The Shaman

by Christopher Stasheff

  “We are not,” Ohaern contradicted. “You have no idea how many Kuruites there are, my friend, but I assure you, we are not yet enough to fight them and win. More importantly, we have not come to be slain in a series of skirmishes, but to lay siege to the city of Kuru and fight its soldiers there, on the plain about it! Come, ride—or can your camels not run as swiftly as these black men?”

  “A man, run as fast as a camel?” Dariad scoffed. “Impossible!” And he clucked to his mount, then called to his fellows. The Biharu ran forward like a leisurely wave, but the black men ran faster. Dariad frowned and urged his camel to its fastest speed, and they began to catch up to their allies.

  But Ohaern’s camel was faster, and even it seemed surprised to find itself passing the army of black men and swerving around to their fore. Ohaern called out to the black shaman, and the two of them turned off the road, pounding across a new-mown field. The camels followed, protesting.

  Finally the shamans called a halt and the armies stopped, milling about. Ohaern rode back to the Biharu. “We are distant enough from Kuru so that their soldiers will no longer follow,” he said. “They must stay close enough to go back to defend the city if attackers should come down from the north.”

  “But there will be no northern attackers!” Lucoyo protested. “The Vanyar hold the lands there, and they are Ulahane’s!”

  “You know that and so do I, but the Kuruites do not—and neither, for that matter, do I, really. Manalo visited all manner of men from all number of countries.”

  Dariad frowned. “But how will those tribes know not to attack Kuru alone?”

  “Because their shamans will meet me in the spirit world,” Ohaern explained, “when they are within two days’ march of Kuru.”

  “Then you must go to the spirit world now!” Dariad exclaimed. “Some could be waiting for you there already!”

  “He cannot just sit down and go,” Lucoyo answered. “We must guard his body while he is gone, and that means we must have a stronghold to guard us.”

  Dariad smiled. “Why, then, let us find one!”

  Chapter 30

  They found the refuge toward sunset, or it found them. Ohaern led them back to the line of hills that seemed to be the boundary of Kuru’s territory. He led them up toward high ground.

  “This seems unwise,” said Dariad, frowning. “Should we not be farther from the soldiers of Kuru?”

  Lucoyo shrugged. “He is a shaman. He knows what he is doing—I hope.”

  It seemed Ohaern did, for a very short, very stocky man with very long arms stepped out from behind a boulder and hailed Ohaern.

  Africans and Biharu alike pulled back, and a hubbub of superstitious exclamations rolled out of their ranks.

  “It is only a dwerg!” Lucoyo protested.

  “Only!” a Biharu cried. He turned to a black man, pointing at the dwerg, and said, “Only! A creature from the netherworld, one never seen by mortal men, and he says ‘only’!”

  The black man nodded, not understanding a word, and pointed at the dwerg, too, pouring forth a complaint of his own in an indignant tone. The Biharu, also not understanding a word, nodded firmly and said, “That is right!” Then he frowned and looked at the African more closely. “I am Shokla. Who are you?” He pointed to his chest and repeated, “Shokla!”

  “Ah!” The black man nodded vigorously and pointed to his own chest. “Burayo!”

  They were friends forevermore.

  Lucoyo looked closely, but saw the dwerg was not his friend Grakhinox. He was talking to Ohaern quite earnestly, beckoning and pointing farther up the slope. Lucoyo only hoped he could be trusted—though truthfully, he saw no reason to doubt one of his comrade’s kind, perhaps even kin.

  Ohaern nodded, and the dwerg set off up the slope. The shaman followed, not even bothering to call back. The nomads and hunters muttered rebelliously, but followed.

  The dwerg stopped by a huge boulder, set himself, and rolled it aside, revealing a cave mouth. The Biharu and Africans exclaimed in amazement, for it would have taken ten of them to shift that huge rock even half that distance. Then their exclamations turned to doubt and wariness; neither forest men nor desert men trusted a cave.

