The big male wolf lolled lazily in the deep recesses of the forest, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon. Moss lay thick on the ground in this hidden spot, a tiny grotto etched out of the limestone that wove through the dense roanwood forest like the spine of a partially submerged dragon. With the exception of the male wolf TamTur and his constant companion, the man named Mika-oba, the residents of the forest-the Wolf Nomads-did not know of this grotto.
"Quit your teasing, woman, or I shall have TamTur eat you and be done with you once and for all," growled Mika-oba as he scowled ferociously at the plump, blue-eyed female who had accompanied him to the grotto but refused to come close enough to grasp.
"Oh, Mika," Cilia giggled, "I am not afraid of Tam. He wouldn't hurt me. He likes me too much. And so do you. You wouldn't really let him eat me, would you?"
Celia's full red lips pouted prettily as she looked up at Mika from under the mass of tawny locks that framed her dimpled face.
"Don't be too sure of it," Mika said sternly, even as he felt himself beginning to waver, as always. "Tam obeys me in everything. He will do as I command. Do you wish to disobey me and find out who is right? Come here, now. The time for games is over."
"You don't play fair," Celia said with a tiny moue. "Even though I do not believe that Tam would hurt me, you'd probably set him on me just to scare me." But even as she flirted with the big, muscular man, whom she had known since childhood, she felt a familiar tingle of fear mixed with excitement and longing, and wondered what he would do if she ever really angered him.
He was really quite handsome, Celia thought as she walked slowly toward him, studying him through her thick fringed lashes. He was tall for a Wolf Nomad, at least six feet, and his well-developed body was a dark bronzed tan, even in winter when the sun seldom showed its face. His eyes were grey and his nose was long and slender. His mouth was well shaped and frequently curved up at one side as though he was enjoying a joke no one else shared. His lips, as Celia knew well, were soft and knew the secrets of her soul, not to mention her body.
"Oh, Mika," she sighed, abandoning herself to his embrace. Mika folded her soft figure in his arms and buried his face in her perfumed hair.
"One of these days, Celia, you will push me too far and I really will let Tam eat you," he murmured. "Or maybe I'll just do it myself."
Celia's reply, if any, was lost as Mika kissed her, and then there was no sound but the soft drone of insects and their own deep, languorous breathing.
Then, slowly, Mika became aware of another sound, a muffled shouting. Mika tried to ignore the voices, but they grew louder and carried with them the shrill edge of alarm. He sat up, dropping Celia abruptly onto the moss.
"Mika!" Celia complained crossly.
"Quiet," Mika commanded, listening intently. More voices could now be heard coming from all directions.
"Mika, where are you going?" cried Celia. But Mika was already gone, sprinting through the forest with TamTur at his heels.
The cries of alarm grew louder as he raced toward the camp, the detritus of leaves and moss thick beneath his feet. He darted nimbly between the huge roanwood trees, leaping fallen trunks with ease, flashing in and out of the few stray beams of sunlight that managed to creep through the dense leafy branches high above his head.
As he passed the outlying border of the camp, he saw that the women's cook fires were deserted and that no one, save one small babe, lying forgotten on a deerskin, was to be seen.
A babble of voices could be heard emanating from the Far Fringe, an outlying strip of land where the great forest halted at the edge of the open plains.
Mika hurried toward the Far Fringe, his heart thumping in his chest, wondering what disaster could have happened that would so affect the camp.
Indeed, it seemed that the entire camp, several hundred men, women, and children, had gathered at the Far Fringe and were milling about, their voices raised in loud unintelligible cacophony. And everywhere, there were wolves of all sizes. Stirred by the commotion, they were racing around the mob of humans, adding their yips and howls to the uproar.
Mika forced his way through the crowd until he had reached the very center of the throng and was able to look down at the awful object of their attention that lay on the ground.
