The Shaman (43 page)

The
beak opened to let out a great raucous cry—a cry of anger, a challenge at the
small, soft being that dared invade the path to the goddess. Then it pounced.

Ohaern
swung the war club, but it clanged uselessly against the spiked ball. Then the
axe foot knocked the club aside, and the spiked ball swung in a short, vicious
arc that ended in cracking against Ohaern’s head. He reeled back, seeing only
red mist, feeling the holes where the spikes had pitted his skull, and could
only think,
I am dead. My head is broken. I must be dead.

Dead
or not, he still moved, even managed to raise the war club again just as that
terrible ball swung down at him with the full force of a long, curving swing.
Ohaern swung back, feeling an amazing quantity of strength pouring into him
from some unknown source, into his arms and his legs as he swung with all his
might—and spiked club met spiked ball. Iron clashed against iron and sparks
flew—sparks that struck the wood. Leg and arm burst into flame, and the beak
opened in a cry of pain and terror.

Ohaern
realized he had taken the initiative. He swung again, sheering through a wooden
arm weakened by fire. The iron ball flew, to crack against the wall, and the
monster spun and hurried limping away, squawking in rage and fear and pain. The
reddish mists embraced it, cooled it, soothed it— swallowed it, and Ohaern
stood alone again, chest heaving with exertion, blood running down over his
scalp, flowing out of his chest, amazed at his victory, amazed that he still
lived, and certain that he was dead, for surely his body could not have held so
much blood!

But
if he was dead, this was the Afterlife, and he could shed an endless amount of
blood, for a ghost had no need of it. Slowly, he took up the club again and
held it out. Of its own accord, it swung around, and he swung with it until it
stopped but quivered in his hands, pulling. Step by step he set off once again,
following the pull of the club, that endless, relentless, double drumbeat
sounding in his ears and filling his head.

Again
the drumbeat became clear, but with a scratching. Out of the mist came rolling
a huge ball, but it was a ball with chicken’s feet that pounded the ground with
each turn, pushing the ball on again.

Ohaern
stopped and braced himself, the club up and ready.

The
ball rolled onward, faster and faster, huge and purple, showing no sign of
having seen him. Closer it came and closer—but much wider than he was tall. He
could see veins pulsing across its surface now. Naked and obscene, it rolled
down on him. At the last second he leaped aside, and the ball rolled by—but it
swerved and came rolling back, slowing now. As it neared Ohaern, a tube lifted
off its surface, a tube that narrowed from the full width of the ball to a
rounded end only half again as wide as Ohaern’s head, a rounded end that split
and rolled back into two full, moist lips that opened to reveal serrated teeth.

The
ball rolled, and struck down at Ohaern. He leaped back, swinging his club up
from under, jamming its end between those side-shifting sawteeth—but saw they
did, down through the club’s wood as the ball rolled back. Ohaern, in a panic,
held to the club, trying to pull back—and the huge clawed feet came up to rip
out his belly. He screamed with pain, letting go of the club and leaping
back—but his legs would not hold, and he fell.

The
end of the club disappeared between those grinding fangs, and the lips struck
down, teeth savaging his vitals, chewing down, down through his groin. Then
they lifted, and the claws came up, ripping away all his viscera, tearing the
gash in his chest wider and emptying out all within, then rolling away to let
the lips come at him again. But a sudden notion inspired him, and with his last
ounce of strength Ohaern caressed one hp, then the other, tracing its soft
flesh with his fingertips—and incredibly, the lips shivered and the teeth
broke, broke clean away, so that there were no stubs, no trace of them left. He
caressed the lips again and again, his strength fading, but all the teeth fell
loose now, tumbling slowly, and the gashes where they had been healed over, the
soft lips touching him tenderly, touching his torn chest—and drank, drank of
his blood, but with a caress that made him shiver with delight that obscured
his pain, and consciousness faded into the red haze, letting him finally relax into
death, knowing that he had given all that was within him, given of his blood
and his essence, and would no longer have to face the horrifying prospect of a
world rent by Ulahane, a world bleak and barren and devoid of all love.

