The Shaman (6 page)

Out
in the chill of the early spring night, Chaluk turned back to Ohaern. “Can you
not bring Fortor? All the Biri clans are under his care. But his dwelling is
four leagues away.”

Ohaern
thought furiously. “It would take all the night, and most of tomorrow . . .”

“And
you might return to find her spirit sped.” Chaluk nodded, lips tight. “And the
chief shaman of the nation is farther still.” He turned his head slowly from
side to side, holding Ohaern with his gaze. “No, Ohaern—we are not the greatest
of shamans, Mardone and I, but we are all that the clan has. Ryl’s illness has
surpassed my knowledge, and Mardone’s, and our skill. She is in the gods’ hands
now.”

“What
then can I do?” Ohaern cried in agony.

“Pray,”
Chaluk told him. “Stay here, outside the lodge, and pray. If Lomallin hears you
and can bring all his forces to combat Ulahane, and if Mardone and I can give
Ryl strength enough, the fever may slacken and she may live. Stay, Ohaern, and
pray with all your spirit to Lomallin.”

Ohaern
held the shaman’s gaze for a long minute, then bowed his head. Chaluk turned
away, stooping through and brushing aside the hides, leaving Ohaern to the
cold, crisp air of a night of very early spring, and to the company of his own
soul.

Ohaern
took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the chill freshness, and felt a stab
of guilt at the relief it gave him—but there was peace out here, peace in
gazing at the hills, and the bare oaks and elms climbing their sides to the
pines above. He turned slowly, surveying all the land about in a circle, then
finally felt his lips quiver with the urge to smile. Chaluk was right—he must let
his soul rest, that he might have strength to give Ryl, if the unseen Guide
came near her in the night. He filled his spirit with the peace of the deeps of
the night, the sweep of the hills, the well-beaten trail leading up over them
...

And
remembered how, in the depths of winter, he had seen Manalo come forth from the
trees. Ah, if only he would come down that trail now! If only he were within
the forest, if only he would step out from the pines once more ...

Ohaern
waited, hoping against hope, his whole soul surging upward in a silent,
unvoiced prayer to Lomallin, that the sage might come, might yet save Ryl ...

He
waited, he waited, the tension drawing his soul out thinner and thinner ...

But
the pines stayed obstinately dark, and the sage came not.

Ohaern
relaxed in defeat; his heart twisted within him. Of course he could not summon
Manalo, nor compel Lomallin.

But
he could petition. And he did, all that cold, dark night. His soul yearned
upward as Ryl lay bathed in sweat; he prayed to Lomallin while the land was
coming alive around him and Ryl was dying; prayed for a miracle, prayed for
Manalo ...

But
the sage came not, and at last the sky lightened with the coming of dawn ...

And
the coming of Chaluk, from out of the lodge, to lay a heavy hand on Ohaern’s
shoulder and say, “We have done all we could, Ohaern, but it is not enough.
Come then, to say good-bye.”

Ohaern
still knelt, rigid as iron. Then, slowly, he rose and went back into the hut.

Chaluk
followed.

They
came forth again as the sun broke above the horizon, to welcome Ryl’s soul to
the sky. They came forth in silence, Chaluk in fear and alarm, Ohaern with a
face filled with thunder and a heart filled with rage.

“Ohaern,”
the shaman pleaded, “we could do no more.”

Ohaern
chopped his hand sideways in an impatient gesture. “It is not you who deserves
my anger, Chaluk. Indeed, you and Mardone made Ryl’s passing as easy as you
might. No, it is not you who merits revenge.”

“Who,
then?” And Chaluk was instantly sorry he had asked, for Ohaern grated, “Lomallin!”
and strode away to his forge.

There
he picked up the hammer and struck blow after blow on the anvil, until the
hammer broke and the metal bore the imprint of his anger. Still, unslaked, he
turned to glare into the fire, silently berating Lomallin, hurling insult after
insult at his god—and slowly, as his anger began to abate, the notion of a
fitting revenge began, the idea that he could strike back at Lomallin only
through Ulahane, and that surely it would serve the human-lover right if Ohaern
were to turn to the worship of his rival ...

