The Shaman

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Quickly, too,” Ohaern said from behind him. “Others of us wait to go in.”

  Lucoyo scrambled through, doubled over—then was amazed to find that he could stand up after only two steps! Oh, he still had to hunch over a bit, but there was a good five feet of height beneath the roof of leaves and vines twined around branches.

  “Thickets are often hollow inside.” Ohaern stepped up beside him, stooped beneath the roof. “Or hollow enough—it takes only a little clearing to make a shelter of them. Mind you, it will not keep out the rain—but it will shelter us from Kuruite eyes.” He turned and said, “Dalvan! Take first watch with me!”

  “Well, what matters two hours more without sleep?” the hunter sighed. “Even better, once I do nod off, I shall sleep till dusk, by Lomallin’s grace and aid. You poor folk who take second watch will only have two hours’ sleep.”

  “Far better than none at all.” Glabur pulled out some jerky and began to share it around. Each of the other men sat down and began to take food from their packs. Lucoyo looked around—they were all there, somewhat crowded, but all there. The thicket had been larger than it had looked.

  “Be not overly concerned.” Manalo had taken a suck and begun to sketch arcane symbols in the dirt. “I shall lay a spell that will distract them—unless Ulahane sends one of his poor bastard sons to lead the Kuruites.”

  “Well, we shall post guards, anyway.” Ohaern looked thoroughly reassured, though. “Who will take second watch?”

  He looked around, but not a single Biri waved. The chief frowned, disappointed in his men. He was about to speak when Lucoyo said, “Second watch.”

  Ohaern looked surprised. “Are you sure, outlander? I have watched you during this flight—you have tired quickly ...”

  “I shall be refreshed quickly, then,” Lucoyo snapped, “if we can be done with this infernal yammering and get to sleep!”

  Ohaern nodded, still taken aback. “Very well. Dalvan, let us go!”

  Dalvan sighed and followed Ohaern out of the tunnel. One of the band pulled the bush-door back into place, and Lucoyo lay down with a grateful sigh. There was a bit of low-voiced conversation going on, but he was able to drift off anyway.

  It was another sort of low-voiced muttering that woke him. There was very little light—the hunters had not seen fit to start a fire, for fear it would alert the enemy to their presence—but in the dense gloom there was a soft glow emanating from Manalo’s symbols. The teacher even now moved his hands over them in strange, mystic passes, chanting very softly. As Lucoyo watched, the chanting died, the hands stilled, and the glow faded away. Then, in the stillness, Manalo’s voice murmured, “Fear not the eldritch, Lucoyo. The spell will shield this thicket from the notice of the soldiers of Kuru, that is all.”

  Lucoyo felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “How did you know I watched, O Sage?”

  Manalo shrugged off the question. “To those with wisdom, many things become clear, including sight with an eye that is only in the mind. Sleep peacefully, Lucoyo.”

  Anxiety prodded the half-elf. “But the Kuruites worship Ulahane. Will he not cancel your spell?”

  “I invoke the power of Lomallin,” Manalo answered, “and where Ulin are opposed, human vices and virtues turn the tide. By the Biriae virtue and cleverness at hiding and watching, they will be less likely to be seen; by the Kuruites’ arrogance and contempt for the forest and plains, they are less likely to see. In fact, they will perceive only what they expect—and they expect a campfire with a ring of men about it. Either that, or plodding fugitives dragged down with weariness. Here they expect nothing but a thicket, so they will see nothing but a thicket—if they ever come this far into the wood. Sleep without care.”

  “If you say it.” Lucoyo laid his head down again, but he was still frowning.

  “Waken, half-elf.”

  Lucoyo sat bolt upright, eyes blazing—but Ohaern knelt over him, saying, “And I hope your elfin half has elf-sight, to pierce this gloom about us. Are you alert enough to watch?”

  “I am now,” Lucoyo grumbled, floundering up off the pine-bough bed.

