The Shaman (23 page)

Toward
evening they saw trails of smoke striping the sky ahead. “What moves here?”
Lucoyo asked.

“People,”
Ohaern said, somewhat unnecessarily. “When we came this way before, they rowed
after us in canoes.”

“Have
we come so far so quickly?” Lucoyo shipped his paddle and strung his bow. “Let
us hope they are no better with boats than they were before.”

But
they were—still not terribly good, but then, neither was Lucoyo. Ohaern,
however, was quite skilled, and drove the coracle on alone while Lucoyo, bow
ready, watched the men approach. “They come faster this time.”

Ohaern
spared a glance. “No wonder. They do not do their own paddling.”

Lucoyo’s
face hardened. The men doing the paddling were being driven with whips; he
could hear the smack of leather against flesh. The paddlers were gaunt, their
faces emptied of hope but filled with fear, and there were only two of them,
two for a huge canoe that carried also four warriors. “I think,” he said, “that
we have found the Vanyar.”

“Well,
they shall not find
us”
Ohaern said between his teeth, and drove the
coracle on with his huge smith’s muscles. A cry went up from the Vanyar as the
Biri passed the point of intersection, with the canoes still distant from the
spot. A flurry of arrows rose into the air, but fell far short of the coracle.
Lucoyo tensed, raising his bow to answer, but Ohaern panted, “Not . . . yet. Do
not shoot... unless they become .;. a threat.”

Against
his liking, Lucoyo lowered the bow. The Vanyar would be easy shots—but Ohaern
was right; they needed to keep his bow secret until it was needed. Besides, if
they shot one of the barbarians, the others would follow them forever, if they
had to, to exact revenge.

Onward
Ohaern drove, with the canoes falling farther and farther behind. Finally, the
Vanyar must have realized their mistake, because they pulled two boats together
and traded two more paddlers for two warriors. Then there was only one to
attack, for the other had to watch his captives—but the rearmost paddler must
have been exceptionally strong, because the canoe actually began to gain on the
coracle.

Of
course, by that time Ohaern was resting, chest heaving.

“Ought
we not to paddle again?” Lucoyo asked uneasily. “That one canoe is moving much
faster now.”

“Let
them think I have tired,” Ohaern said. “They will not be far wrong.”

Lucoyo
glanced at him uneasily. “Even with a few minutes’ rest you cannot keep up such
a pace for long.”

Ohaern
nodded. “Whereas they can, with four paddles. But I have a stratagem in mind.
Do you see that island ahead?”

“Not
really; I have been watching astern.” But Lucoyo turned and looked ahead. There
was a sizable island coming up on the starboard side, big enough to be covered
with tall trees, crowding each other so badly that many leaned far out over the
water.

“We
will pass from sight around those leaves,” Ohaern said, “and they will speed
all the more, to catch us before the river bends.”

Looking
ahead, Lucoyo saw the water curve and the eastern shore round beside it. “That
is not what I would call the most reassuring news.”

“Ah,
but we shall disappear from sight
before
we come to the curve,” Ohaern
explained, “for once past those leaves, they shall not see us.”

Lucoyo
smiled, a smile that grew wolfish. “Paddle, then!”

Ohaern
brought them from around the far end of the island and in toward the shore.
Lucoyo grasped the leaves, then the branches of a tree that leaned almost
parallel to the water’s surface. He grappled hand over hand until they had a
screen of leaves between themselves and the expanse of water stretching to the
eastern shore.

In
a few minutes the canoe came into sight. The Vanyar in front held a short,
recurved bow with an arrow already nocked; the one behind shouted abuse as he
drove on the paddlers with a whip made of short, knotted thongs. The paddlers
were bending every effort, but they looked to be on the verge of
exhaustion—except for the one in the stern. There was something odd about him;
he was short and lumpy, and .. .

“Now,”
Ohaern whispered, and waited just long enough for Lucoyo to release two arrows
before he drove his paddle into the water.

The
rearmost Vanyar screamed in anger as an arrow sprouted in his chest; then he
toppled over the gunwale and into the river. His mate whirled to see, which
saved him from an arrow through his heart; instead it lodged in his shoulder,
making him drop his bow, and Lucoyo cursed almost as loudly as the Vanyar.

