The Shaman

by Christopher Stasheff

  “I see,” Ohaern said slowly, gaze still lingering on Dariad’s face. The young man smiled placidly in return. Then Ohaern remembered his manners and turned to bow to the rider beside Manalo. “I thank you for this rescue, O Generous One.”

  The man seemed pleased and gave a reply which Manalo translated as, “He says he and his companions are honored to offer aid to good people, and invites you to return with them to their camp.”

  “We will, and gladly!” Ohaern said with relief. He turned to help the Klaja stumble to his feet, then turned back to Manalo. “I shall have to carry him, Teacher.”

  But Manalo was already clucking to his mount, and it knelt, squalling protest. “You shall not carry him, but this camel will.” Manalo reached out his arms. “I shall have to hold him in place.”

  Ohaern helped the half-jackal over to the camel, who brayed its distrust of the Klaja and tried to bite him—but Ohaern saw the teeth looming and managed to sidestep, weak though he was. He laid the Klaja over Manalo’s knees, then turned to find that several of the camels had knelt, with indignant objections. “You shall all ride,” Manalo informed him, “for these Biharu say you could not live if you tried to walk the distance—and I will tell you they are right.”

  “If it is more than a hundred feet, I will tell me that, too,” Lucoyo replied. He went over to clamber up behind a Biharu, holding onto the man’s saddle for dear life. His eyes were wide with fright as the camel climbed back to its feet, protesting now at having to carry double weight—but he stayed on. The Biharu who carried the dwerg eyed his passenger askance, but made no objection, only snapped a command to him as the camel rose.

  “He says that since your arms are long enough, you should hold on about his waist,” Manalo translated, and Grakhinox gratefully complied. Then the sage turned to Ohaern. “They are safely stowed, O Smith. Do you ride with Dariad.”

  The bland young man smiled at his name and waved. Ohaern went to him, reflecting that Dariad’s face was bland only until you looked at his eyes. He climbed on behind, holding to the saddle for dear life as the camel pushed itself to its feet, grumbling, and began to sway as it moved off after its fellows.

  “You from north?” Dariad asked, looking back over his shoulder at Ohaern.

  Ohaern stared in surprise. “How is it you speak the language of Cashalo?”

  “Cashalo men come trade two, three times year,” Dariad explained. “I no speak good.”

  That was true; his accent was so thick that Ohaern felt he had to force his way through it, and his vocabulary seemed limited. Nonetheless, he said, “You speak it better than I speak your language. Yes, I am from the north.”

  “How speak Cashalo tongue?”

  “I dwelt among them for a month and more,” Ohaern explained, “and had to direct them in a battle.”

  “One month? Learn fast!”

  That was true, now that Ohaern thought of it. At the time, he had only been glad he could make himself understood quickly enough to direct the battle. “I wish to learn fast again,” he told Dariad. “Teach me your language.”

  The nomad grinned. “Happy do. This is ‘camel.’ “ He pointed to the beast.

  Ohaern nodded, already having learned the word from Manalo.

  “This be demija.” Dariad plucked at his robe. “This be nisij.” He pointed at Ohaern’s sword. “What?”

  “Sword,” Ohaern told him, and drew his dagger. “Knife. What are those?” He pointed to the reins in Dariad’s hand.

  “Ilshna,” Dariad answered, and they rode on to the Biharu camp, trading words as they went.

  The nomad camp was bleak, only a collection of tents in a rough oval around a small pond, which supported some grass and a few palm trees. A few goats drank, while many more grazed outside the ring—but to Ohaern and his companions, it looked like Paradise. They were welcomed with the hospitality of those to whom the arrival of strangers is a major event—but even through the feasting and the singing and dancing, Ohaern and Dariad went on exchanging words. Manalo only watched, and the glitter in his eye went far beyond amusement.

  In spite of his exhaustion and weakness, Lucoyo tried to strike up conversations with the young women, but won only giggles and flirtatious glances. He sighed and admitted to himself that language was indeed a barrier to more kinds of communication than one.