It was a man, or what remained of one. He was dressed in a soft, beige kidskin tunic, richly embroidered with cobalt-blue and gold threads and beaded with turquoise, a uniform that identified him as a member of the Trader's Guild, the powerful and exclusive organization that controlled the traffic of merchandise over the whole of Greyhawk. Such men were normally inviolate, safe from attack by all who would benefit from their commerce.
Mika-oba ran a shrewd hunter's eye over the man, leaving the ministration of water and healing herbs to others already bent to their tasks. But as Mika took in the multitude of wounds punched in the man's flesh and saw the quantity of skin hanging in strips from his body, he knew with certainty that no amount of medicine would keep the man alive.
The man writhed weakly, and garbled words poured from his torn lips, a meaningless stream of gibberish. A lesser man would already be dead, but the trader continued to struggle, still driven by whatever terrible compulsion had carried him this far.
Curiosity prompted Mika-oba to move closer, to hear what the man was trying to say, wondering what could have caused him to travel when his wounds dictated that he pray to the gods and ready himself for the death that was so obviously near.
Mika's face grew somber and a shudder ran through him as he realized the torment the man must have experienced as he escaped his attackers and sought help. Mika knew without a shadow of a doubt that he himself would never be able to endure such pain, and he made a strong mental note to actively avoid placing himself in any position that might allow such a thing to occur.
"Oh, Mika, isn't it terrible?" whispered Celia who appeared suddenly at his side, gazing up at him, her long curved lashes thick with sparkling tears.
"Don't look, Celia," he said, pressing her soft hair against his bare chest.
"But, Mika, what could have happened to him? Who could have done this? Maybe it was an army of orcs and they're coming this way. We'll all be killed! Oh, Mika, I'm frightened!" Celia wailed as a shiver of terror caused her to squeeze Mika even more tightly.
Mika cleared his throat, feeling Enor, Celia's father and the chief of the Wolf Nomads, staring at them with stern disapproval, and he regretfully separated himself from Celia and her fears.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Mika said calmly, knowing that the last great army of orcs had been driven from the plains long before his father's time. "Probably just bandits."
"Orcs!" cried Celia, determined to be frightened. "Or maybe goblins, thousands and thousands of them! We'll all be murdered!"
"It was probably no more than one or two robbers, scum from the dungeons of Yecha," Mika said firmly.
"Hill giants," squeaked Celia, closing her eyes and shivering with fear.
People were turning toward Celia, starting to listen. Mika-oba glared at her, knowing all too well how persistent she could be once she seized on an idea.
"Hush your yammering, Celia," he growled. "I'll find out what happened. I'm sure there's some simple explanation."
Steeling himself against the unpleasant task, although in honesty he had never minded blood so long as it was not his own, Mika-oba sank to one knee and picked up the man's hand. Stripped of nails and skin and pale with the loss of blood, it resembled nothing more than a lump of raw. meat.
"Who did this?" Mika asked forcefully, yet hoping with all his heart that the man would be unable to speak. "Where were you? Tell us, so that we may avenge your death!"
Mika's father, Veltran, chief shaman, healer, and magic-user, knelt at the man's head, eyes shut, trying to commune with his spirit, urging it to live.
Veltran's small, withered body hunched over the injured man, his myriad of grey braids hidden beneath the snarling wolf skull he wore over his head. A thick luxuriant pelt hung from the skull, covering his thin body, and the two front paws crossed over his bony chest.
He held a staff of roanwood in one hand, the head of the staff embellished with a carved wolf's head, the teeth bared in a snarl. Wisps of fragrant smoke issued from the staff as Veltran waved it over the injured man, allowing the row of wolf tails that were tied along its length to brush over his body.
Mika knew that his father was so completely absorbed in his efforts that he was unaware of anything else that occurred around him.
But others were. "Do not speak of death," hissed Whituk, a shaman of lesser standing who crouched at the man's side. "The dark spirits lurk above us and will come if they are called," he said angrily, glaring at Mika with a baleful eye.
