The Shaman by Christopher Stasheff Read Free Book Online Page B

Indeed, you and Mardone made Ryl’s passing as easy as you
might. No, it is not you who merits revenge.”
    “Who,
then?” And Chaluk was instantly sorry he had asked, for Ohaern grated, “Lomallin!”
and strode away to his forge.
    There
he picked up the hammer and struck blow after blow on the anvil, until the
hammer broke and the metal bore the imprint of his anger. Still, unslaked, he
turned to glare into the fire, silently berating Lomallin, hurling insult after
insult at his god—and slowly, as his anger began to abate, the notion of a
fitting revenge began, the idea that he could strike back at Lomallin only
through Ulahane, and that surely it would serve the human-lover right if Ohaern
were to turn to the worship of his rival ...
    He
howled, throwing his head back and sinking to the floor. What nonsense, to give
obedience and worship to the god who had taken Ryl’s life! But to whom could he
turn? What god could he worship? Ulahane was his enemy, and now he swore a deep
and dark revenge upon the human-hater, swore that he would fight Ulahane in
every way that he could, frustrate his schemes wherever he saw them. He knew
which god to fight, well enough . ..
    But
with whose power? What god would lend him strength for such a revenge? If
Lomallin had failed him, to whom else could he turn?
    Finally,
worn out with his rage, he tumbled to the floor of his smithy and wept his way
into sleep.
     
    The
excited clamor brought Ohaern back to wakefulness. He looked about him,
astonished, and saw the long golden streak of sunset striking through the
doorway to stripe the smithy floor. He looked about him, astonished that he
still could live when his grief was so great, that the world still could exist
when Ryl was gone from it.
    The
remembrance of her death made his chest feel suddenly hollow again, as if his
heart were gone with Ryl. In a desperate search for distraction, he stumbled to
his feet and fled outside.
    The
clansmen were gathered around a pony laden with a double pack, accompanied by
four men who carried staves and wore long knives at their belts. Everyone was
speaking at once, demanding news, wanting to know what goods the men had to
trade, or bringing out their own amber beads or caches of the tin that they had
dug from the cliffs a day’s travel away. Ohaern watched with dull disinterest,
and was amazed that he could feel only leaden sadness when, always before this,
the coming of the amber traders had been an occasion for excitement and
delight. But what joy could there be in a world without Ryl?
    One
traveler was standing in front of the pony’s head and he held up his hands,
laughing. “Peace, my friends, peace! We cannot answer all your demands at once!
We will stay a day or two, if you will have us, and will have time enough to
hear your news and give ours, to take your tin and amber and give you the
pottery and cloth and jewelry of the south! Have any of you found any gold?”
    “None
was in our round this time,” answered Rubo the chief. “Why you southerners are
so fascinated by that yellow metal, I cannot see! Oh, it is pretty enough when
you polish it, and works well to make trinkets for the ladies, but what good is
it otherwise?”
    “As
much good as the amber we seek,” a second trader answered. “The people of the
cities will give us yards and yards of cloth for a piece of amber, because it
makes such pretty ornaments.”
    “The
tin, though, they need for making bronze.” The lead trader held up his own
blade. “We have saved some of these for you, even though we have come so far
north!”
    “You
need not have bothered,” Rubo said proudly. “We have found iron ore, and we
have a smith!”
    The
trader wrinkled his nose at that. “Iron! It will break under a blow from a
bronze sword forged by a really good smith! No, you may keep your iron, and I
will keep my bronze.”
    “Well,
some of us might want it,” said another man.
    The
head trader shrugged. “I will trade gladly—that