The Shaman (21 page)

Lucoyo
felt a surge of panic and started after him, but Ohaern put out an arm to stop
him. “Let him go, Lucoyo. We are not children, after all, nor he our parent.
Come, let us find the southern road.” He took up his pack and turned away.

Lucoyo
felt as if the smith’s words had plunged his head into an ice-cold pool.
Smoldering within, he shouldered his pack. Of course Ohaern was right—of course
they needed none but themselves—and the smith could not have known how the
mention of a parent would galvanize him.

He
had fared without a father thus far, and he would go on faring without one
surpassingly well! In fact, now that he thought of it, he was reluctant to have
so much as a single road companion, even one so likable as Ohaern.

Reluctant,
but not foolish enough to bid him farewell. Lucoyo, too, fared south, pacing
quickly to catch up with his friend.

“It
is ridiculous!” Lucoyo protested. “The sun has set; soon there will be only
darkness and stars! We should have pitched camp before the orb even started to
sink! Why do we still wander?”

“Are
your legs so tired as that?” Ohaern returned.

Well,
yes, they were, actually—but Lucoyo wasn’t about to say so. “Ulahane’s minions
are more active at night—all know that! Why do you insist that we keep
marching?”

“I
do not know.” Ohaern shook his head with dogged persistence. “I only know that
we must. Call it a feeling, call it certain knowledge from some god or spirit,
but it is there—a certainty that we may not yet rest. Stay if you wish, Lucoyo.
I will come back for you when it is right.”

Camp
alone, on this barren plain? The man must have thought Lucoyo was out of his
mind! Who knew what might come upon him, or how defenseless he would be with
none to watch and none to guard his back? “Oh, you know I will not leave you!”
the half-elf grumbled. “Who would ward your right arm if I did?”

Ohaern
answered with a smile. “Why, then, I thank you, my right arm. Be content—I do
not think it shall be much farther.”

Lucoyo
eyed the huge jumble of rock that reared out of the plain before them on their
right. “I hope not.” It unsettled him, how masses of granite could rise so
suddenly out of this tableland—especially since the trail they followed almost
always ran around those huge masses and right near them. Lucoyo could only
think what an excellent place it would be for an ambush, just the sort he would
have chosen. Of course, there was no sign of any living creature here, if you
did not count the birds and small rodents—

Sudden
shouting broke out ahead, with the clash of arms.

Lucoyo
stared. Somebody else had noticed it was a good place for an ambush!

“Yes,
not much longer to march, at all,” Ohaern said grimly. “Come, archer, and keep
your bow to hand! Let us see who fights whom!”

They
sprinted ahead, and Lucoyo went dancing up the rock slope as nimbly as a
lemur—and with just as good a night vision; at least he had some gift from his
nameless father. He dropped down to his belly and stuck his head over the edge
of the rocky shelf.

“What
do you see?” Ohaern’s voice was tense behind him.

“A
band of men, beset by goblins!” Lucoyo hissed. “See for yourself, but move
softly! Those big-eared monstrosities can hear a gnat’s landing!” He squirmed
backward, then up to stand, as Ohaern crawled past him.

Below,
he saw torches ringing a half-dozen men with packs on their backs and swords in
their hands. They slashed desperately at the bloodred monsters, half their
height but four times their number, who sprang in on their huge frog legs,
landing on great splay feet to stab with spears held in short, muscle-bound
arms and knob-knuckled hands. Their huge dish ears were turned toward the knot
of men, though, not listening for sounds of rescue.

“Can
you shoot the goblins without slaying the men?” Ohaern demanded.

“Aye,
if I shoot at those farthest from the humans.”

“Then
do so—and take care not to hit me!” Ohaern vaulted over the edge. Lucoyo almost
cried out, but caught himself in time and leaned to see his friend land, then
go skating down the talus slope, drawing his broadsword as he went. Lucoyo
cursed under his breath and strung his bow.

Ohaern
hurtled toward the fight, a silent juggernaut come to doom the goblins. He
slammed into their rear ranks, laying about him with sword and buckler. Goblins
screamed as they fell. Then, the surprise gone, Ohaern roared with a berserker’s
anger. Goblins gave way around him in sheer fright, and he turned to mow them
down.

