“If you mean, did she invite him to her bed, the answer is no. Perhaps she needed him too much as a friend, perhaps his being her ally precluded his being her lover—who can explain the minds and hearts of women?”
“Not even female Ulin?”
“Them even less.” Manalo glanced at Ohaern, who stood stiff and wide-eyed, drinking in every word. Something changed in the sage’s eyes, and when he turned back to Lucoyo, he spoke not of love and the goddess, but of war. “Because of their efforts, humankind began to thrive and multiply—for Lomallin taught them to hunt and fish, then learn the use of the bow and net, which brought them more and larger game. Rahani taught them which roots and berries were good to eat, so that they might gather them, and even taught them to plant seeds, so that they would have more to eat in the next year. Moreover, she taught them healing, so many of them were cured of diseases that would have slain them in childhood. Marcoblin was not there to see, but his lieutenant Ulahane witnessed humanity increasing in vast numbers and took this as a threat to the pleasures and hegemony of the few Ulin who had survived the war. He hated Lomallin and Rahani—since they were all that were left of the leaders of the human-lovers—and blamed the whole war on him.”
Ohaern came out of his trance. “Blamed him for the war? How?”
Manalo shrugged. “In Ulahane’s eyes, it was not Marcoblin’s cruelty that had given cause for fighting, but Lomallin’s sympathy for the Agrapaxians and humans. Therefore did Ulahane beget a son upon a human woman—”
“One who did not wish it?” Lucoyo guessed.
“One who most definitely did not wish it—neither the son, nor Ulahane’s embraces! But he hated humankind so deeply that any woman who had wished his attentions would have given him no pleasure. No, it was rape, pure and simple. Thereafter he kept the woman prisoner until her son was born, to ensure that she would not seek to abort the child nor to slay herself in despair—which she did, when Ulahane loosed her after the birth.”
“Did he care?” asked the dwerg.
“Not in the slightest,” Lucoyo said. “She had served her purpose—for him.”
Manalo nodded. “Thus was born Kadura, reared with his father so that he should become used to Ulahane’s service and accustomed to obedience, or to instant, dire punishment for disobedience. Thus grew the first of Ulahane’s many Ulharl children, reviled and taunted by the Ulin—”
Lucoyo frowned. “Did not his father protect him from that?”
“Wherefore? To Ulahane, Kadura was little more than a servant, and one who was tainted by human blood besides. When he was grown, Ulahane sent him out among humankind to teach them to worship Ulahane out of fear, a fear very like Kadura’s own. For worship, they were to capture others of their kind for sacrifice to Ulahane—and in the early days, when there were few, Ulahane came in person to torture those given to him and delight in their agony.”
The dwerg shuddered. “Why did they worship him if he did such things?”
“Because if they gave him victims for his pleasure, he would spare them, his worshipers.” Manalo looked down at the ground, frowning at the thought. “Thus was a religion of fear born among humankind, and thus came war, as other nations banded together, seeking the protection of Lomallin and Rahani and their allies, and defending themselves against the assaults of Ulahane’s devotees.”
“But did not Ulahane’s slaves realize there was escape for them if they fled to the temples of the human-lovers?”
“They did,” Manalo said, “so it was then that Ulahane had to begin blandishments and bribes—sexual pleasure and wordly success—”
“Even like these villagers from whom we have just escaped!” Lucoyo cried.
“Even like them.” Manalo nodded. “Labina’s preaching was only Ulahane’s old cant, dressed up with a make-believe nightmare goddess, to seduce away the folk who worshiped Rahani. This is why I say Alique is a mockery of Rahani, a perversion.” He looked up at Ohaern. “What troubles you?”
So he had seen the turmoil in his breast! Ohaern thought. He asked, “Are there other Ulin who would bind a man to their service by the promise of passion?”
“Many,” said Manalo, giving him a penetrating look, “but only Rahani would do it without some measure of cruelty. Indeed, only Rahani would enchant a man with love—though not such love as she might feel for a man of the Ulin.”
“I see,” said Ohaern with a sardonic smile. “Only such love as one might give a favored dog, eh?” It helped, the awareness of his own absurdity.
