Authors: Christopher Stasheff
“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.”
“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!”