  He found his place in a tree, from which he could see the thicket if he turned and looked back over his shoulder, and all the approaches to it from the east. He settled himself, carefully choosing a branch that was not terribly comfortable, and started fighting off the urge to sleep. He hadn’t quite dozed off—and the proof of it was that he was still in the tree, not lying crumpled at its foot—when Dalvan came to relieve him two hours later. Lucoyo made his way back into the thicket and sank down onto his bed with a grateful sigh. Even the constant, steady murmur from Manalo and Ohaern did not keep him awake any longer than it took to wonder how the two of them would manage with no sleep—but perhaps Manalo knew a spell that would let them keep marching a day or two without ...

  It seemed he had not quite fallen asleep before Dalvan was shaking his foot and saying, “Rise, Lucoyo. The gloom lightens, and we must be abroad.”

  “A broad what?” Lucoyo snarled, but he rose anyway. Sure enough, Manalo and Ohaern were still talking. “Be sure you remember these spells,” Manalo was saying.

  “I shall, Teacher,” Ohaern promised, “as I have remembered everything you have taught me.”

  “Do so, for you will need them.”

  Lucoyo hoped one of them would banish the need for sleep—and that Ohaern would sing it over the whole band. The chieftain looked as if he could use some of that himself.

  The dawn light was beginning to filter through the leaves as the Biriae emerged from their tunnel. They split into bands of three, to meet at the northern edge of the forest, as Ohaern had told them. Lucoyo went with Ohaern and Manalo—and two other Biriae accompanied their party to guard the sage.

  Through the forest they went, sometimes on a deer trail, sometimes without one. Lucoyo was amazed at how silently these hunters moved; even he could scarcely hear them, and he was right next to them! There was little conversation, and what there was, was low-voiced.

  In late afternoon they emerged from the wood into a meadow—and heard an ear-piercing, warbling sort of howl. The Biriae all stiffened, and those of the remaining eighteen who had not already come out of the wood surged crashing into the grass. “What cry was that, Ohaern?”

  The chief shook his head, staring in amazement. “I know not.”

  The cry came again, chilling each of them with fear where he stood—these brave hunters, not even daunted by a charging aurochs!

  “It is the cry of the Klaja,” Manalo said grimly, “creatures of Ulahane’s making.”

  Then people burst into sight, running.

  “Biriae!” Glabur cried. “Loghorix! Marntile! Atroyo!”

  “They are wounded!” Dalvan cried. “And the women run with them!”

  On came the Biriae, panting, terrified, limping and slogging with weariness. Then their pursuers burst into view behind them, and Lucoyo didn’t know whether it was their cry or the sight of them that sent fear shooting through him anew. They were men, big, brawny men—except that they were covered with fur, they ran on jackals’ legs, and their faces were human faces, but with jackal’s noses, jaws, and ears—and teeth, as he saw when their mouths opened and long tongues lolled out.

  They howled again, flourishing spears overhead, and charged at the sagging, exhausted Biriae.

  Chapter 9

  Forward!” Ohaern bellowed, swinging his sword to point. “Make a wall for our kin!” He bounded forward. The Biriae answered with a mighty shout and charged after him.

  The fugitives looked up in shock, the men automatically bringing up weapons—then staring, their faces going haggard with relief. In an instant they were behind Ohaern’s men, but were turning, weapons at the ready to help in the fight.

  Ohaern stopped, holding up a hand. The Biriae ploughed to a halt, weapons ready, forming an inverted V, point toward the enemy. Ohaern, of course, was that point—with Manalo right behind him. “What are they, Teacher?” t
he chieftain asked.

  “They are Klaja, Ohaern—bred by Ulahane from the seed of a jackal and a human. They are vicious, but if they see the tide is against them, they will show themselves to be cowards.”

  “Beware, Ohaern!” gasped one of the fugitives. “They are vicious indeed! They have destroyed our village and slain fifty of our kinsmen!”

  “Fifty out of two hundred!” Ohaern shouted, outraged. “Revenge, my men! Justice!”

  The Biriae answered with a shout. Then the Klaja struck.