“More than that, far more than that,” Manalo assured him. “Beware your dreams, Ohaern. You know what is right or wrong—do not follow any who would have you do evil!”
“That is not my case,” Ohaern assured him. “I only need beware those who bid me do right.”
There was relief in Manalo’s glance, and—could it have been envy? Or jealousy? Or even both? Whatever it was, it was gone quickly, and his smile warmed as he said. “Then you need not beware, O Hunter—any more than you would with any quarry. But come, we linger too long! Let us go, before the villagers find our trail!”
He led them away, and Ohaern followed, reflecting that at least the sage had not told him to beware as if he were the quarry. He decided that he would exercise such caution anyway.
Not that it would do him any good.
By dawn they were far down the coastline, and Manalo had led them out along a peninsula of stone that formed a natural harbor. They camped there among the rocks, warmed by the sun and eating the fish the Klaja speared. They slept through the day, all except Manalo, but when they woke at evening and Manalo showed no sign of again taking up their march, Lucoyo became restless. “When shall we go, O Sage?”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Manalo answered, “perhaps the next day, or the next.”
The half-elf frowned. “What do we wait for?”
“A ship.” Manalo turned to Ohaern. “We cannot find that sheep he wished for, but you might seek a gazelle or such. Do not wander far, though.”
“I shall not,” Ohaern promised. “Come, Lucoyo!”
They were back within an hour, with wood for a bow and arrows, and a dozen rabbits. Ohaern allowed them a small and smokeless fire of dry wood, to roast the catch; then Lucoyo set to chewing the skins and sewing himself a fur kilt. He, at least, found occupation.
But just before nightfall, a ship appeared, coasting along near the horizon. Manalo gave an exclamation of satisfaction and stepped up to the highest rock, where he recited an incomprehensible verse—which Ohaern memorized, consonant for consonant and vowel for vowel—as he waved his staff in some very strange gyrations. The ship sailed closer, much closer, until it dropped anchor, apparently having decided to pass the night in their little harbor. Manalo waved and called, and after a while a small boat put out from the ship with several men aboard. They shared the rabbit stew and bargained for the amber Manalo pulled from his pouch, and the upshot was that when the ship put out to sea at dawn, Manalo and his whole little company were aboard.
They sailed along the seacoast for days. Lucoyo grew restive, for there was only so much work he could do on his bow in a day. He eventually became so hard put as to help the sailors in their endless washing of the ship. Ohaern, though, was content to watch the waves and the passing coastline, letting his mind roam free. The Klaja and the dwerg seemed to share his serenity, though their ease might have simply reflected a massive patience in both. Manalo took advantage of the time to teach Ohaern a few more spells, then a few more beyond that, and perhaps another half-dozen. Ohaern felt as if he were nothing but a memory on two legs by the time Manalo finally sought out the captain and told him to put them ashore.
“Here?” the captain cried in dismay. “It is nothing but a barren desert! You will die of hunger and thirst!”
“Then give us sour wine to carry with us, and water skins,” Manalo replied. “Fear not—we shall find shelter. But it is here that we must land.”
So the sailors rowed them ash
ore, with Ohaern wondering if Manalo were leading them to their doom, but careful not to let it show in his face.
Lucoyo, however, had no such inhibition. He let it show indeed, and when that did not bring forth any explanations, he insisted on knowing. As the sailors rowed away, he demanded, “Now how shall we live, O Sage?”
“Fear not, Lucoyo; my knowledge will be your shield—also your coat and hat.” Manalo beckoned with his staff. “Onward! for where we must go is a long and arduous distance, and we must be there when the moon is full!”
He turned away, and Ohaern followed, with Lucoyo behind him, grumbling, and the dwerg and the Klaja bringing up the rear. Ohaern watched their guide and leader with concern, though. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he had seen lines of care in Manalo’s face—care, and growing apprehension. What could there be so mighty as to make Manalo fear?
Chapter 24
They wandered through an arid waste where only tough, sparse grass grew—perhaps enough for a few goats, if they were not terribly discriminating in their diet. What water they would have found for drinking, Ohaern could not see—but the sage forged ahead with a steady, tireless gait and seemed never in doubt as to where he was going.