He
howled, throwing his head back and sinking to the floor. What nonsense, to give
obedience and worship to the god who had taken Ryl’s life! But to whom could he
turn? What god could he worship? Ulahane was his enemy, and now he swore a deep
and dark revenge upon the human-hater, swore that he would fight Ulahane in
every way that he could, frustrate his schemes wherever he saw them. He knew
which god to fight, well enough . ..

But
with whose power? What god would lend him strength for such a revenge? If
Lomallin had failed him, to whom else could he turn?

Finally,
worn out with his rage, he tumbled to the floor of his smithy and wept his way
into sleep.

The
excited clamor brought Ohaern back to wakefulness. He looked about him,
astonished, and saw the long golden streak of sunset striking through the
doorway to stripe the smithy floor. He looked about him, astonished that he
still could live when his grief was so great, that the world still could exist
when Ryl was gone from it.

The
remembrance of her death made his chest feel suddenly hollow again, as if his
heart were gone with Ryl. In a desperate search for distraction, he stumbled to
his feet and fled outside.

The
clansmen were gathered around a pony laden with a double pack, accompanied by
four men who carried staves and wore long knives at their belts. Everyone was
speaking at once, demanding news, wanting to know what goods the men had to
trade, or bringing out their own amber beads or caches of the tin that they had
dug from the cliffs a day’s travel away. Ohaern watched with dull disinterest,
and was amazed that he could feel only leaden sadness when, always before this,
the coming of the amber traders had been an occasion for excitement and
delight. But what joy could there be in a world without Ryl?

One
traveler was standing in front of the pony’s head and he held up his hands,
laughing. “Peace, my friends, peace! We cannot answer all your demands at once!
We will stay a day or two, if you will have us, and will have time enough to
hear your news and give ours, to take your tin and amber and give you the
pottery and cloth and jewelry of the south! Have any of you found any gold?”

“None
was in our round this time,” answered Rubo the chief. “Why you southerners are
so fascinated by that yellow metal, I cannot see! Oh, it is pretty enough when
you polish it, and works well to make trinkets for the ladies, but what good is
it otherwise?”

“As
much good as the amber we seek,” a second trader answered. “The people of the
cities will give us yards and yards of cloth for a piece of amber, because it
makes such pretty ornaments.”

“The
tin, though, they need for making bronze.” The lead trader held up his own
blade. “We have saved some of these for you, even though we have come so far
north!”

“You
need not have bothered,” Rubo said proudly. “We have found iron ore, and we
have a smith!”

The
trader wrinkled his nose at that. “Iron! It will break under a blow from a
bronze sword forged by a really good smith! No, you may keep your iron, and I
will keep my bronze.”

“Well,
some of us might want it,” said another man.

The
head trader shrugged. “I will trade gladly—that is what I brought it for. But
tell me, who taught you to forge iron in this one year since I came last?”

“The
wise man, Manalo,” Rubo answered. “He came in the winter, stayed a month, and
taught us much.”

“Manalo?”
another trader said, frowning. “Is that not the name of the wanderer who
angered the captain of the soldiers of Kuru at their trading fort of Byleo?”

Ohaern
stiffened, suddenly paying close attention.

The
lead trader nodded. “Yes, it is. He had the foolishness to preach the virtues
of Lomallin to the Kuruite soldiers. The captain threw him in their jail and
swore that the sage would forswear Lomallin and worship Ulahane, or be
sacrificed to him.”

“Manalo
imprisoned?” Ohaern leaped forward, catching the man by the shoulders. “Are you
sure?”

“As
sure as I am that you squeeze too tightly.” The lead trader frowned, trying to
twist free, but Ohaern held him in a vice grip.

“Where
is this Byleo?”

“Atop
a hill where your Segway River flows into the Mashra, and a town has grown up
about its walls already. Surely you have heard of Byleo!”

“I
have.” Ohaern scowled. “And what I have heard is not good.”

The
people muttered in agreement. Ominous stories were told of the soldiers at
Byleo—how strangers disappeared there, but shrieks were heard coming from the
fort at midnight; how no pretty girl dared be seen by one of the Kuruite
soldiers; how they had taken hostages to compel several tribes of hunters to
bring in every ounce of food they could find. Of course, they paid those
hunters well and promised them that Ulahane would make them rich—but they were
no less compelled for all that.

Hostages—Manalo!
That was why they had imprisoned him instead of killing him out of hand! But
why would they then threaten to kill him for their sinister god’s pleasure?

