The Shaman (13 page)

Glabur
came up just as the second manacle came off. “It is done and ready, Ohaern.”

Ohaern
looked up at the thicket and nodded. Lucoyo couldn’t discover what he was so
pleased about—the thicket looked just as it had, except that there was more greenery
atop it, woven into its sides, and heaped along the bottom of its roots.

“The
plainsman sees nothing,” Glabur said with a grin. “Let us hope that the city
men see nothing, too. Come, archer—look upon our handiwork.”

Frowning,
Lucoyo followed the hunter. Kneeling down, Glabur pulled aside a bush—and
Lucoyo saw a leafy tunnel with open space beyond it. “Enter,” Glabur invited.

“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.

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?” the 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.