The Shaman (47 page)

“Good
hunting, then,” Lucoyo said, but he still watched nervously as Ohaern closed
his eyes and his breathing began to slow.

After
a while Ohaern began to hear the drumbeat again, and the darkness about him
lightened. It was gray mist this time, not red, and it was lighted by moonbeams
that lanced down to bathe the Tree in their glow. Ohaern began to move toward
it, and as he went, thought of himself as a bear again. Then he tried to think
like a bear—and realized his easy gait had become a waddle. Looking down, he
saw thick furry legs and paws. He dropped down to all fours and loped ahead,
running to the Tree.

Up
he climbed, his pulse beating high at the thought of Rahani, even though he
knew she would not be awaiting him this time—and he was right, for as he passed
through the clouds into the shaman world, he saw not Rahani waiting to lead him
on, but an assemblage of beasts—a bull, an aurochs, a panther, a tiger, and a
great wide-antlered reindeer.

You
are come,
one of them said.
We have waited.

Ohaern
climbed down off the Tree and came closer, wondering how he had heard that
voice, for it had not sounded through his ears.
Let us show our human forms,
he thought, and the others must have heard him, for their shapes began to
change. Little by little they became men and women—and as they did, the Tree
groaned with the weight of a huge beast whose nose had stretched out as long as
any tail and longer, and whose ears were as wide as wings. Then an eagle flew
down to join them, and both began to change as the rest did.

Ohaern
looked around and saw pale northern men and women, black men and women—including
the shaman he had already met in the world below—yellow, brown—even another
Biri, though he did not know her face.
We are come,
they said.
What
would you have us do?

A
sudden shyness seized Ohaern, and he protested,
Surely another should answer
that! I am only newly made a shaman!

But
made a shaman by a goddess,
an old woman pointed out; and,
You are the
chosen of Lomallin,
the Biri responded.
We have come at his call, given
through the sage Manalo; it is for you to bid us go and do.

The
other shamans murmured agreement, and Ohaern, feeling immensely honored but
also immensely intimidated, replied,
Well, then, I shall tell you what I
best can. Stop when you come to a curving range of hills, for they form a
circle, and Kuru lies in the center of the plain it encloses. Wait there until
all have come and are ready.

How
shall we know when all have come?
asked a yellow-skinned shaman who wore an
elk’s-head mask.

Let
us meet here every night,
Ohaern said.
When all are in place, we shall
begin the assault.

How
if Ulahane’s minions attack us before that time?
asked the black man whom
Ohaern already knew.

Then
all who are in place must attack,
Ohaern replied. We
may strike through
to the city, but more likely the Kuruites will split their forces and end the
attack so that they may fall back to defend their walls.

It
is well thought,
said a brown woman,
but how shall we know if another
tribe is attacked?

We
must exchange call-signs,
Ohaern replied,
so that if one is threatened,
he may summon the others who are in place.

They
did, then clasped arms in a circular, mutual embrace, after which they turned
back into animal form and all climbed down the Tree to go home to their people.

Ohaern
came back to his body—and was jolted instantly into battle. There was shouting
and roaring in the cave. He leaped to his feet—and almost fell over. Lucoyo
caught his arms and pushed him back upright, saying, “Sit down, sit down,
Ohaern! You cannot come all at once from a trance in which your body is wooden,
to fighting condition! Let them be—your warriors will deal with the intruder!”

“But
what
is
it?”

The
roaring turned into a screaming whistle which ended abruptly. Lucoyo relaxed a
little. “It was a snake with horns on its head, as long as two canoes and as
thick around as a man. It crushed one warrior and would have devoured him, but
the dwerg saw and raised the alarm. The nomads and hunters crowded away from
it, but the dwerg broke a spear of rock from the ceiling and advanced on the
creature—it seemed no stranger to him. The other warriors took heart and
pounced upon it. I saw one black man struck down before the crowd closed around
it. I hope we have lost no more.”

“I,
too! No, do not fear—I feel the blood coursing through my limbs again. I will
go slowly, Lucoyo. Only take me to the monster.”

Lucoyo
led him, keeping a hand ready to catch his arm—but Ohaern kept his balance. As
they came, the Biharu and the black men looked up, saw Ohaern, and made way for
him. Looking down, Ohaern saw a monster at least thirty feet long, a snake
indeed, with sharp horns on top of a scaly head that had long, sharp-toothed
jaws. He stared. “What manner of creature is
this!”

The
black shaman came through to the circle, stared down, then looked up and
answered Ohaern in the shaman’s language.