“When
do they mean to sacrifice him?” Ohaern demanded.

“Take
your hands from me and I will tell you.”

Shame-faced,
Ohaern withdrew his hold—but there was still frantic urgency in his voice and
in his face. “No wonder he did not come!”

“Not
come?” the leader asked. “Did Manalo promise to visit you again?”

“No,
but ... Never mind! My wife is dead because he came not, and that I will
revenge upon these soldiers!”

The
trader looked up at Rubo in alarm. “Is the man mad? You cannot fight the
soldiers of Kuru!”

“Oh,
I can fight them well enough,” Ohaern said grimly. “I may die from that
fighting, but that matters little. Tell me, when do they mean to sacrifice the
sage?”

“They
had not named a day when we were there,” the trader said, “and I doubt that
they will do it at all, for several of the tribes who serve them love Manalo
for the good he has done them. He is of far more worth to them in prison than
upon the altar of Ulahane.”

“If
he is alive, he shall be free,” Ohaern said grimly, “or I shall be dead!” And
he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Alarmed,
Chaluk started after him, but Rubo caught his arm and shook his head. “Let him
be, Chaluk. Solitude is the medicine he must have now.”

He
was right, though not for medicine—Ohaern needed to be alone to pray to
Lomallin. He took station beneath an oak, looked up into its budding branches
and thought, with intense concentration,
Lomallin, forgive me! I have
wronged you in laying Ryl’s death upon your shoulders, I see that now! It was
the servants of Ulahane who held Manalo from us! O Lomallin, give me strength,
give me wisdom, give me insight! Aid me, and I shall free your sage!

For
surely, it had come time for him to show his thanks to Manalo—the sage had
refused all other rewards, but Ohaern did not think he would refuse thanks for
his child, thanks for saving Ryl from death in childbed. He could only repent
his anger, his rashness, in doubting Lomallin when she died—but he could also
haul Manalo out of that sink of depravity called Byleo!

When
Ohaern came back to the village, dusk was falling, and the travelers, done with
the day’s trading, had settled down to telling the news of the wondrous cities
of the south. But all fell silent when Ohaern came out from the trees—fell
silent and stared at him in apprehension, feeling his grim purpose.

He
came into the center of them, stood by the fire and looked all about him, his
face stone. Finally, he said, “I will go up against Byleo. I shall bring back
Manalo, or die there.”

They
stared at him, riveted by his words. The traders inched away, watching him
warily, thinking him mad.

“Who
will come with me?”
Ohaern demanded. “Who truly feels the need to thank
Manalo for his teaching?”

“Ohaern,”
Rubo said darkly, “this is—”

“I.”
Geht stepped forward. “Manalo withdrew the demon that could have burst my child’s
belly!”

“I!”
Farren stepped forward. “If he had not spoken to her father, I would not be wed
to Oril!”

“I!”
Toan stepped forward. “He saved my wife from the raging fever that not even
Mardone’s herbs could abate!”

One
by one they stepped forward, and with each, Ohaern stood a little straighter,
smiled a little more firmly, and Rubo’s misgiving seemed to lessen a little.
Finally, nineteen men stood before the clan, and Ohaern’s eyes glowed, his
chest expanded with pride. Rubo nodded grudgingly, and there was a gleam of
pride in his eye, too. “It is well,” he judged. “Manalo has given much to this
clan. I would be sad indeed if any of you did not come back—but it is our due
to him.” He raised his head, a faraway look coming into his eye, and Ohaern
said quickly, “No. You are the chief. What would the clan do without you? Leave
it to us, Rubo. We shall come back with Manalo, or not come back at all.”

“I
cannot ask you to go if I am not willing myself!”

“You
are willing,” said Geht. “We are all witnesses to that. But you must not go,
Rubo.”

So
the chief did not. Ohaern set forth from their forest village with nineteen men
behind him and burning purpose in his heart.

There
was burning purpose in Lucoyo’s heart, too, as he trudged quickly down the
roadway. He had recovered from the fever almost completely—enough to have made
himself a bow and some arrows, to have chipped a flint head and lashed it to a
pole for a spear. There was fire in his eye and fury in his heart How he knew
where to go, he could not say—but know he did. It must be Ulahane at work
within him, he thought, just as it was Ulahane who had brought him back to life
after the spider bites.