The Shaman (16 page)

“I
thank you,” the half-elf said warily. “Who are you?”

“This
is my brother Lafgar,” said Elluaera.

He
turned to her in astonishment, then back to Lafgar, all wariness now. “I owe
your sister great thanks, Lafgar. She has nursed me through a most pitiable
state.”

“I
have always had cause to be proud of her, and hope that she is proud of me,”
Lafgar returned. “I love her dearly and would take it amiss if anything untoward
happened to her.”

“Lafgar!”
Elluaera said indignantly, but Lucoyo only threw back his head and laughed. He
slapped the bigger man on the shoulder and said, “Friend Lafgar, I would I were
well enough to be a threat of any kind!”

Lafgar
stared at him a moment, then grinned sheepishly.

“Have
no fear,” Lucoyo assured him. “Her honor is as sacred to me as my own.”

“That
is what I feared,” Lafgar said.

Lucoyo’s
eyes flashed with anger; then he realized the joke, and smiled. “So, a man
after my own taste in words!”

“So
is she,” Lafgar warned. “Beware.”

“I
will rejoice in it—for at the moment I can rejoice in little else. Have I your
permission for her to escort me to my pallet?”

“Do
you need it?” Elluaera demanded indignantly.

“Need
it or not, he has it,” Lafgar told her, and struck Lucoyo a mock blow on the
upper arm. “Our family is honored by your friendship, half-elf—but I pray you,
learn of our customs ere you flirt with my sister. Good night.” And he was gone
into the gloom.

Lucoyo
frowned after him, then turned to the maiden, who burned with embarrassment. “What
customs did he mean?”

“Why,”
she said, “our silly males hold that a man must prove his worth ere he can ask
a woman to be his wife.”

Lucoyo
stopped, staring into her eyes. “I see no silliness in that.”

She
stared back at him, startled, then turned away, blushing. “As if you had any
interest in me other than in my nursing!”

“Yes,
as if I had,” Lucoyo murmured. “Imagine that.”

“I
cannot.”

“You
should,” he told her, and she looked up, staring in surprise. “But if I were a
well man, and a whole man, and one who might think of more than flirting,” said
Lucoyo, “how would I prove my worthiness to be a husband?”

“By
gaining wealth,” she said slowly, “furs and amber to trade, and perhaps even
some of the southerners’ golden coins. In our tribe, if a hunter has built a
house and brought back meat for the clan and gathered furs and amber for two
years together, he is deemed worthy to take a wife, for he has shown that he
can feed her and her children, and house them.”

“Is
that all?” Lucoyo asked in surprise. “Must he not also go forth to battle, and
come back alive?”

“Well
yes, but there may be no battles in his time,” Elluaera said. “Besides, you
have already proved your worth in that fashion, by the accounts of Ohaern and
his band—and no one will doubt their word in
that.”

Lucoyo
stared, amazed and grateful to his fellow raiders. It felt odd. “But I fell
down in the battle!”

“After
it,” she reminded him, “and you were already worn down when the band met you.”

Lucoyo
stiffened in indignation. “I walked as tall and ran as far as any of them!”

“You
did,” she agreed, “and they spoke of it with great respect when they told your
tale around the campfire. But they knew you were not in the fullness of your
strength even then.”

And
they had never let him know they guessed! “So—I have proved my worth as a
warrior .. .”

“And
need only prove that you could husband.” Her eyes twinkled. “But that would be
if you had the wish to marry.”

“Why,
yes.” Lucoyo caught her hand and looked into her eyes. “And if I did, and if I
had proved worthy by hunting and building, would you wish to marry me?”

Her
eyes widened, seemed to swell as she swayed forward, and her lips tasted sweet
on his, sweeter than any honey or syrup he had ever sipped, sweeter yet as the
kiss deepened, and he closed his eyes, the better to savor the taste, the
touch, the feel ...

Then
her lips moved away, but her eyes were still huge, still very close, and
shining into his. “I might,” she said, “but no woman may answer such a question
till the man may ask it.”

“But
I have not,” Lucoyo breathed, “only asked, ‘what if.’ “

“Then
what if you proved your worth as a hunter first?” she asked. “What if you dwelt
with my people for two years, to show them you would willingly dwell among us
all your life?”

“Why,
so I would,” Lucoyo said fervently. “But for me, a far greater question is:
Would
they
have
me?”