  “Be of good heart,” Ohaern called. “There is more than enough room for all of us to stretch out to sleep, and even to stable your camels.”

  “If there is, then the whole hill must be hollow!” the judge exclaimed.

  Ohaern nodded. “It is.”

  So it was, as they saw to their amazement: a huge dome above them, with light filtering in from cracks here and there. Those cracks admitted enough water to form stalactites and stalagmites, joined here and there to form columns. The few sun rays that penetrated the cave lit it most wondrously, bringing out a wealth of gemlike colors and sparkling gleams from bits of mica and rock crystal.

  Where those sun rays pooled, there stood a statue.

  “Manalo!” Dariad cried, even as several of the black men cried the same name. Then they turned to stare at one another, amazed.

  Surely the statue’s face did look like that of the sage—and there was no confusion as to the color of his skin, for it was painted green.

  “How is this, dwerg?” Ohaern asked, then repeated it in a language that sounded like gravel being ground under rolling boulders. The dwerg replied in the same grating sounds, and Ohaern turned to his companions. “He says that a nation of hunters carved this statue long ago, to honor the sage who brought them fire and barley, and taught them to plant and hunt Different tribes of that nation would come here to remember him and pray, then go away. Their great-greatgrandchildren worshiped the fire-bringer as a god.”

  “By what name did they call him?” Lucoyo stared up at the familiar, almost beloved face, feeling his back and scalp prickle in response to the eerieness of the place.

  “They called him ‘Nimola.’ “

  “Then this is a temple.” The judge clucked at his camel, and it knelt, protesting. “Down, all of you! We worship no god but the Star-Maker—yet this statue is that of a hero, and one of the Creator’s most excellent works!”

  The nomads climbed down off their camels and faced their judge as he began to chant the praises of the Star-Maker, while the black men faced the statue and began a chant of their own.

  But Ohaern went and sat at the foot of the statue, gazing up into that face that he knew so well, marveling all over again that Lomallin could have chosen himself, an ordinary smith of a wild forest people, for a traveling companion—and student! He lost himself in a reverie, asking Lomallin’s ghost for aid, for protection from the soldiers of Kuru, asking that spirit to respond, to touch his mind, to answer within his head, to advise ...

  Then he felt the most gentle of touches on his shoulder and heard Lucoyo’s voice, very low, very gentle: “Ohaern. Where are you?”

  The shaman stirred with regret and looked up at his friend. “Here, Lucoyo—unfortunately.” Then he saw beyond the half-elf, saw the cavern in darkness, lit only by small fires here and there, fires that gave off very little smoke but showed him a vast assemblage of sleeping bodies. “I am here,” he said regretfully. “I have not left this cavern.”

  Lucoyo sighed with relief. “It would be hard to keep this host together if your spirit went wandering again! What were you doing?”

  “Seeking speech with Lomallin’s ghost,” Ohaern answered, “but if Rahani is right and his spirit has survived his body, he has a maddening way of not answering when it is convenient for those who call upon him.” He gazed out over the sleeping army and nodded. “Well then, they sleep.” He tested his own body and said, “I feel as if I have slept, too—this sort of contemplation must be as good a rest as sleep.”

  “ ‘This kind’?” Lucoyo repeated. “How many kinds are there?”

  “Only two that I know of so far,” Ohaern answered, “and I must now try the other kind—the one that uses up strength, and does not restore it.” He turned back toward the statue, leaned against a pillar a
nd closed his eyes.

  “No, Ohaern!” Lucoyo protested, but the shaman shook his head.

  “I must tell the other tribes where to march and what to do. For that, I must speak to their shamans, and the only way is to meet them in the spirit world.”

  “Well ... do not be long, then.” Lucoyo glanced apprehensively over his shoulder. “I do not know how long I can hold them here if you do not come back.”

  “Be calm, my friend,” Ohaern said. “I go not to learn this time, but only to confer. I shall be back ere dawn.”

  “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 other
s 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.