  The fight was short and ruthless. The Klaja attacked with spear and fang and claw, and the Biriae were in no mood to show mercy. Lucoyo ducked a spear thrust and jabbed upward with his long knife. The Klaja convulsed, folding over the agony in its stomach—and bit Lucoyo on the shoulder. He shouted in rage and pain, jerking the knife out, then jabbing up under the jaw, and the beast-man’s bite opened as the Klaja fell away. Lucoyo kicked the body aside, stooped to catch up its spear, and felt another graze his back. He straightened with a shout, his knife ripping sideways, and another Klaja folded over his blade. But this time Lucoyo knew enough to sidestep those jaws, to yank out his knife and dance free, brandishing the spear to guard with his left hand. The pain was dim and seemed not to matter; he wielded the sword as efficiently as ever. But another pain scored his side, and he whirled to see a Klaja lowering a hind leg with dripping claws, spear poised to plunge.

  It was off balance. Lucoyo threw himself forward, striking with his shoulder. The Klaja went down with a howl, and a Biri axe chopped its head off. Lucoyo didn’t see that—he was whirling to catch the next attack on his spear, parrying a thrust. For a moment he faced fangs. But this Klaja used two hands to Lucoyo’s wounded one. It beat down his guard and thrust— just as a savage face with a manic grin rose up behind, and its sword plunged home into the Klaja’s spleen. The beast howled and fell, and the Biri woman stood panting, glaring at the new corpse in wild vindication.

  Lucoyo stared. No woman of the nomads would have done such a thing. That face was seared into his brain—blond hair bound into braids, fine-featured face with huge blue eyes and a neck like a swan’s, cheeks aflame with exhilaration, tip-tilted nose smudged with a streak of dirt that might well have been war paint.

  Then a snouted face charged up behind the blond plaits; a spear stabbed down.

  Lucoyo shouted and leaped past the girl, coming in low, pivoting as he thrust with his knife, ripping the Klaja’s belly open, then dropping to his knees, bowing low. The Klaja stumbled over him, gagging, and Lucoyo just barely saw the sword chop down, saw the Klaja’s head drop sharply, saw the sword chop again, and the head roll away. The woman grinned with savage glee, her eyes alight with a glow of revenge. Lucoyo felt an answering surge of joy in the act. Revenge indeed, revenge on all those who had wronged him all these years, revenge—though it be only these warped abominations who must bear his wrath. He leaped to set his back to the woman’s, looking about him for more foes ...

  They were running, three score and more—running from twenty men and fifty exhausted fugitives!

  “They truly are cowards,” Ohaern panted, staring after them.

  “Jackals ever were,” Manalo answered, himself a bit disheveled, “though they are savage enough when they are sure their prey cannot fight back overly hard.”

  “Then how could they have destroyed a village of Biriae!”

  “Because they came a thousand strong,” the woman panted, “and you and our other best fighters were gone.”

  Ohaern stood rigid a second, then began to make a strange keening sound in the back of his throat.

  “Be of good heart.” A wiry man with a weathered face limped up to clap Ohaern on the shoulder. “You could not know—and you could not let the Teacher languish in prison, or be fed to Ulahane.”

  “For that, I thank you,” Manalo said.

  Lucoyo’s head came up as a realization struck him. “Ulahane sent them because he knew your men were gone to assault Byleo!”

  “Then would not Ulahane have warned the soldiers?” Glabur asked.

  “Be sure, he did,” Manalo answered grimly, “but where Ulin are opposed, human courage and shrewdness turn the fight. Well did Ohaern plan his assault, well did he ...”

  But Lucoyo missed the rest of it, because the adrenaline of battle suddenly ebbed, fire exploded in his bitten shoulder, and the surge of pain banished consciousness.

  He woke, in a bleary sort of way, or perhaps he dreamed, for he saw the blond woman’s face floating over him, hair now unbound, arms and shoulders bare of those bulky furs, upper body bound in soft skins, and that bare arm reached toward him, that gentle hand pressed a cold compress to his forehead. Lucoyo was aware of gibbering a stream of nonsense at her, but he managed to contain it long enough to say “Thank you,” before sleep claimed him again.

  When next he wakened, it was Manalo’s hand that rested on his forehead, then moved to his wrist, and his face hovered beside the girl’s. “It is the poison in the jackal’s bite,” the sage was saying.

  “But that made the others ill for only a few hours, and he has been thus for two days!”

  “He was weakened sorely not long before he joined Ohaern’s band and had not fully recovered. He has been pushing himself ever since, determined not to hold them back.”

  Hold them back? Lucoyo frowned; this man understood very little! He had hidden his weakness out of sheer vanity, that was all! He had been determined not to let these Biriae see that he could not keep up!