The Klaja was the first to grow weak with the heat. “Must rest,” he informed them, and sat down right where he was.
It still amazed the smith to hear so bestial a face utter words that were so human. He turned back to urge the poor creature to its feet. “You cannot rest here, friend! The sun will grow hotter, and you have no shelter.”
“Cannot,” the Klaja lamented. “Too hot”
“Here, cool yourself.” Feeling prodigal, Ohaern spilled a precious handful of water over the Klaja’s head. The beast looked up in surprise, then licked the wet fur about its mouth with a long pink tongue. “More!”
“Only a few swallows.” Manalo had turned back to help. “Then you must fight your way to your feet, O Klaja, so that we may journey onward to a bit of shade.”
“What if there is no shade?” Lucoyo glanced at the sun fearfully; like most northerners, he had never thought it could be a source of danger.
“I know of a place,” Manalo assured him.
“Know?” The half-elf pounced on the word. “You have been here before, then?”
“Only a little farther,” Manalo urged the Klaja, and it pushed itself to its feet, already panting and slobbering again. Lucoyo looked up in irritation and was about to repeat his question when Ohaern’s slight shake of the head caught his eye. He frowned with resentment—what right had Ohaern to tell him what not to do?—but subsided. Still, he wondered how the sage could be so sure as he followed Manalo deeper into the waste.
They did indeed come to a rocky outcrop into which the wind had carved niches where they could find shade, and even some coolness stored in the stone from the night. They shared a meager meal of hard biscuit and dried meat, washed down with carefully measured mouthfuls of water, then tried to sleep a little. As the sun swung low, Manalo shooed them out and led them off toward the east again.
They marched till darkness fell, then lit a fire, for the heat of the day was followed by an amazing chill. Ohaern went hunting and found nothing—but the Klaja came back with two hares and refused to eat any, claiming to have already devoured a third. At last they slept—deeply, due to exhaustion— but Manalo rousted them out as the sky began to lighten, and set them on their way again.
That was the pattern of their days, for a week. Manalo refused to tell them where they were bound, or how he knew where to find shade and, every few days, a pool welling from the rock, or a small rivulet. Not understanding why, the companions nonetheless trudged through the dreary waste, their minds numbing and emptying to nothing more than overcoming the dreariness and heat till the next resting place. Around them the grass grew ever more scarce, and patches of sand and bare rock grew more frequent. Then Manalo’s next spring turned out to be only a powdery basin of dust, and the companions had to force themselves to go on and on, with only occasional mouthfuls of brackish water as their water skins grew lighter and flatter. Finally, the Klaja refused to rise when the sun dipped, and his friends stood in consternation about him. They would not leave him, but they no longer had the strength to carry him, either.
Then the dwerg fainted.
Lucoyo sat down on the ground with a cry of despair, clutching his head. “The heat drives me mad, it makes the blood pound through my temples, awaking an ache with every passage! Sage, make it stop!”
Manalo laid a hand on his head, muttering an ancient formula. The half-elf sagged with relief, then slumped back against the rock, and Manalo stepped aside, motioning Ohaern to follow. “They can go no farther without water,” he told the smith in a low voice. “Here, take my water skin. Guard them and measure out the liquid. Give them mouthfuls of the sour wine as often as they will take it, for it quenches thirst better than water.”
“You speak as if you will not stay,” Ohaern said, frowning.
“Quite right; I shall seek help. There are folk who live in this waste, and one tribe is near. I shall find them and return—no, do not seek to stop me, Ohaern! I shall be well. Only guard those I leave in your care!”
Ohaern did—he measured out the water, though the clamoring thirst within urged him to drink it all himself, and immediately, but there was perhaps a day’s supply left for them all. He hunted that night, and the blood of the hare and the three large lizards he found was a welcome addition to their liquid resources. A foolish snake tried to bite the hunter and was roasted for dinner himself in return. None of them felt any need to be fastidious when it came to the menu.