“Oh,
yes,” Elluaera said softly. “From the words I have heard around the fire, they
would very willingly have you among them all your days.”

Some
little while later, Lucoyo returned to the brush hut that had been his
sickroom—and found Ohaern reclining on the other pallet. He sat up, smiling,
and said, “So you have found your nurse a pleasant companion, outlander.”

“Very
pleasant indeed.” Lucoyo sat slowly on his pine-bough bed. “But how is it you
are come, Ohaern? I need no nurse any longer, and if I did, I would not choose
you!”

“It
is because you no longer need one, that I am come,” Ohaern said with some
irony. “We must speak of the future, Lucoyo.”

Lucoyo
braced himself. “Speak, then.”

“Will
you return to your own tribe?”

“Never!”
Lucoyo spat. “They have cast me out bodily—but they cast me out in their
hearts, the day I was born!” He sat trembling, amazed at his own venom.

“The
more fools they, then, and the greater our gain,” Ohaern said. “Would you be a
Biri, Lucoyo?”

“Aye,
willingly,” Lucoyo said slowly, “but can a fox become a wolf? My ears will
always be long and pointed, and my feet shall always be that of a nomad!”

“So
long as they return to a Biri village, there is no bar in that,” Ohaern said,
musing, “and so long as the rest of your body cleaves to no woman but one. The
fox can be adopted by the wolves, Lucoyo.”

“I
have never seen that, nor heard of it!”

“Nor
have I,” Ohaern admitted, “though I have heard that wolves have raised human
children and treated them as their own. Will you be an honorary wolf, Lucoyo,
and mingle your blood with that of our clan?”

Lucoyo
stared, his whole body stiffening, trembling, unable to believe his good
fortune.

“Come,
the choice is not so great as that,” Ohaern said, his voice low. “You have
already mingled your blood with ours on the battlefield. Do you not wish it?”

“With
all my heart!”

“Then
it shall be done.” The big smith stood up, grinning, and reached down to clasp
Lucoyo’s arm and hand. “When we have returned to our own land and reclaimed our
village, we shall take you into our tribe with ceremony—but we have already
taken you in, with our hearts. Sleep well, Lucoyo.”

He
left, but the half-elf did not sleep for an hour and more. He only sat, dazed
by his good fortune and trying to persuade himself that it was both real and
true.

At
last he lay down, but lay awhile longer staring into the darkness, seeing
visions of harmony and companionship and love and marriage, trying desperately
to quell the fear within him, the fear of hoping, of feeling delight, the fear
that if he did, all would be taken from him. So when, at last, he did sleep,
worn out by warring jubilation and anxiety, he was not surprised when he was
wakened by the angry shouts of alarm and the clash of iron on bronze.

He
clasped his knife belt about him, caught up his bow and quiver, and charged out
into a night lit by burning brush huts, hearing the cries all about him.

“The
Klaja! The Klaja!”

“They
have come back, with more!”

“More
Klaja, and their master!”

Lucoyo
was scrambling upright when a running body struck him and sent him spinning.
The body fell with him, howling, and sharp teeth snapped shut an inch from his
face. In panic, Lucoyo yanked out his knife and struck. Crimson streaked across
the human cheek and the jackal’s snout, and the monster howled again, but this
time in fear, then scrambled away. Hot with blood lust, Lucoyo pursued—and saw
his quarry duck between two more of his kind, who advanced, snarling, with
spears raised.

Lucoyo
fell back a few steps, then bent to string his bow and came up with an arrow
nocked. The Klaja hesitated, giving him stable targets, and he loosed one
arrow, then whipped another across the bow even as the first struck a Klaja
chest. The beast fell howling, and its mate scrambled away.

Burning
with fury and the elation of victory, Lucoyo spun, looking for new quarry ...

And
a huge hand slapped him aside as if he were a branch of leaves. Thunder filled
his head as he fell, the thunder of a huge basso voice bellowing in a foreign
language, as much bark as words. Dazed and terrified, he saw the giant, half
again the height of a man, wading through the fight toward a knoll where Ohaern
stood with Manalo behind him. The giant struck Biriae and Klaja alike, sweeping
them aside with huge backhanded sweeps of his arms, slamming them against trees
to slide broken to the ground.

One
of those blows struck Elluaera.