Above
him, Lucoyo cursed again and bent his bow. If it had not been for Ohaern, he
certainly would have gone his way and avoided this fight—or sat and watched,
enjoying the spectacle. Personally, his sympathies lay with the goblins—but if
his friend fought for the humans, what could he do? Even if Ohaern had not
exactly given him a chance to express a preference .. .

The
humans, seeing a champion charging in to their rescue, let out a glad shout and
began to lay about them with renewed vigor. One sheared off a spearhead; the
goblin dropped the shaft and leaped at the man, teeth yawning wide in its
noseless face. The traveler slashed, but the goblin somehow twisted aside and
sank his fangs into the man’s forearm. The traveler cried out, dropping his
sword, and a second goblin sprang for his other arm.

Cursing
anew, Lucoyo aimed and loosed.

An
arrow sprouted in the goblin’s back. It screamed and fell short of the
beleaguered traveler. One of the human’s fellows chopped through the first
goblin’s neck; the body fell, and the head opened its jaws in one last scream
as it fell to the ground to be trampled underfoot.

At
the edge of the ring goblins were dying, arrows in their necks and transfixing
their bodies. One goblin turned back to call up more of his fellows, saw the
windrow of bodies and let out a screech. A dozen of his fellows turned, saw,
and howled, scanning the rock face for their enemy. Lucoyo flattened himself
against the stone, imitating its stillness, but they saw him anyway, and with a
howl of vengeance the dozen goblins surged toward the bluff, leaping and
hopping far faster than a man could run.

But
a man ran anyway—Ohaern, leaving the travelers to their own devices. He could
afford to—only half a dozen goblins remained to fight four still-standing men,
and three of the monstrosities held broken spears.

Lucoyo
saw he was discovered and knew there was no hope but fight. He stepped up to
the shelf’s edge and began to shoot, a stream of arrows flowing down toward the
goblins. They saw the flight and dodged aside, hiding behind rocks, then
leaping from one boulder to another, coming inexorably closer and closer—but
much more slowly.

Ohaern
caught up with them, chopping one head from its shoulders. The monster had
scarcely any neck, but the cleft between shoulder and head was enough to guide
the sword. As the body fell, Ohaern cut backhanded at another—but the creature
saw him and screeched just before the blade struck. The other goblins whirled
about to look, and Ohaern roared as he strode forward. The goblins yelped in
fright and leaped around to put the boulders between him and them—and Lucoyo’s
arrows struck between their shoulders.

A
goblin bent backward, keening as he died. The others looked up, realized their
only hope was attack, and went leaping up the slope toward the archer, howling
for revenge. Lucoyo picked off another and another and ...

Groped
at an empty quiver.

Cursing,
he threw down his bow and drew his long knife.

He
crouched at the edge of the shelf, knife in his left hand, right finding a
stone and throwing.

It
struck the lead goblin in the face. The creature went down, and his two
companions leaped on past him still howling—but Lucoyo threw another stone, and
one goblin dodged.

Ohaern
caught him.

The
last sprang on, unaware that he was alone. He leaped high, and needle-sharp
fangs closed on Lucoyo’s left arm. The archer shouted with pain and stabbed;
the goblin face fell away, but Lucoyo’s arm dripped blood.

Then
Ohaern was there, catching him up. “How badly are you hurt, Lucoyo? Ah, a curse
upon my slowness!”

“It
is only flesh,” the half-elf groaned, watching the even flow of blood. “I do
not think he caught a vein, and certainly not the bone. But anything so ugly
must have poison in its bite!”

“Come,
down to the travelers!” Ohaern said. “I see packs on their backs; perhaps they
have medicines.”

Lucoyo
picked up his bow and clambered off the shelf, then stared at Ohaern. “You are
not unscathed yourself!”

“What,
these?” Ohaern glanced down at the runnels of blood on his chest, forearms, and
thighs. “Mere scratches. They do not even pain me—yet. Come, Lucoyo. If there
is medicine for your hurt, there is medicine for mine.”

They
skidded down the slope arm in arm—but Lucoyo stopped next to the first of the
dead goblins that had an arrow in him. “I must have back my bolts!”

“Then
the travelers who are not injured can gather them for you!” Still, Ohaern bent
to wrench the arrow out of the goblin, then wiped off its ichor in the sand.
They labored down the hill, and Ohaern drew and cleaned every arrow they
passed. When they reached the plain, he was able to draw a few from the ground.