  He must have spoken aloud, for both faces looked surprised, then amused, but there was respect in the girl’s eye, and a gleam. “That is the sort of thinking we Biriae can understand,” she said.

  “Laudable, in its way,” Manalo allowed, “but borrowed strength must be paid back, soon or late. Rest, archer.” He touched two fingertips lightly to Lucoyo’s eyes, and sleep reclaimed him.

  When he woke next, he was astounded to find he was fairly clear-headed. He was in a type of enclosure, with a very little light filtering through some sort of woven wall. He forced himself up on one elbow, saw there was no one around him, and pushed himself out of bed. He staggered up to his knees— and fell.

  The wall of branches burst apart, and the girl came running in. She hauled Lucoyo up, sitting on her heels and dragging his upper body onto her thighs, then levering him over to the pallet from which he had risen, saying angrily, “Cannot a girl leave you alone at all, but you must try to be up to wear yourself to death? Lie still, half-elf—your eldritch blood may give you more strength than a mortal, but even that is spent.”

  Half-elf again! The surge of anger lent Lucoyo energy before he remembered that here the term was not an insult. He used it to ask, “What does it matter to you? I am a stranger, not even one of your own kind!”

  “Kind enough,” she answered. “You saved my life in the battle, and I yours, I think. That is bond enough for me to care quite strongly. Let us be strangers no more. I am called Elluaera.”

  “I am Lucoyo.” Lucoyo had to work to show the smile he felt. “You do well to care for me, for if I were to die, I would not be there to guard your back when other monsters come.”

  She smiled, the wicked gleam in her eye again. “Or for me to strike a blow to save. Rest, half-elf—regain your strength, for if you seek to know me better, you shall need it.”

  She turned away, for which Lucoyo was inordinately glad—he was sure he was staring like a fish. Had she hinted at what he thought she had hinted? Not at bedding, no, nor even caressing, but at keeping in her company enough to interest her in the idea! A woman, attracted to him!

  But now that he thought about it, she was shorter than most of her kind, perhaps not much taller than himself ...

  He had time to compose his face before she turned back, holding a bowl of soup. “Eat, outlander.”

  “Outlander, forsooth!” he snapped. “We are all outlanders, so near to By—” He broke into coughing, for she had thrust the spoon into his mouth bet
ween words and held it hovering in front of his face, smiling with glee.

  “Eat first, outlander—all right, fellow outlander! Regain your strength with something besides crossness. Then we shall talk.”

  The invitation thrilled Lucoyo, even through his weakness. He subsided and drank the broth she fed him, hoping the bowl would not empty soon. As he drank, though, he marveled at the resilience of these Biriae—or perhaps it was only at the resilience of this one woman. To fight and lose to a horde of half-canine bandits, then flee and fight again, and only hours later be able to smile, and hint at wishing courtship! Most amazing indeed!

  Some of that resilience was Elluaera’s, but if Lucoyo had been awake the hour after the battle, he would have been almost as much amazed at her tribesmen’s ability to rebound as at her own. When the wounded Biriae had been tended, the wounded Klaja dispatched, and the three dead Biriae buried, Ohaern turned to the oldest of the fugitives and said, “Now, Cordran! How did it transpire that you and three score of my countrymen came fleeing so far from home?”

  The light of triumph faded from the weathered old face, and Cordran said, “Home is no more. Sit, Ohaern—sit, all of you! For it is not a pretty tale that I must tell!”

  It had begun like any day in the life of the hunters—women out seeking nuts and berries, a few men coming in from the hunt with a dead boar slung on a pole, small children playing in the dust and larger ones howling through the wood as the trackers found the tracked and threw themselves into a mock battle.

  Then they were drowned out by another sort of howling altogether. A horde of furry bodies burst from the trees, brandishing spears, canine teeth dripping in long, pointed muzzles. The children’s cries from the forest broke into shrieks, and the attackers tore apart the first few women and elders. But the extra time spent in wanton cruelty cost some of them their lives; the hunters turned from the carcass of the boar with their own spears stabbing, and some Klaja howled as flint blades transfixed their chests. Others only gurgled as the spearheads found their throats.