She
stood bravely, a spear in her hands, jabbing at the giant. Then she was flying
through the air, head snapping back, striking the bole of a huge oak and
sliding to the ground in a heap of bright hair and tumbled limbs.

Lucoyo
screamed.

He
screamed, bent his bow and loosed. The arrow flew straight and true, and stuck
jutting out of the giant’s shoulder, right next to the cross straps of his
black leathers. He did not even seem to notice, just kept ploughing through the
fight.

Lucoyo
went mad. He screamed obscenities, running around the giant, stabbing and
slashing at any who came in his way, not caring if they were human or half
beast, for he was almost a beast himself now. Twelve feet in front of the giant
and five to the side, he knelt and loosed an arrow. He aimed for the eye; it
struck the cheek, and this time the giant felt it. He roared in anger—a broad,
blond-haired, high-cheeked face that might have been rudely handsome another
time, but was now ugly with rage and gloating anticipation. He advanced even as
Lucoyo was drawing again, and struck the half-elf a backhanded blow that sent
him caroming off an elm. Dazed and aching, Lucoyo scrambled to his feet—and saw
the circle of men about Ohaern and Manalo, only yards to his left. Ohaern stood
shouting, a sword in each hand, cutting down any Klaja who came near him. Most
huddled back, spears ready, wary of coming within the big smith’s reach. One by
one the Biriae rallied to their chief, those who still lived. As they came, Manalo
gave each an iron sword, which he produced from beneath his cloak in seemingly
endless profusion; even in mid-fight,

Lucoyo
had the crazy notion that the sage could not possibly have carried so many.

But
he needed a sword himself, and his arrows could reach those Klaja who were
careful to stay beyond Ohaern’s grasp. Lucoyo ran toward them—or tried to run,
but his legs kept giving way beneath him, and a Klaja, mistaking that weakness
for vulnerability, struck down at him with a cry of glee, the firelight
gleaming off its teeth. Lucoyo struck upward with his knife, ripping skin and
muscle; the jackal fell back howling in pain, clutching blood. Lucoyo paid him
no attention, but stumbled toward Ohaern, dodging legs and striking with his
blade. Twice spears struck him, but he twisted aside at the last instant, and
they only left red streaks; twice, blows caught him and sent him spinning, but
they threw him in the right direction, toward the knoll, and the protection of
the Biriae.

But
the Ulharl reached them first.

The
Ulharl reached them first, or came close enough. He roared and swung up a hand,
a hand that suddenly cupped fire in its basket of a palm, a hand that shot
forward, hurling that fire, hurling it straight toward Manalo.

The
sage whipped one more sword from beneath his cloak—a sword of bronze, with
strange patterns etched in the metal. He shouted some words the Biriae could
not understand, slashing the sword between himself and the Ulharl. Fire traced
that arc, flames burst from it—flames that engulfed the Ulharl’s fireball. A
loud, sharp report sounded; then the flames roared, swirling up higher than the
Ulharl’s head and billowing toward him. The giant fell back with a cry of
alarm, then growled as the flames died. He lurched toward the sage.

But
Manalo was chanting again, gesturing as if lifting handfuls of grain, and
snakes came writhing out of the ground to twine up about the Ulharl’s legs,
dozens of snakes, scores of snakes, thicker and thicker as they followed one
another, twining about the giant’s limbs and swarming over him. He thrashed at
them, bellowing in anger, and managed to trample a few underfoot, but the
others held fast, tightening their coils.

In
rage, the giant shouted a spell of his own, and the snakes melted like spring
snow in a shadowed pocket, touched suddenly by sunlight.

But
Manalo was still chanting, hands paddling like a mole’s, and the ground beneath
the Ulharl rumbled, then sank. Roaring in surprise and anger, the giant dropped
into a pit that had not been there a moment before, as the ground gave way
beneath his feet.

“Their
champion is down!” Ohaern bellowed. “Cut these jackals apart!”

The
Biriae roared agreement and blocked spears on their shields while they slashed
the owners with their swords. One Biri began to chant their old war song, and
others joined him. In seconds the whole throng was belting out the words of
doom, while their swords reaped death all about them. Biriae fell with spears
in their chests—but far more Klaja rolled on the ground, yelping with fear and
pain as they clutched at crimson wounds, or lay silent and lifeless. Even
though they outnumbered the Biriae three to one, the Klaja began to give way,
their circle widening.