“Every
archer misses now and then,” Lucoyo said testily.

“Yes,
especially when his targets see the arrow coming and leap aside—or hop away
from a sword stroke at the wrong moment. I think we will camp here for the
night, Lucoyo. We can look for other shafts in the morning.”

So
they came to the travelers, who had already gathered the goblins’ torches into
a campfire and were tending one another’s wounds. They looked up as Ohaern and
Lucoyo neared. One of them leaped to his feet. “Welcome and thanks, brave
rescuers! How did you know we had need of you?”

“A
lucky chance,” Ohaern said, but Lucoyo told them, “A god talked to him in his
heart. It must have been his heart, for surely, anyone with a brain would have
thought better of fighting these imps! Have you medicine for a goblin’s bite,
traveler?”

“Aye,
in plenty, and you are welcome to it! Come, join our healing circle.”

Ohaern
looked about as they came up to the fire. One traveler lay prone, his face
blue, gasping, and Ohaern knew him for a dead man. One of his legs was bound
with cloth, but there was a great deal of blood dripping from it, and Ohaern
knew the great vein had been cut. Two of his fellows gathered by him,
murmuring, though one had an arm in a sling and blood and bandages in a dozen
places.

“Only
two real casualties, praise Lomallin!” the leader said. He waved the two guests
to seats by the fire. “My other two comrades are out finishing off the wounded
goblins and gathering your arrows. Two to slay, two to guard, one maimed, and
one .. .” He glanced at his dying companion, and his face darkened. “It is bad
indeed—but it would have been worse without you, much worse.” He turned back to
them and yanked up Lucoyo’s sleeve. The archer nearly cried out, but managed to
stifle it to a gargle. The traveler held up a small clear cylinder with liquid
inside and pulled its stopper. “Bite hard; this will hurt.”

Hurt?
It was worse than the goblin’s bite, as bad as fire! Lucoyo nearly strangled on
the shout of pain that his grinding teeth throttled. It
was
fire, liquid
fire that sank into his arm and shot up to his shoulder, down toward his heart—but
its heat faded as it coursed, and in a minute it was only an ache.

The
traveler turned to putting drops of the fluid onto a white puffball, then
dabbing it onto Ohaern’s wounds. The chieftain bit down against the pain, but
when it eased, he asked, “How is it you came with an antidote for a goblin’s
bite?”

“We
are men who travel for a living,” the stranger answered, still dabbing. “We
trade the stuffs in our packs for whatever goods people have. We bring baubles
from the cities of the south and trade them for furs and tin, amber and gold.
When we have traded our goods for three donkeys and enough amber, gold, and
furs to load them fully, we shall wend our way back to the south, where the
city folk shall trade us more baubles—and other things we want, many more—for
the goods we bring from the north.”

“You
are traders, then?”

“Yes,
and as such, we carry medicines for every danger we can think of—even the bites
of goblins.”

“Wise.”
Ohaern nodded. “You should prosper, with such forethought.”

“Those
of us who come home alive and sound may say so,” the trader answered darkly. “And
you, strangers—who are you, and why have you come?”

“We
are men of the north, bound for the cities of the south,” Ohaern told him, but
did not say why.

The
trader apparently felt no need to ask; it only made sense to him that anyone
who did not live in a city would wish to. “If you go south, then beware of the
Vanyar.”

“The
Vanyar?” Ohaern traded glances with Lucoyo. “We have heard something of them,
but only a little. Tell us more— for example, why have they come to our lands?”

Lucoyo
leaned forward, frowning. “We have seen them from a distance, but know only
that they are robbers on a large scale—and very poor rivermen. But what are
they?”

“Who,
rather,” the trader corrected him. He held out a hand, palm forward. “And as to
‘who,’ I am Brevoro.”

“I
am Ohaern.” The smith pressed his palm against Brevoro’s.

“Lucoyo.”
The half-elf pressed hands in his turn. “He is a Biri, and I am an adopted
Biri.”

“Ah,
yes, the nation to the north and west!” Brevoro nodded, lowering his hand. “I
have traded with men of your nation, though not, it would seem, with your clan.
I tell you, your people are much more hospitable than the Vanyar.”