Celia gasped softly and rested a tiny hand on Mika's shoulder. Her touch tingled through his shoulder and nudged Mika-oba over the edge of reason. Ignoring the shaman's angry warning, he gripped the wounded man's hand firmly.
The man's eyelids were gone, crudely cut from beneath his brows. His nose had also been removed, leaving a dark gaping hole that burbled darkly with blood, showing the stark whiteness of bone and cartilage beneath. The brown, blood-edged eyes stared upward, dulled with pain and exhaustion, seeing nothing.
"Speak, man! Tell us who did this!" Mika implored, closing his ears to the disapproving murmur of the shaman.
Slowly, the man's eyes focused, taking in the trees above him and the circle of anxious faces. He turned his mutilated face toward Mika and strained to speak, but only a dry croak emerged from his broken mouth.
Mika lifted the man's head, trying to ignore the thick, warm blood that smeared against his arm, and tipped a skin full of honeyed ale to the ravaged lips.
The man drank greedily, then sank back.
"Kobolds," he said in a wavering voice. "We were… coming from Yecha. They struck as we were fording the river Fler… Hundreds of them. You must send help."
The men crowded around him murmured loudly at the man's message, and the word kobold echoed excitedly through the gathered throng. Celia shivered and squeezed Mika's arm, as though chiding him for doubting her.
A disbelieving frown creased Mika's broad brow and he stared down into the man's blood-smeared eyes, probing out the truth.
"Kobolds?" he asked dubiously. "Why would kobolds dare to attack a caravan while it was under the protection of the Tiger Nomads? Kobolds are stupid, but they do not go to their death so senselessly."
"No Tigers," said the man, his voice sinking to a whisper. "A rider came… when we were in sight of the river. Said they were needed back in Yecha-a crisis. Said you Wolf Nomads would pick us up… as soon as we crossed the river… Left a guard, then most left us. Kobolds attacked when we were midstream… heavy losses. You… must help or all will die. The princess… so beautiful… The kingdom, great wealth, all depends on her safety. I promised the king I would protect her… I rode. I… promised to bring help."
"Princess? What princess? What kingdom? What wealth?" asked Mika-oba, suddenly interested in the man's welfare.
"Great wealth… so beautiful… the princess…" muttered the man. For a moment, his eyes glimmered, and he seemed to see Mika-oba clearly for one brief second. His eyes burned feverishly and he said loudly and clearly for all to hear: "You! You must go. You must save her. I pass her safekeeping on to you!" and then his eyes glazed and he fell back against Mika's arm.
The crowd gasped at the man's words, and Mika felt their eyes focused on his back. "He's sick, doesn't know what he's saying. Raving. Delirious. Anyone can see that," Mika said quickly, cursing his dumb bad luck.
"I don't think so," said Whituk with a nasty smirk. "He was very clear. Said what he had to. Certainly placed his mission in the right hands. Found the best man, all right."
"I don't think he meant me specifically," Mika said hurriedly, sweat breaking out on his upper lip. "I think he was referring to the clan in general. After all, what could one man do-if the story is even true?"
Veltran emerged from his state of trance, sorrowfully crossed the man's hands on his chest and spoke softly. "Rest easy, friend. We will ride to the aid of your party. Some of our men must be there already. They will turn the tide of the battle. Kobolds are no match for men of the Wolf Clan."
"All dead," whispered the man, his eyes no longer seeing. "They came… and they are dead. You must send… more… help." His arm slid from his chest and fell slackly to the ground.
Whituk moved to help, but Mika knew that the man was beyond them now and had joined the spirits of his ancestors. He rose slowly, his mind churning, and his eyes met the steady gaze of the chief. Enor was grim.
