The Shaman by Christopher Stasheff

then their eyes rolled up and they slumped to
the ground.
    “That is why,” Lucoyo hissed.
    “Well
done, archer!” Ohaern’s eyes glowed with excitement. “Now! You three hold the
door!”
    “Can
you two wear these soldiers’ helmets and pectorals?” Lucoyo asked Glabur. “I am
too slight—no one would believe it.”
    Glabur
nodded. “A good thought.”
    “And
I shall bring out Manalo!” Ohaern turned to the door.
    “Alone?”
Lucoyo stared at him.
    “Yes,
alone. The guards are out here—why should there be need for more than one? But
if anyone comes near, friend Lucoyo, do you carry on more of these antics you
used on these guards.”
    Lucoyo
nodded. “No one will think anything of a fool entertaining a couple of bullies.
But how shall you get in? There is no latchstring, nor any other means of
unlocking it that I can see!”
    “Like
this.” Ohaern laid hold of the handle of the prison door, set himself, and
heaved. Every muscle in his body stood out; for a few seconds his form was a
gigantic bow, straining against wood. Then something snapped, and Ohaern nearly
stumbled as the door shot open. But he caught himself, chest heaving, and
turned back to his three friends, who were staring, wide-eyed. “Close it after
me, but be ready to open when I knock like this!” He struck the door in a
brief, complex rhythm.
    Glabur
jolted out of his daze and nodded. “We shall, Ohaern!”
    “Good.
I should not be long.” Ohaern glanced down at the two prone and now naked
soldiers. “Oh, and—hide the refuse.” Then the door closed behind him.
    Lucoyo
jolted himself out of a daze. “Has he always been that strong?”
    “Only
since he grew up,” Glabur told him.
    Lucoyo
shook his head in amazement, then said, “Well, we had better do as he said. You
two stay on duty, in case anyone looks this way. I’ll haul.” He laid hold of a
guard’s feet and began dragging.
    Glabur
glanced at Dalvan and said, “The halfling is trustworthy.”
    “So
it would seem,” Dalvan replied. “I pray Ohaern has no difficulty!”
    Ohaern
was having a little trouble finding his way in the dark, but the body he
tripped over cursed him in his own language, and he bent down to say, “My
apologies, Biri. How came you here?”
    “I
got drunk,” the Biri snapped, “and they robbed me of all my trade goods. Then
they claimed I could not wander the town with no substance, so they threw me in
here. They tell me I go to Ulahane tomorrow night. And you, man of my nation?”
    “I
have come to free you.” Ohaern groped in the dark, and as the Biri was still
whispering, “What? Free me? How can you? There is a chain, a copper chain, that
holds me to the wall!” Ohaern found the links, took a firm hold, and heaved
with a grant. The links parted with a sharp report, and Ohaern panted, “Now you
are free!”
    There
was silence a moment, then the Biri hissed, “Are you a god?”
    “Only
a man, but a very strong one.” Ohaern was beginning to wonder at his own
strength. “Do me a favor in return. There is a wise man here, a sage named
Manalo. Has he gone to Ulahane yet?”
    “No,
praise Lomallin!” the Biri said. “Come, I will bring you to him!” He pressed
cold links into Ohaern’s palm and chuckled. “Hold my chain!”
    He
set off with the air of a man who knows every inch of a familiar room. Ohaern
stumbled along in his wake. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom now—there were
only two small windows set way up high, but they did let in a little of the
moon’s wan light. Tripping and stumbling over objects that cursed, Ohaern
followed his guide to the far wall, which was taken up by stout wooden doors
with tiny windows in them— slots, really, such as might be used for pushing
through a little food. They were held closed by copper hinges and metal hasps
that must have been taken out and replaced every time the door was opened—a
good sign that they were opened rarely indeed.
    “What
are these stalls for?” Ohaern