find the tribal leader.

But
Ohaern’s brow knit as he looked out over the battlefield at the robed Biharu
who prowled among the bodies, suddenly stabbing down, then pulling the sword
loose and prowling again. “What do they do?”

“They
are finishing the wounded,” Dariad answered sadly. “It is hard, I know, but we
live too close to the bone to be able to feed and water a score or more of
wounded enemies.”

“It
is
hard.” Ohaern was appalled.

“It
would be more cruel to leave them to a slow death under the baking sun,” Dariad
countered. “Besides, remember that they came in treachery and deception, and
would have slain us to a man if they could have.”

Ohaern
remembered how the five mutes had fallen upon Dariad, and held his peace.

“Those
who can walk, may—they may even take their camels—but if they seek to turn and
come back at us, we shall slay them in their tracks.”

A
shout went up from the soldiers’ camp. Dariad snapped, “Hajpheth, Zera, Haba!
Guard our wounded!”

“Who
appointed
you
chief?” one man demanded, annoyed.

Dariad
shrugged. “If you doubt me, do as you please!” He turned to run toward the
source of the shout. Ohaern followed close, with Lucoyo behind him—but he
glanced back and noticed that the three men stayed to do as Dariad had bid.
There was something about the young nomad that induced compliance.

They
came to a halt amid the Kuruite tents, to find five traders huddled together in
fright. Ohaern recognized the men who had done the actual bargaining.

“Beneath
their robes are only loincloths,” one of the nomads was telling the judge, “no
Kuruite harness—and they bear no weapons.”

“The
soldiers would not allow them to us,” one of the traders explained.

“So
these are the real traders.” Ohaern stepped up. “And the only traders, I doubt
not. Why did you lead the soldiers here?”

“We
did not lead them—they brought us,” the trader explained.

“They
said there would be rich trading,” another said, “and that we would risk no
goods of our own—they would provide all.”

“But
you knew they were soldiers.” Dariad frowned. “Did you not think you should
warn us? We bargained in good faith, we gave you bread and salt!”

“As
we neared your camp,” the first trader explained, “they set swords to our
throats and said they would slay us if we told.”