"It cannot be," said Enor, his bronze face a sickly shade of yellow. "I sent twenty of our best men. The Guildsman said a strong party was needed, and I sent the best. They could not be dead. The man has to be wrong…"
But his voice was thick with dread and Mika-oba was touched by a cold chill, as he recalled those who had left without him. Hansa, bold and cunning and friend of his childhood, as well as Gunnar and Hondred and Belo and Haj. The best of the young men of the clan. Had he not chosen to frolic with Celia, he himself would have been among them. He shut his mind to the small voice of his conscience that recalled how unlikely that would be, since he always chose to frolic.
Relief flooded through him, vying with anger and grief, as he realized that even if they were dead, he was still alive.
"We must all go," said Enor-oba, son of the chief and Celia's brother. "The death of this man is a blot on the honor of the Wolf Clan. We must ride to the river and hope that we are in time to avenge the caravan." Enor-oba gave Mika-oba a sneer, confident he had upstaged him in the bravado department.
That was just like his dull-witted boyhood rival, his mouth racing ahead of his brain. And yet… Mika toyed with the idea of riding along, prompted no doubt by the mention of a beautiful princess and great wealth, as well as the conviction that any kobolds, should they really exist, would be long gone by the time he got there. Before he could decide if the risk was worth the reward, his father spoke.
"You cannot go, Mika-oba. Your place is here with the clan," Veltran said, climbing to his feet wearily, his face pinched with fatigue.
"We must pray for guidance and say the words that will keep the clan from danger. Others will go. Others will fight. I need you here to help me. You have much to learn before you are able to take my place."
Left to his own devices, Mika would undoubtedly have recalled the ferocity of kobolds and found some way to wriggle out of the confrontation, but forbidden by his father, the mission took on new appeal; the danger receded.
The image of the unknown princess took shape in Mika's mind. He pictured long, black flowing tresses, a delicate figure, a wealthy and grateful father, and a few cowardly kobolds hiding in the rocks. Surely the messenger had exaggerated. And even if he had not, surely the Wolf Nomads had defeated them before they themselves were killed.
Mika turned to his father and said loudly for the benefit of the others, "Veltran, honored father, I hear your words and the wisdom they hold, but I would serve the clan best if you would let me go."
Celia sighed in an admiring fashion and stroked his arm lightly. His father started to speak, but Mika-oba, now fully committed to folly by Celia's touch and his own greedy instincts, held up his hand to forestall his words.
"Father, we sent the best of our men to meet that caravan. They are the future of the Wolf Nomads. If they are in danger, so is the entire clan. They must be rescued. I am the best bowman of those who remain, and the best fighter in hand-to-hand combat. I know that I must take my place at your side in the future and I will do so, but let me go now and Whituk will help you say the prayers and pray for guidance."
His words echoed bravely in his own ears, and as he spoke Celia murmured her approval. That was enough to bring him to his senses and almost as soon as he spoke the words of folly, Mika was silently praying that his father would forbid him to go.
Veltran paused for a long moment, during which time Mika-oba's hopes crawled upward only to be dashed an instant later.
Whituk was glaring at Mika still, his anger never far from the surface, always furious that he would be passed over as the chief shaman of the tribe in favor of Mika-oba whom he viewed as a lazy, insolent upstart.
Whituk spoke out in a shrill voice. "The man passed his mission on to Mika-oba. I heard him with my own ears. Mika-oba must go! It has become a matter of honor!"
"Honor is as important as duty," Mika-oba's father said solemnly, looking up to Enor as though for confirmation. His sad, tired eyes looked at Mika through heavy lids. His face was a somber map of wrinkles under the grinning wolf skull. He considered his son soberly.
"I will give you my leave if Enor wishes it," Veltran finally said, and gesturing with his right hand, he invoked the protection of the gods. Mika's heart sank, and he smiled weakly at Celia.
"His strong arm would be useful," agreed Enor, placing his large tanned hand on the shoulder of the chief shaman as though in thanks for his sacrifice, and turning, began barking out the names of those who would accompany them.