  Within two days Ohaern and Dariad had enough words in common to be able to converse quite freely. Neither of them seemed to notice anything strange in such rapid learning. Later, looking back, Ohaern wondered at it, and decided they both must have had a rare gift for languages. Either that, or Manalo had aided their learning with a spell or two—and that, Ohaern decided, was a very definite possibility.

  “Why do the Biharu live in so barren a waste?” Ohaern asked.

  “Because it is our home,” Dariad explained simply. “Drought has been spreading out from the Sand Sea since our grandfathers’ time. Many have despaired and have left, but we have remained steadfast in our fathers’ land, and have learned to wrest a living from the dryness and heat.”

  Ohaern frowned. “What is the Sand Sea?”

  “A desert,” Dariad answered, “a wasteland that makes this borderland seem lush. There is no water, no moisture of any kind, save that which a man brings with him—and if he is foolish enough to go there, he is foolish indeed. It is all sand and rock and hard-baked clay—and is still growing. As it grows bigger, we move back, to find pasture for our goats and camels.”

  Ohaern shuddered at the thought of living in such a place. “You must have faith indeed in your gods, to believe they will sustain you here. Do you worship Lomallin?”

  “We honor him,” Dariad allowed, “but we worship none but the Creator Himself, the God Who Made the Stars—and the Ulin, and us, and all else besides.”

  Ohaern frowned. “But none have ever seen the Creator! It is rumored that he may not even resemble a human being, even as much as the Ulin do!”

  Dariad nodded. “None knows His face or form, or even if He has either. Nonetheless, He is the Source of All, and must needs be the most mighty.”

  He said it with such serenity that Ohaern had to suppress an urge to reach out and shake him in an effort to shock him awake. “Would it not be better to worship a god you can comprehend, at least in form and heart? Would it not be better to turn to Lomallin, the chief of the human-lovers?”

  “None loves humankind more than He who made it,” Dariad rejoined, with ineffable assurance. “There is none equal to the Star-Maker; trust in Him.”

  “Do you not fear Ulahane?”

  “Yes, but we know that while we dwell in the shadow of the Star-Maker, Ulahane cannot defeat us or destroy us.”

  It occurred to Ohaern that Dariad was mad. Oh, perhaps the Star-Maker was indeed more powerful than Ulahane—or Lomallin either, for that matter—but how likely was he to step in and strike down the Scarlet One? Never, so far as Ohaern could guess. Surely He had not intervened in the Ulin War!

  But then, Ohaern had never before met a people who worshiped the Star-Maker, either.

  “Ulahane is not truly a god,” Dariad explained, and Ohaern frowned, hearing an echo of what Manalo himself had spoken. He paid close attention as the nomad went on. “We who worship the Star-Maker know that Ulahane is only another one of the Star-Maker’s creations—a flawed one, a bad one, but nonetheless one that the Star-Maker is as loath to eliminate as any other thing He has created—and ultimately loved.”

  Ohaern stared. “You cannot mean that the Star-Maker loves even so cruel and depraved a creature as Ulahane!”

  “Does not a parent love even a naughty child?” Dariad countered. “Nay, I have seen it myself—a young man of our clan who grew to be cruel and violent, so much so that he raped a young woman, and was executed for it by our judge. His parents wept, though they knew him to be wicked—aye, and had suffered his outbursts of anger themselves, though suffered them in patience.” He shook his head. “I can understand that the Star-Maker still
loves even Ulahane, though He doubtless deplores the evilness of the Scarlet One.”

  “Surely you do not deny Ulahane’s power!”

  “Neither his, nor Lomallin’s, nor that of any of the Ulin. Indeed, we would be foolish to ignore even the power of another human being. No, we know that the beings you call ‘gods’ are far more powerful than mere humans—but we also know that they are not omnipotent. They are an elder race, a more powerful race—but they are not truly gods.”

  And what could Ohaern say, when his own teacher had told him the same thing?

  He could change tactics, though. “If you know the Star-Maker to be the most powerful god, do you Biharu not feel you should extend His rule over all the world?”

  Dariad shook his head, smiling. “He already rules the whole world.”

