The Shaman by Christopher Stasheff Page A

was falling, and the travelers, done with
the day’s trading, had settled down to telling the news of the wondrous cities
of the south. But all fell silent when Ohaern came out from the trees—fell
silent and stared at him in apprehension, feeling his grim purpose.
    He
came into the center of them, stood by the fire and looked all about him, his
face stone. Finally, he said, “I will go up against Byleo. I shall bring back
Manalo, or die there.”
    They
stared at him, riveted by his words. The traders inched away, watching him
warily, thinking him mad.
    “Who
will come with me?” Ohaern demanded. “Who truly feels the need to thank
Manalo for his teaching?”
    “Ohaern,”
Rubo said darkly, “this is—”
    “I.”
Geht stepped forward. “Manalo withdrew the demon that could have burst my child’s
belly!”
    “I!”
Farren stepped forward. “If he had not spoken to her father, I would not be wed
to Oril!”
    “I!”
Toan stepped forward. “He saved my wife from the raging fever that not even
Mardone’s herbs could abate!”
    One
by one they stepped forward, and with each, Ohaern stood a little straighter,
smiled a little more firmly, and Rubo’s misgiving seemed to lessen a little.
Finally, nineteen men stood before the clan, and Ohaern’s eyes glowed, his
chest expanded with pride. Rubo nodded grudgingly, and there was a gleam of
pride in his eye, too. “It is well,” he judged. “Manalo has given much to this
clan. I would be sad indeed if any of you did not come back—but it is our due
to him.” He raised his head, a faraway look coming into his eye, and Ohaern
said quickly, “No. You are the chief. What would the clan do without you? Leave
it to us, Rubo. We shall come back with Manalo, or not come back at all.”
    “I
cannot ask you to go if I am not willing myself!”
    “You
are willing,” said Geht. “We are all witnesses to that. But you must not go,
Rubo.”
    So
the chief did not. Ohaern set forth from their forest village with nineteen men
behind him and burning purpose in his heart.
     
    There
was burning purpose in Lucoyo’s heart, too, as he trudged quickly down the
roadway. He had recovered from the fever almost completely—enough to have made
himself a bow and some arrows, to have chipped a flint head and lashed it to a
pole for a spear. There was fire in his eye and fury in his heart How he knew
where to go, he could not say—but know he did. It must be Ulahane at work
within him, he thought, just as it was Ulahane who had brought him back to life
after the spider bites.
    He
came to a crossroad—to a place where five roads met. He stared at it in
surprise for a moment, then grinned. Such a meeting was rare indeed, and fairly
spoke of Ulin magic working within human beings—and since the five roads could
be the vanes of a pentagram, Ulahane’s symbol, the Ulin in question must have
been the blood-god! Here, then, was the goal to which Ulahane had been leading
him—but where were the people to slay?
    Coming, something within him seemed to say. Lucoyo raised his head, smiling. Of course!
Ulahane had even brought him here ahead, so that he might find the best place
for ambush!
    He
looked around him. The roads met not far from the forest, and there were tall
trees overhanging the crossroads. One was a pine, and looking up, Lucoyo could
see a large branch clearly, thick where it joined the trunk, thirty feet up.
From such a perch, he thought, a man might shoot down upon any who came by
either of these roads—and falling from such a height, the arrows would strike
even harder.
    He
grinned and went to the tree. Leaping, he caught the lowest branch and pulled
himself up—groaning and gasping; he certainly had not recovered his former
strength! In fact, he had to rest a few minutes, sitting astride the branch and
holding to the trunk to steady himself. When he felt restored, he stood
carefully, then stepped up and sideways to the next branch. From this point it
was easy.
    Finally,
he