But
after a timeless interval, he felt stirring, felt touches on his viscera, felt
them moving, being placed back within him. The touches were caresses, the
organs were all replaced; he felt whole again, and his sight cleared, to see a
woman bending over him, smoothing away the last of the rents in his skin.

It
was she. It was the Ulin woman he had seen in his dreams, but already standing
back, moving away, incredibly no taller than he, but beckoning, beckoning, and
Ohaern rolled up to his feet and took a clumsy, awkward step .. .

Too
clumsy. He glanced down, not willing to take his eyes from the woman for long,
and saw ...

Fur.

He
was covered with fur, fur over short, bowed legs. He lifted his arms, found
paws on the ends, paws with claws, and realized, with a shock, that the goddess
had made a bear of him!

Yet
she was beckoning, still beckoning with that curious, enigmatic smile, and he
felt a stab of sensation in his groin, felt almost as if it was there that she
pulled, and he followed, waddling on two feet, then realized that he could go
much faster on four and dropped down to run after her, for she was fleeing
ahead, fleeing and laughing through the mist, disappearing. The bear that was
Ohaern roared in anguish and galloped to follow, galloped till the mist lifted,
and there stood the goddess, still smiling, amused but charged, by the base of
a tree, a huge tree that swelled out of the ground all about, filling the
world, so thick it was, and the goddess was rising up the tree and up,
beckoning, and the bear that was Ohaern roared in a panic that she might leave
him, abandon him, and struck the tree with claws extended, struck and climbed,
walking up the tree as if it were level ground, up and up through red clouds,
pink clouds, white clouds, as the trunk narrowed and narrowed until it was
scarcely wide enough for his footing. Finally he began to tire, finally each
step weighed heavily on his limbs, but the goddess still beckoned and still he
followed, until the white mists wrapped all about him and he felt solid footing
under his hind feet again. She glowed through the mist, only a silhouette now,
and Ohaern followed, heedless that the footing beneath him might cease, until
the mist lifted again and he saw, under the shadow of the Tree that still
lifted high, a bower, a castle of intricate tracery spires that lifted high.

Ohaern
went in through the doorway—and felt man’s feet slapping the soft, warm floor
beneath.
His
feet. He looked up, discovering he was walking down a
tunnel with an arching roof. Holding up his arms, he saw that they were man’s
arms again; glancing down, he saw he had his own man’s body, but naked now. He
would have stopped to stare, marveling at his unblemished skin, but her voice
rose in lilting song from the end of the hall, song that stirred an answering
chord within his vitals and pulled him, tugged at him, and he followed,
breathing hard, to the end of the hallway, through its pink scented curtains
into a huge curving chamber that was roofed and walled in pink padded satin,
floored with a sea of cushions and in the center she stood, still beckoning,
her veils floating about her.

“Divest
me of my veils,” she breathed, “for I cannot see you through them.”

And
he went to her, unwound the veils from her one by one, his breath hotter and
harder and heavier, unwound veil after veil until she stood before him, seeming
to glow, her eyes holding his as her hands moved about him, and he fell to his
knees, finally come to his goddess, who claimed her worship of caresses. He
gave that worship with all his heart, all his being, as she sank down beside
him, and this time the ecstasy was of the mind and the body both, yes, and of
the heart and spirit, too, as he gave of himself to her, all that he was, all
of himself, and she gave back as much as she received and more, and he hung
suspended with her in a formless, timeless sea of pure sensation, conscious
only of transcendent delight and a wish that it never end.

“I must go,” Ohaern said, and moved to rise—but a dainty
hand held him with strength that his huge smith’s muscles could scarcely have
matched. “What,” said Rahani, “would you taste of my pleasures, then leave me
without a thought? I assure you, you may not treat a goddess so!”

“I
could never leave you without a thought!” Ohaern said fervently. “Indeed, you
would ever be in my thoughts and in my heart, and I could not leave you for
long! If I had to brave the agony your guardians inflicted time and again, I
would do it!”

She
laughed, the tinkling of wind chimes, and withdrew her hand. “Brave words, O
Smith! But if they were true, you would never wish to leave me.”

“I
do not,” Ohaern admitted, “but I have made promises, even though I may not have
spoken them aloud. I am concerned for my friend Lucoyo, who guards my body—if
it is still in the cave.”