As the heat built in mid-morning of the second day, and the Klaja lay on his side, panting, ribs heaving, Ohaern found himself on the verge of despair. Surely the sage would come too late—if he was not already dead, himself, of exhaustion and heat! Or if he did come back, surely he would find only four desiccated bundles of skin and bones!
A voice hailed him from far away.
Ohaern looked up with sudden hope. There, dark against the sky, came half a dozen strange, lanky beasts that looked to be moving in a leisurely gait, but were actually running. He stared, never having seen such animals before. They were long-legged, long-necked—and were those humps on their backs? Indeed they were, humps, and atop the humps, men! Men wrapped in long robes, in this blazing heat! But they did not even seem to notice, pounding toward the companions with amazing speed for such a leisurely seeming gait Surely their mounts were the most ungainly creatures Ohaern had ever seen—but also the most beautiful, at least right now, when they might mean relief from the baking heat, even life itself! Ohaern cried out, clasping Lucoyo by the shoulder and pointing. The half-elf turned in surprise, levering himself up on one elbow, then stared in amazement. His mouth worked, trying to force words out past a leathery tongue as Ohaern laughed and slapped him on the shoulder, then caught up the dwerg and turned him so that he, too, could see.
“Such awkward animals!” Lucoyo cried. “And with men atop them!”
“Yes, it is amazing!” Ohaern agreed. “How could they ever have thought to ride on such animals? How could they balance on top of those miniature hills, especially as they jostle and sway? What manner of men are they?”
“Are they men at all?” Lucoyo asked, suddenly apprehensive.
Ohaern stared, then felt the chill of dread make his skin cold. Lucoyo was right—those robes might hide anything!
Then he saw who rode in the lead, and almost fainted with relief—and heat. “Teacher!”
Lucoyo stared, then leaped to his feet, waving and cheering—until he staggered, and would have fallen if Ohaern had not caught him. His weight almost dragged Ohaern down, too, but he held on until the huge splay-footed beast slowed near him and Manalo smiled down. “Hail, Ohaern!”
“Hail, Manalo!” But thirst overcame politeness, and Ohaern stretched up a hand. “Have you wat—” But the skin was already dropping into his
hand. He drew the stopper and splashed a few swallows into his own mouth, then a few more into Lucoyo’s. Only a few; then he lowered the half-elf to the ground and went to administer a dose of water to the dwerg, then to dribble a few drops onto the Klaja’s nose. The jackal-man’s tongue slapped out to soak them up; then his mouth lolled open, and Ohaern poured in just a splash. The fanged jaws snapped shut and the Klaja swallowed. Then they opened again, and he reached for the skin—but he had not the strength to reach high enough. Ohaern poured a good measure between his jaws, deliberately splashing a little over the half-furred face. The Klaja swallowed, gave his head a shake, and reached out for more. Ohaern poured another mouthful, but one of the new arrivals called out, and Manalo translated, “He says to give the Klaja no more, or he will founder.”
Ohaern nodded and turned back to give Grakhinox another drink, while the Klaja barked in protest, levering himself up. Manalo called out in barks and yaps, and the Klaja looked up at him, growling, but saw the sternness in his face and subsided.
Ohaern gave Lucoyo another drink; then the man atop the beast called, and Ohaern reluctantly held up the water skin. But the man shook his head and spoke another phrase.
“He says that you must drink more,” Manalo translated.
“Tell him I thank him for my life,” Ohaern said, and poured water into his own mouth, swallowing, until the rider called again. Ohaern did not wait for the translation, recognizing the words and guessing their meaning. He stoppered the skin and passed it up. Revived now, he took a closer look at their rescuers. They were hard-faced men, their visages gentled a bit by the sight of distressed travelers—and undeniably human. They wore long robes, and their heads were covered with a sort of light shawl.
But one in particular drew Ohaern’s eye—a mild-looking youth, only one among many, gazing down at Ohaern with a half smile and a look of such serenity as the smith had only dreamed of. “Who is that man who seems at peace with the world?” he asked Manalo.
Manalo did not even look; he only smiled his approval and said, “His name is Dariad. He is only another man of his tribe; no one yet sees anything remarkable in him, save that he lacks ambition.”
The Shaman Page 28