The Shaman by Christopher Stasheff

is what I brought it for. But
tell me, who taught you to forge iron in this one year since I came last?”
    “The
wise man, Manalo,” Rubo answered. “He came in the winter, stayed a month, and
taught us much.”
    “Manalo?”
another trader said, frowning. “Is that not the name of the wanderer who
angered the captain of the soldiers of Kuru at their trading fort of Byleo?”
    Ohaern
stiffened, suddenly paying close attention.
    The
lead trader nodded. “Yes, it is. He had the foolishness to preach the virtues
of Lomallin to the Kuruite soldiers. The captain threw him in their jail and
swore that the sage would forswear Lomallin and worship Ulahane, or be
sacrificed to him.”
    “Manalo
imprisoned?” Ohaern leaped forward, catching the man by the shoulders. “Are you
sure?”
    “As
sure as I am that you squeeze too tightly.” The lead trader frowned, trying to
twist free, but Ohaern held him in a vice grip.
    “Where
is this Byleo?”
    “Atop
a hill where your Segway River flows into the Mashra, and a town has grown up
about its walls already. Surely you have heard of Byleo!”
    “I
have.” Ohaern scowled. “And what I have heard is not good.”
    The
people muttered in agreement. Ominous stories were told of the soldiers at
Byleo—how strangers disappeared there, but shrieks were heard coming from the
fort at midnight; how no pretty girl dared be seen by one of the Kuruite
soldiers; how they had taken hostages to compel several tribes of hunters to
bring in every ounce of food they could find. Of course, they paid those
hunters well and promised them that Ulahane would make them rich—but they were
no less compelled for all that.
    Hostages—Manalo!
That was why they had imprisoned him instead of killing him out of hand! But
why would they then threaten to kill him for their sinister god’s pleasure?
    “When
do they mean to sacrifice him?” Ohaern demanded.
    “Take
your hands from me and I will tell you.”
    Shame-faced,
Ohaern withdrew his hold—but there was still frantic urgency in his voice and
in his face. “No wonder he did not come!”
    “Not
come?” the leader asked. “Did Manalo promise to visit you again?”
    “No,
but ... Never mind! My wife is dead because he came not, and that I will
revenge upon these soldiers!”
    The
trader looked up at Rubo in alarm. “Is the man mad? You cannot fight the
soldiers of Kuru!”
    “Oh,
I can fight them well enough,” Ohaern said grimly. “I may die from that
fighting, but that matters little. Tell me, when do they mean to sacrifice the
sage?”
    “They
had not named a day when we were there,” the trader said, “and I doubt that
they will do it at all, for several of the tribes who serve them love Manalo
for the good he has done them. He is of far more worth to them in prison than
upon the altar of Ulahane.”
    “If
he is alive, he shall be free,” Ohaern said grimly, “or I shall be dead!” And
he turned on his heel and stalked away.
    Alarmed,
Chaluk started after him, but Rubo caught his arm and shook his head. “Let him
be, Chaluk. Solitude is the medicine he must have now.”
    He
was right, though not for medicine—Ohaern needed to be alone to pray to
Lomallin. He took station beneath an oak, looked up into its budding branches
and thought, with intense concentration, Lomallin, forgive me! I have
wronged you in laying Ryl’s death upon your shoulders, I see that now! It was
the servants of Ulahane who held Manalo from us! O Lomallin, give me strength,
give me wisdom, give me insight! Aid me, and I shall free your sage!
    For
surely, it had come time for him to show his thanks to Manalo—the sage had
refused all other rewards, but Ohaern did not think he would refuse thanks for
his child, thanks for saving Ryl from death in childbed. He could only repent
his anger, his rashness, in doubting Lomallin when she died—but he could also
haul Manalo out of that sink of depravity called Byleo!
     
    When
Ohaern came back to the village, dusk