“What
does he say?” asked Lucoyo.

“The
head is that of a huge sort of lizard that lives in the rivers where he comes
from,” Ohaern answered, “but the horns are those of a sort of deer, and the
rest of the body is indeed that of a snake. He says snakes do grow to such a
size in his own country, but that the giant lizards never mate with the snakes.”

Lucoyo
shuddered. “May I never have to visit their land!”

“I
doubt not they would say the same if they came to
my
forests.” Ohaern
felt a trace of amusement, with relief. “Were there any others of these?”

Lucoyo
shook his head. “Only the one, praise Lomallin!”

“We
must post sentries,” Ohaern told him, then raised his voice to all of them. “You
are brave and noble to have slain the monster! But know that it came from
Ulahane ultimately, and that if we had let it escape, it would have gone back
to him, and he would have known where we are! If any more appear, they must be
slain!”

The
warriors all rumbled agreement. Dariad told off sentries from his own men, and
the black captain did the same. With guards posted and fires banked, they
slept.

They
stayed in the cavern five more days, and twice more in that time monsters
attacked; both times, the humans slew the foul creatures. Each night, Ohaern
met with his fellow shamans and discovered that more and more of them were at
the ring of hills—but Ulahane made no move against them. Why not? Ohaern
finally admitted to himself that his forces were anything but intimidating—only
wandering bands of nomads, and hunters whose lands doubtless bore no more game,
come to search for plenty. The fact that there were no herds for the nomads to
follow, and scarcely enough game to keep the hunters alive, would only have
afforded Ulahane amusement, not given him alarm.

But
there
was
enough small game to support the hunters in their thousands,
and the nomads, too. Even more surprising, each of them found a pool or stream
at the end of each day’s march—quite surprising indeed in a land in which the
farmers had to dig ditches to water their crops. Ohaern itched to ask the dwerg
if his people had dug holes to bring that water to the surface, but the small
man had not been seen since they had slain the serpent. Besides, Ohaern
suspected that they had only dug a few—and certainly the abundance of game
could not be credited to creatures of subterranean dwellings.

Finally
the hour came when the last three shamans reported that their people were all
in place. Ohaern returned to the world of the living—and sleeping—and began a
slow dance, chanting softly as he moved around one of the small fires. Quiet as
he was, Lucoyo awoke and watched him, eyes wide. When the shaman had finished,
the half-elf asked, “Shall I wake the others now, Ohaern?”

“Only
Dariad and his men,” Ohaern answered. “The black shaman is rousing his own
people.”

“Of
course ... What spell were you casting, enchanter?”

“One
that will cloak our band with secrecy, to hide it from the eyes of Ulahane and
his minions,” Ohaern replied.

“Surely
he will know where we are as soon as we come out of this cavern!”

“Only
if he chances to look upon us himself; this spell will hide us from the eyes of
his creatures and his spies. Of course, he knows where all the other tribes
are, and must see that he is encircled—but he will dismiss them as of no
importance, no threat to himself or to Kuru, and will tantalize himself with
waiting while he chooses the method of exterminating them that most pleases his
fancy.”

Lucoyo
shuddered. “How can you say that with such calm!”

“Because
we shall strike before he does,” Ohaern answered. “Wake Dariad.”

Wakened,
Dariad set his men to preparing for the assault, and they were ready almost as
soon as the Africans. Out into the night they went, following the train of
hills back the way they had come five days before.

A
camel bawled, and Ohaern said to Dariad, “The camels must be silent. Ulahane
has many sentries, and although I have cloaked us with a spell that turns away
notice, it will not serve if we attract attention.”

Dariad
nodded and passed the word back. How the nomads achieved it, Ohaern could not
think, but the camels were still for the rest of the journey.

Then
the road stretched across their path, white and gleaming in the moonlight.
Ohaern turned his camel’s head, and they filed in between the hills.

The
pass was too wide to make a good ambush, but Ohaern could see sentries up high,
silhouetted against the sky. He braced himself and whispered to Dariad, “If we
are not already discovered, we will be as soon as we come out from these hills.
Bid your men be ready.”

Dariad
called back softly and was answered by a muted scraping as his warriors drew
their swords.

“How
can you be so tranquil?” Lucoyo demanded.

“Because
we have prayed to the Star-Maker for victory,” Dariad answered, and Lucoyo
rolled his eyes up in exasperation—but Ohaern felt oddly heartened. Yes,
Ulahane was also one of the Star-Maker’s creations—but that did not mean Dariad’s
One God approved of his doings. From what the nomad had told Ohaern of his
deity, the Star-Maker had very clear notions of right and wrong, and Ohaern
felt sure He would, at the least, not strengthen Ulahane’s hand.