All told, there were two score and four who left the camp before the sun reached the top of the trees. They rode the small, shaggy horses of the steppes that could continue the pace, carrying both rider and baggage, long after a long-legged horse of the lowlands had dropped in its tracks.
Each man was accompanied by the wolf that had bonded to him shortly after its birth, a wolf completely loyal to him alone and wild and ferocious to his enemies.
The Wolf Nomads wore heavy leather tunics that covered their hard muscular bodies from neck to knee, flexible yet tough enough to deflect all but the most direct of sword blows.
Their arms were bare to enable them to use their weapons more easily. They carried a wide variety of weapons from the smallest, sharpest knives to huge battle-axes, massive maces, longswords strapped on their backs, and tall, powerful roanwood bows with quivers full of sharp-tipped sablewood arrows.
Their hair, worn free in times of peace, was scraped back up and away from their faces and braided from the hairline down to the nape of the neck in a tight queue, then covered with a form-fitting leather skullcap that flowed into the top of their tunics. Many such helmets were topped with the snarling skulls of wolves that had died in honorable combat, and wolf tails dangled like fringe.
What little flesh remained to be seen was painted with a dull blue-grey clay that gave them an eerie, otherworldly look that often served to rout their enemies before a single blow was struck.
Their feet were clad in knee-high boots made of the same thick leather that protected their bodies. They provided little warmth and no comfort, but comfort and warmth were supposedly the last things of interest to a Wolf Nomad riding out to war. Not so to Mika, however, who regarded the extreme discomfort as one of his primary objections to war-next to death, of course.
They rode on and on westward across the endless rolling plains, settling down to a steady, ground-eating pace that would bring them to their destination before the sun rose.
Fathers, Mika-oba thought glumly as he rode through the long night, his tail-bone grinding painfully on the hard spine of his horse. The horse, a haughty grey with a decidedly nasty temperament, struggled against Mika's every command, bucking and nipping as it ran, making the miles even more miserable. Mike would have preferred another horse, but this one had been a gift from his brother at his manhood rites, and he was stuck with it for life. Fathers. The problem with fathers was that they were always so serious and had absolutely no sense of humor.
Enor, father to Celia and chief of their tribe of Wolf Nomads, was always asking Mika what his intentions were. Mika did not think it was wise to tell him. Fortunately, there were many other suitors for Celia's hand, so the issue had not been pressed. But Mika knew that it was only a matter of time before he was forced to make a serious decision.
His own father, Veltran, was even worse than Enor, insisting that Mika sit with him for hours on end and learn vast quantities of nonsensical chants and boring lists of stinky weeds and their various uses.
But no matter how hard Mika tried-though when he was being completely honest, he had to admit that he had never tried terribly hard-he could never remember the chants. The rhymes were tricky and strange, and Mika always felt slightly ridiculous repeating them.
The words had a habit of turning themselves round in his head, sometimes producing quite startling results, like the time in the spring when he had accidentally turned a woman into a cat. She had strayed in front of him just as he was chanting. It was not his fault that she had been pursued into the forest by Tam and a horde of very hungry wolves.
Fortunately for the woman, his father had placed a hold spell on the wolves and reversed the chant, turning the cat back into a woman. That was a rather ticklish spell, but Veltran was a high-level magic-user, as well as a shaman. The spell was child's play for one with his skills, so in the end, there was no harm done.
Mika thought it was very unfair of Celia's brother, Enor-oba, to suggest that he had done it on purpose. The fact that the woman was Celia and Enor-oba's mother, a hateful, prune-faced crone who came between him and Celia every chance she got, had absolutely nothing to do with it. Mika was quite certain that it was an accident-well, almost certain, and had no problem looking Celia in the eye and telling her so. Celia, in turn, had no problem believing her beloved. And the chief, Enor, in his wisdom, chose to overlook Mika's indiscretion.
But the chants weren't the real problem. Mika-oba knew in his very heart of hearts that he wasn't cut out to be a shaman, a healer, or a magic user. Lofty and noble ideals were needed for the job, and Mika knew himself well enough to know that he simply didn't possess those qualities. Or perhaps he did, but if so, they were well buried under the desire for good times and available women.
