The Shaman by Christopher Stasheff Page B

“None can defeat a Kuruite soldier!”
    “None could” someone else answered darkly.
    They
stole out of the prison, and Ohaern caught the Biri by the elbow, steering him
aside. “Wait with me.” They joined Glabur and Lucoyo, and watched as the
prisoners stole out into the night, several laughing maniacally but in
whispers, many limping, but all burning with lust for freedom, and revenge.
    “We
all feared to attack the soldiers, for they could not be beaten,” the Biri
whispered, amazed.
    “They
do not fear them now,” Ohaern returned. He shifted Manalo’s weight to the other
hip, saying, “Forgive the indignity, Teacher.”
    “Perfectly
all right,” Manalo answered in a strained voice.
    “Come!”
Ohaern turned away toward the back gate. Glabur, Dalvan, and Lucoyo fell in
behind him. In amazement, the Biri came, too.
    They
had just reached the postern when the yelling broke out at the main gate.
    “I
feared they would not contain their elation,” Ohaern said. “Come quickly!” He
tore open the little gate, stooped, and led the way through.
    They
stayed in the shadow of the wall, moving around toward the front of the
fort—toward it, but not to it. Fifty feet away the sentries were all riveted to
the mob of filthy prisoners storming the portals. The soldiers were shouting
back at them in return, hurling rocks and, when a prisoner managed to climb up
too high, hurling spears.
    “Will
they never wrench the gate open?” Lucoyo asked, staring in horror.
    “It is open,” Manalo replied, his voice strained by Ohaern’s arm. “Those who
wish freedom more than revenge have already fled. The ones who are left are
those who cannot forbear the chance to strike at their tormentors.”
    “If
we seek to aid, we are lost,” Ohaern said. “Come!” He turned away from the
wall, running down across the slope to the shelter of the nearest house. He
skidded into its shadow and leaned against the wall, chest heaving, as Glabur,
Dalvan, and Lucoyo came pounding up beside him. They leaned, too, except the
half-elf, who sat on his heels, panting. “Where to now ... O Chieftain?”
    “The
river!” Ohaern heaved Manalo upright. “Apologies, sage, but it was necessary.
Now I think we can afford you some slightly greater comfort.”
    “I
have not complained,” Manalo assured him, smiling. “I am free; what more
matters?”
    “Not
free yet! Not free till we have put this accursed midden behind us!” Ohaern
hoisted Manalo up to sit on one shoulder. “Lead, half-elf! Find us the broad
way!”
    Lucoyo
bristled, but realized quickly that, from Ohaern, the term was no
insult—rather, it referred to the elves’ legendary powers of sight and memory.
In his case it was true—that much, at least, he had inherited from his
scoundrel of a father. “Follow!” he whispered, and set off between the houses.
He was going only by dead reckoning, a memory of where the broad path was. He
took what seemed to be the most direct route to it, but the houses were set in
such a jumble that his path was very crooked.
    Then,
suddenly, a huge dog leaped out at them, barking furiously.
    Lucoyo
shrank back, as much from surprise as fear. Just as he was collecting himself,
Glabur stepped between them, his sword swinging down in an arc to strike the
animal broadside on the head. The beast broke off in mid-bark and fell.
    Lucoyo
felt frantic anxiety—dogs had been among the few good creatures in his boyhood!
And this one even looked like the dogs of the plainsmen—almost half wolf. But
the animal’s chest moved with breathing, and he relaxed. He would not want to
be party to the murder of an innocent beast who had only been doing as he had
been trained to do.
    A
person, now—that would have been another matter.
    Ohaern
beckoned, and Lucoyo stepped around the dog, following the big hunter with the
man sitting on his shoulder. How odd Ohaern looked—and how unfathomably strong!
Surely he was himself more than mortal!
    But
not in his