But
if the Star-Maker did not want Ulahane to cause so much suffering, why did He
not intervene and put a stop to it? Of course, that was what Ohaern and Dariad
were doing, and if they were the Star-Maker’s agents, they would win. Still, it
seemed that a deity who could make stars would be able to put an end to Ulahane’s
misdeeds much more quickly and neatly than humans could—but Lucoyo could almost
hear Lomallin’s answer within him: they had to do their own work. They were not
babies, to have everything done for them.

It
was not a complete answer, but it was enough. Perhaps there was more—perhaps
they were being forged, as a sword is forged, into an instrument for the
Star-Maker’s purposes; perhaps they were a part of a grander scheme. Whatever
it was, it did not truly matter at the moment—all that did was facing Ulahane’s
forces and striking through them to Kuru.

It
was well he realized that, for as they came out from between the hills, they
saw the plain before them crowded with monsters of all shapes and sizes, things
part bird and part animal, part insect and part fish, giant arachnids and
midget boars with steel tusks, many with human heads or human breasts or human
legs. To one side came marching an army of Klaja; to the other, a horde of
writhing lamias. Behind them, pacing from wing to wing of that gruesome host,
an Ulharl towered, roaring and whipping them on with chains. The monsters
shrieked in anger and pain and surged forward, pushing the ones in front of
them, and the wave rolled forward until the front rank came charging at Ohaern
and his companions.

Ohaern
shouted a battle cry, and the nomads charged forth. For a few minutes the
shaman disappeared and the warrior came to the fore as Ohaern wielded his
sword, leaning low and chopping down at the monstrosities. They shrieked and
gibbered and howled in anger as they reached for him with long claws and sharp
teeth, lances of flame and coils of scales, but he met each attack with dagger
or sword and did not count his wounds. Beside him, Lucoyo chopped valiantly,
screaming in terror and strewing the ground with bodies as he hewed and hacked.
Behind them the nomads shouted approval and charged in, determined not to be
outdone by the Northerner— but behind
them
came an army of forest
hunters, determined not to be outdone by mere desert herders! Side by side the
black army and the white chewed into the heart of the enemy horde, leaving a
wake of slain monsters and writhing headless coils, of bisected giant spiders
and beheaded boars roasting in their own flames.

But
Dariad ignored them all, screaming in frenzy and chopping his way through the
ranks of the monsters with a single-minded battle lust that bordered on
madness—though if it was, it was divine madness, for he hewed himself a path
straight to the Ulharl who drove the horde.

Ulahane’s
half-human offspring was so busy whipping on his monsters with his chain that
he did not even see the human until Dariad’s sword scored his side. Then,
roaring with rage, the Ulharl turned on the upstart, swinging his chain high to
crush this impertinent miniature.

The
chain lashed down, but Dariad was no longer there. His camel stepped to the
side, slipped in a gory mass, and fell, bawling. Dariad leaped free and landed
on his feet, slashing backhanded at the Ulharl’s Achilles’ tendon. The blade
cut through, and the giant fell, roaring with shock and sudden fear. On one
knee, he swung that mighty chain again, a chain that glittered with razor-sharp
barbs, swinging straight down toward Dariad. The nomad sidestepped, but not
quite quickly enough; the barbs shredded his robe and left red trails. But
Dariad ignored the pain and stepped down hard on the chain, holding the Ulharl’s
arm down just long enough to chop into his elbow. Blood spurted and the giant
screamed, but even screaming, he caught up the chain with his left hand and
yanked, sending Dariad spinning away. The chain flailed high, hissing down— but
Dariad rolled away, and the links only caught his robe. He leaped to his feet,
the robe tearing away, and swung with all his strength. The Ulharl brought an
arm up, to block with a bronze bracelet, but Dariad turned the sword at the
last instant and hacked into the giant’s forearm an inch above the band. The
Ulharl screamed again, but Dariad swung in from the other side and sliced
deeply into the giant’s neck. The scream cut off into a gurgle, blood gushed,
and the Ulharl fell over, eyes wide in shock. Dariad looked down at the
agonized, still-living face, braced himself, and drove his sword straight down
in a blow of mercy. The giant’s body gave one last convulsive heave—and the
chain whipped about in a dead man’s blow, cracking across Dariad’s shoulders.
He cried out in pain, then clenched his jaw as blood flowed down across his
back in a dozen streams.