  Lucoyo did not understand how Dariad could say such a thing, when Ulahane strove against Lomallin so harshly, and with such determination to bring about the suffering of all humankind, not to mention the rest of the few surviving Ulin. He said as much, he strove and argued and pointed out the contradictions inherent in believing in only one god—but his doubts did not bother the young herdsman at all. He proceeded to answer each of Ohaern’s arguments with a placid demeanor, even though some of his ideas must have been inspired at that moment.

  Oddly, his imperturbable, unshakable behef in his God did not ruffle Ohaern, either; he understood what the herder meant, though he could not explain it to Lucoyo when the half-elf complained that a world with only one God made no sense. Ohaern was not skilled with words, as Dariad seemed to be, and anyway, this went beyond language. All he could say was, “I cannot see that it makes much difference, Lucoyo. Greater men or lesser gods, what matter?”

  In similar fashion, Ohaern could not explain why he knew that Dariad, who seemed so simple in his serenity, was really a very important man. Perhaps it was because, in his very simplicity, he was so completely dedicated to Goodness and Rightness, and was so greathearted, so enthusiastic and compassionate, that his personality was staggering. But Ohaern knew him for a marked man, marked for Ulahane’s destruction. He was an excellent fighter, though, and Ohaern quickly realized that his simplicity was that of a completely unified, harmonious soul, and had nothing to do with intelligence. Indeed, Dariad was very intelligent, but had found no occasion to use his capacity. He was so easygoing and so clumsy in his happy abstraction that he came in for a great deal of good-natured teasing. The rest of the clan seemed to view him with fond condescension.

  So the companions passed an enjoyable, if quiet, five-day convalescence and were just beginning to feel strong enough to follow Manalo further in his mad quest, when the caravan came winding its way through the wasteland toward the oasis where the herders were camped.

  Chapter 25

  The Biharu greeted the caravan with delight. The traders, initially wary, let go of the axes and swords that hung on their saddles and climbed down with broad grins to exchange greetings with the nomads, and trade wine for water. They pitched tents of their own, lit campfires, and settled down to some serious bargaining. Ohaern was amazed at the trade goods the Biharu brought out—bracelets and jewelry of fine workmanship, and rugs and carpets of intricate design and vivid color. Eavesdropping shamelessly, he learned that nearly every Biharu was an expert crafter, making these wonders in leisure hours stolen from the hard business of survival. He was even more amazed to discover that the Biharu were shrewd bargainers, exchanging their creations for an equal weight of raw metal and dyes, plus polished gemstones, wines, and other luxuries.

  However, he also noted that only half a dozen of the forty traders actually did the bargaining, while the others strolled about the camp, surveying the Biharu entirely too casually. He began to stroll himself, suspicion growing—then crystalizing when he saw three of the traders standing in a tense group, muttering to one another and casting furtive glances at one particular nomad ...

  Dariad.

  It was reassuring to know that someone else thought the man had special qualities, but Ohaern did not think he liked the nature of their interest. Accordingly, for the rest of the evening he made sure he was never very far from Dariad. When the fire was lighted, the meat roasting, and the wineskins passing, he brought Lucoyo to a place near the tranquil nomad, ostensibly to have a better look at the dancing; and when the Biharu and the traders reeled unsteadily back to their respective camps, Ohaern contrived to keep Dariad in sight as he strolled back to his tent.

  So he was very near when five traders appeared from behind the tent and fell on Dariad in coldly ruthless silence.

  Ohaern shouted an angry warning and ran toward the fracas. Dariad whipped about, and Ohaern saw a knife gleaming in his hand just before three of the attackers fell upon him. Then the other two fell upon Ohaern, one leaping for his head, the other coming in low with a dagger. Ohaern shouted in rage, drawing his own knife in a broad sweep, and the lower attacker had to pull back for a moment—just long enough for Ohaern to catch the jumper by the throat. A fist rocked his head, and the night scene was shot with tiny points of light, but he threw the man from him, straight into his companion, then fell back in guard stance, shaking his head to clear it. The attackers unsnarled themselves and came for him again, but more warily this time, one advancing while the other waited to strike from behind, still in that uncanny silence.

  But if they would not shout, Ohaern would. “Biharu! Help! Your kinsman is attacked!”