But
the paddlers had stopped, frozen in astonishment, and Ohaern drove his coracle
up beside, to grapple the canoe to him. The Vanyar caught up a big
double-bladed axe with his left hand and chopped at Ohaern, shrilling a battle
cry—but the smith chopped, too, with his sword, clear through the shaft of the
axe, and the head flew into the coracle. The Vanyar dropped the shaft with a
curse and caught Ohaern by the throat—but the big smith seized his wrist and
twisted. The Vanyar gave a high, whinnying cry and loosed his hold—but his
right fist came around to buffet Ohaern on the ear. The smith rocked, and
Lucoyo realized that if the Vanyar had not been wounded, that blow might have
knocked the smith cold. He bobbed back and forth in a frenzy, holding his bow
bent, looking for a clear shot, but losing all chance of one as Ohaern and the
Vanyar grappled one another.

But
the rearmost paddler swung his blade high, and the edge of the paddle cracked
into the Vanyar’s skull. He folded, and Lucoyo turned to thank the man—then
froze, staring at the squat figure, the shorn remains of a huge beard, the bald
head, the muscle-knotted arms, twice as long as they should be .. . “Ohaern!”
he cried. “The fools! They have captured a dwerg!”

“Fools
indeed,” the dwerg answered in a voice like the grating of boulders on gravel. “All
dwergs shall be their enemies now, no matter where they travel.”

Now
Ohaern stared, too, he and Lucoyo together—for though the words had been
heavily accented and hard to understand, the dwerg had spoken in the language
of the Biriae.

The
dwerg explained it by the campfire that night. “We are creatures of stone,” he
said, “and speak the language of rock and earth—so we speak also the languages
of all those who live in harmony with the earth, and the plants and creatures
it nourishes.”

“But
do not the Vanyar live as part of the earth?” Ohaern asked.

“They
did, before invaders chased them out of
their
homeland,” the dwerg
replied. “Then, though, in their bitterness and hatred, they turned against the
earth and its creatures and sought to impose their will upon the land. They are
apart from the earth now, not a part of it. They are separate by their own
choice and have lost the harmony of the seasons.”

“If
they have, then so has the jackal.” Lucoyo jerked his head toward the
imprisoned Vanyar. “That one is tattooed with the jackal’s head.”

But
the dwerg shook his head. “The living jackal is a part of all that lives, and
has his place in cleansing the earth of offal. These Sons of the Jackal seek to
be lions, and thereby he by their lives. No, the jackal’s head is the sign of
Ulahane.”

Ohaern
nodded, his mouth a tight line. “The last of his servants we met wore jackals’
heads on their shoulders.”

“Another
tattoo?” the dwerg asked.

“No,”
said Lucoyo. “Living heads.”

The
dwerg stared. His beard grew so high and his eyebrows so bushy that it was hard
to see his eyes—but they were clear enough now.

The
campfire was secreted in a cave from which ran a stream that flowed into the
river. The dwerg had led them to it unerringly, for he knew all the secrets of
stone. The stream itself was hidden from the river by a screen of brush and
leaning trees, and Ohaern would never have guessed it was there if the dwerg
had not led them.

The
Vanyar lay beyond the firelight, trussed up tight and gagged. He glared at
Ohaern and Lucoyo and would not leave off straining against his bonds. Two of
the rivermen lay nearby in the sleep of exhaustion, but a third still sat up
with them, fingering the Vanyar axe Ohaern had given him—they had hauled in the
body of the dead Vanyar long enough to loot it of weapons, and taken the living
one’s, so the rivermen now carried each a bow or an axe. This wakeful one had
cut a new shaft, fitted it to the axehead Ohaern had clipped, and now sat
fondling it, his eyes burning into Ohaern’s as if pleading to be allowed to use
the weapon on the living Vanyar. The big smith had already prevented the gaunt
rivermen from taking final revenge, though he had seen no reason to prevent
their taking turns with the whip. However, it now hung on
his
belt.

“No,”
he now said.

The
riverman laid the weapon aside with an exclamation of disgust. “I do not seek
to slay him now—only to make you see that you must go back and chop these
Vanyar down!”