“It
is,” she assured him. “This is your dream body—well, not a dream, really, but
the term will do. You are immersed in a shaman’s vision, Ohaern, and you have
become a shaman—my shaman, and you are singularly blessed to be allowed to
approach me!”

“Oh,
so blessed indeed!” he said, more fervently than ever, and reached out a hand
to touch her, ever so lightly, still not quite believing that she was real, that
he had come to her, that she would allow his caress.

She
laughed again. “You have great daring, O Smith, but it is rewarded—for know
that I take delight in your embrace too, though the other Ulin would call me
twisted for it. Still, it is not in my caresses alone that you are blessed, but
in the lore that you are learning and the cause in which you are privileged to
spend your life.”

Ohaern
wondered in what sense she meant “spend.”

“In
both,” she answered, and nodded at his start. “Of course I can read your mind.
Am I not a goddess?”

“Not
as I was told by Manal—” Ohaern flushed. “Lomallin.”

She
did not take offense; indeed, her eye twinkled with approval. “It is true, O
Smith—I am no goddess, but only an Ulin woman. Yet the Ulin have great powers
and are gods enough for most mortals. Do you not fear me?”

“Yes,”
Ohaern said frankly, “but the fear is overcome by the desire.”

“Only
desire?” She tilted her head to the side, gazing at him quizzically.

“Oh,
I love you, and you know it!” he said. “Though it is beyond arrogance for a
mere mortal to love an Ulin. But I do not think the love by itself would
overcome the fear.”

“No,
but it reassures you that the fear is wrongheaded.” She nodded. “An honest man.
You have no idea how rare you are.”

“I
am only a smith and warrior of a forest tribe! And one who is concerned for the
friend who remains among the living.”

“You
need not be,” she assured him. “Your friend and your body will be safe in the
cavern, for it is under my protection, and my magic hides it from the sight and
scent of the monsters and the Ulharls who drive them—so let your heart be easy
and your mind be at rest.” She lay back, eyelids growing heavy, smile growing
sultry, and beckoned. “Come—if you have strength enough.”

Ohaern
had—but when their breathing had slowed again and she was tracing slow circles
with a fingertip that left a wake of sensation on his chest, she said, “I am
not goddess enough for you, though I would be for any other man.”

“No,”
Ohaern said frankly. “If I truly believed you were a goddess, I should never
dare to touch you.”

“And
probably
could
not do anything more,” she agreed. “Precious little use
would you be to me then!”

“I
shall be of whatever use you wish!” he cried, rolling up on one elbow.

“Bravely
spoken,” she said with approval, “but the service I require is the bringing
down of Ulahane.”

Then
she waited, while Ohaern lay rigid in shock. When it passed, he breathed, “If
you wish it, I shall strive for it with all my might—but how could I triumph
against an Ulin?”

“You
could not,” she told him frankly, “but you could bring him to the brink of
doom—for know, O Smith, that it is not only Lomallin and Rahani who survive of
those who opposed Marcoblin, but other Ulin, too, though not many—and some
among them might be induced to take arms against the Scarlet One.”

Then
she told him of the twilight of the Ulin.

When
the Ulin War ended, Lomallin tried to assemble all the Ulin who found Ulahane’s
cruelty and blasphemy distasteful, tried to persuade them to band together to
protect the humans. The homunculi joined Lomallin, and would have made the
perfect sort of unquestioning soldier, to be sent against the enemy and
slaughtered by the hundreds—but knowing how helpless they were in all ways
except carrying out specific tasks as they were commanded to do, Lomallin set
them instead to building strongholds to protect the humans and the other
younger races from Ulahane’s predators.

“Then
there are other Ulin who will battle Ulahane to save my kind?” Ohaern asked.

“There
are other Ulin,” she said noncommittally.

Ohaern
frowned. “But they will not fight?”

She
sighed. “When the war ended, there were so few Ulin left that they could no
longer fight one another with expectation of anything but the extinction of
their kind. It is for that reason that Lomallin has sought out humans of
strength and courage, who may lead their people in defense against Ulahane’s
hordes.”