  The merchant forgot caution in his haste to silence Ohaern and leaped forward, thrusting with his knife. Ohaern caught his wrist and bent it outward. The man’s mouth opened wide in a silent shout of agony; then Ohaern’s knife fist cracked into his chin, closing his jaw for him, and the smith threw the unconscious man into his friend, who was just pivoting in to thrust. The knife caught his companion in the back; then Ohaern caught the assassin, and his knife hilt slapped into the base of the man’s skull. He longed to use the point, but was afraid of starting a war with the traders. He threw the unconscious pair aside and stepped forward, frantic with worry for Dariad.

  The nomad stood breathing heavily, a rivulet of blood marking his cheek just below the eye and another streaking his forearm—but he was grinning a wolf’s grin, and three men lay at his feet. Blood pooled from one and painted another. Their slayer looked up at the smith. “Thank you for my life, Ohaern.

  I do not think I could have struck down all five—they were very good with their knives.”

  Ohaern could only stare. Was this really the tranquil, mild-mannered young man who had spoken so calmly to him about his God?

  Then the shouting registered, and he spun about, side by side with Dariad, ready to defend—but it was the nomad’s tribesmen who came running up, swords and daggers at the ready. “Are you hurt, Dariad?”

  “Only a scratch,” Dariad panted, “thanks to Ohaern.”

  The Biharu drew up, staring down at the assassins. “The traders? Murderers among the traders?”

  “Murderers trained for it.” Ohaern knelt and pried one man’s jaws open, then another’s and another’s. “Their tongues have been cut out to be sure they would attack in silence and could not say who had sent them.”

  The nomads stared, aghast. Then one asked, “But were they of the traders, or only traveling among them in disguise?”

  “Assume they are as much traders as any!” The Biharu leader drew his own sword, whirling about. “Protect your wives and children!”

  The Biharu stared in amazement, then gave one massed shout as they ran toward the traders’ campfires.

  “Beware treachery!” Dariad cried. “These men strike from behind!”

  Without breaking stride, a score of his tribesmen fanned out on the opposite side of the camp, following Dariad. Ohaern stood in the center of the Biharu camp, looking about him, not knowing which way to turn.

  Lucoyo came running up, Labina’s sword in his hand. “Ohaern! The traders! Look!”

  Ohaern did look, just in time to s
ee the traders casting aside their robes to free their sword arms—and the campfires showed them standing in the harness and kilts of soldiers, leather and cloth dyed the scarlet of Kuru—of Kuru, and of Ulahane!

  “Archer! Your bow!” Ohaern cried.

  “Useless how!” Lucoyo swung about, back-to-back with Ohaern. “They are too close! Five of them for every one of us, Ohaern!”

  “Five at the least!” Ohaern agreed, just as a Kuruite soldier came charging down on him, howling a battle cry and swinging a sword as if it were an axe. Ohaern blocked the blade and kicked him in the belly. As he fell back, two more surged up in his place. Ohaern blocked and parried in a whirl of dagger and sword, then ended one life with a slash and another with a thrust. Four more came at him, half a circle; two tripped over their fallen fellows, one fell trailing a ribbon of blood from Ohaern’s sword—but the other opened the smith’s chest before Ohaern beat him back. In battle-frenzy, he did not feel the pain, scarcely knew he was wounded at all. He blocked the blows of the next two, scrambling back to their feet now, and the two charging up after them.

  Behind him Lucoyo’s battle cry cut clear and high above the bull roars of the Kuruites, heartening Ohaern as he cried, “Fall down!” and enforced the command with edge and point. A spear thrust at him; he leaned aside in the nick of time, then slashed the hands that held it. The Kuruite fell with a howl— but his spear point was red. Ohaern paid it no heed, only ducked under a thrust from his left. The Kuruite stumbled, falling against Ohaern’s shoulder, and the smith brought his dagger up under the enemy’s breastbone. The man gave a single sharp cry; then Ohaern was surging up, throwing the man off, slashing to block a sword coming from his right, counterslashing, then circling his sword around and stabbing. The man’s eyes bulged as he leaned forward over the sword, then dulled as he fell. Ohaern yanked his blade free and glared about him, chest heaving ...