Lucoyo
could well understand the burning desire for revenge that drove the man to stay
awake and plead, though all his limbs must be heavy with exhaustion. The
rivermen had been completely naked until Ohaern and Lucoyo had found furs for
them to wrap about their loins, and Lucoyo had seen for himself that Brevoro
had not exaggerated when he told what the Vanyar had done to the few warriors
they kept alive. He had also seen that they could not stand; the Vanyar had
hamstrung each one of them. Oh, they had made very sure that their male
captives would not be able to fight their new owners! Lucoyo could only think
that the poor rivermen must have waited on their captors by walking on their
knees, or even crawling. His hatred for the Vanyar began to equal his hatred
for the clan that had reared him.

Of
course, you did not need to stand up to paddle a canoe— and that was probably
the greatest reason why the Vanyar had kept a few of the rivermen alive. They
could not paddle as quickly as they had before the conquest, however, for they
were all gaunt, from short rations, and stretched to their limits by the
exertions of the day.

“They
made us watch what they did to our wives and children,” the man protested.

Ohaern
shuddered at the thought, but said doggedly, “It is more important to eliminate
the source of their power first. When we have done that, we will go back and
see to the Vanyar themselves.”

“What
source is that?” the dwerg asked in his grating voice. He was scarcely four
feet tall, perhaps not even that, and his hands hung down to his ankles—but his
shoulders and arms were hugely muscled, and his short, bandy legs were like the
trunks of small trees. The muscles of his chest and back strained against the
leather straps that held the kilt that was his only clothing. It was stained
and spotted with the holes of cinders, for the dwergs had been smiths for
longer than men had known iron. Their works of bronze were said to be miracles
of loveliness, their weapons miracles of death, and there was nothing they
could not make. But human folk almost never saw them, for they labored in their
hidden homes inside mountains and rarely came out into the light of day.

“How
is it you were captured?” Ohaern asked in return.

“We
cannot find all the materials we need inside our hills,” the dwerg answered. “Now
and again we must venture out, to mine the rare earths that lie on the surface,
or to trade for things such as saltpeter and the sulfur that gathers near
steaming springs. It was my misfortune that a group of Vanyar chanced near my
band. The other three they slew with their arrows, but I lived, and they kept
me for their amusement. Then an elder of a tribe they had conquered, hoping to
win leniency for his people, told them I was a smith of wonders, and they set
me to forging for them. But when they discovered that I knew the craft of
boats, they set me to paddling, for I am strong.”

“Let
me do to the Vanyar what they did to me!” the riverman pleaded.

The
bound Vanyar squalled in rage and thrashed at his bonds.

“If
you will not allow that, and you will not slay them all, then let me at least
slay this one!” the riverman pleaded, raising his axe.

But
Ohaern shook his head. “We need the knowledge in his head, but we will not find
it by breaking open his skull.” His gaze strayed to the Vanyar. “Though perhaps
I
should
let this riverman have his way with you, if you will not tell
me what I wish to know.”

The
Vanyar went still and his eyes turned to ice. He stared back at Ohaern with contempt
and a mute challenge.

“He
is stubborn-hard,” the chief said in disgust, turning back to the riverman. “If
he would not answer when you and your friends had your exercise with him
before, he will not talk no matter how much pain we give him.”

“It
is their pride.” The riverman turned and spat on the Vanyar, whose eyes blazed
at him with cold fury that told how
he
would treat the riverman if their
positions were reversed. “He will die in pain rather than speak. They fancy
they will go to a palace that Ulahane keeps for heroes, if they find valiant
deaths.”

“It
is a he,” Ohaern replied. “Ulahane has no use for the dead, save those few
souls that he keeps as slaves to his magic.”

The
Vanyar gargled something in a contemptuous tone.

“Oh,
believe me, I know!” Ohaern rose and went to the man, and Lucoyo would never
have guessed, from his tone and face, that he was lying. He stared; this was an
Ohaern he did not know. “I have learned something of the scarlet lord.” Ohaern
yanked the gag from the man’s mouth. “Let me show you what I have learned of
his worship!” He bent low, and all Lucoyo saw was that he squeezed the man’s
leg—but the Vanyar let out a piercing shriek, and kept shrieking.