He knew that he'd never be the shaman his father was. That was obvious to Mika, and he wondered why his father persisted in the training that was so painful for them both. Mika scowled into the dark night and heaved a deep sigh.
"Soon, my brother, soon," called a man who rode an arm's-length away, mistaking his sigh for impatience, "our swords will drip with kobold blood!"
"None too soon for me," Mika replied heartily, inwardly damning the fool who would choose killing over a warm bed and a warm woman. TamTur, racing alongside his horse, howled into the night. At least his wolf was hungry for action.
It was all his brother's fault, mused Mika. If he hadn't died, none of this would be happening. Veltran-oba had been his father's apprentice since childhood and was content to spend many long hours puttering around in the forest collecting bits of bark and weeds, fungus and flowers, and scarcely even looking at any of the many beautiful girls who hung around him, oohing and ahhing over his stupid plants, while yearning for the stature that was attached to the wife of a shaman. Veltran-oba had been a serious fellow, but he had taken his brother's disinterest in stride and had even been amused upon occasion by Mika's antics.
But while Mika had not shown any great aptitude for magic and healing, he had become proficient at weaponry and lovemaking, both of which he had learned to handle well and with great precision.
Everyone had expected Veltran-oba to don his father's mantle when the time came, but he had died two winters ago in the sickness that also robbed Mika-oba of his mother and younger sister. Twenty-seven others went to their ancestors at that time, as well, their lungs filled with thick white fluid that choked the breath off in their throats while they burned and trembled with a great fever. It had been a hard winter.
Until the sickness, there had been few clouds on Mika's horizon, other than keeping Celia satisfied and her father in the dark. He and the other nomads spent their time sleeping, hunting for roanbuck in the forest, eating great quantities around the burning campfires while telling stories of wolf heroes, singing songs, drinking mulled mandrake, and spending long hours in mock battle. Life was nearly perfect.
Through luck and good breeding, Mika-oba had been gifted with a magnificent body and handsome, almost noble features. Men thought him a boon companion, and women vied for his favors. He was adept at sword play and most other forms of combat. Fortunately, due to a strong and lasting peace brought about by the Merchant Guild in spite of the grumbling of Wolf and Tiger Nomads alike, there had been few opportunities for serious warfare in many decades. And Mika always had a good excuse when it came to avoiding the occasional kobold battle or bandit-hunt.
Mika had imagined, when indeed he bothered to stretch his thoughts that far, that things would always go on as they were. Enor-oba, the chief's eldest son, and Mika's rival in everything from weapons to women, was destined to be chief one day. His brother would follow his father, and he himself would go on gaming, wenching, hunting, and escorting the seasonal caravan to Yecha or Eru-Tovar across Wolf Nomad lands.
Mika enjoyed these trips as they allowed him to explore the novelties of the cities. He found the immensity of the ocean at the outer edges of the city of Yecha boggling beyond belief. Its vast stretches of endlessly moving waters called to him, cajoling him to leave his land-locked home. The salt-laden breezes caressed his mind like a woman's hand and dared him to discover its hidden secrets.
The intricacies of the city itself were no less fascinating. Used as he was to the lofty trees of the roan-wood forest and the empty rolling plains, it was difficult to grasp the suffocating complexity of the city. It seemed that there was too much to see, more than was possible to fit in one's eye. Each and every scene needed to be studied closely to take in all the details, but that was impossible, for nothing ever stood still.
Yecha was the capital city of the Wolf Nomads, founded many centuries earlier by those of the clan who saw the need for a permanent site from which they might sell their loads of roanwood, trade for sablewood and other necessities, and hold their councils with the other nations of Oerth.
These early men of vision had been regarded by the nomads as martyrs who had reluctantly given up the freedom of the forest so that their brothers might live better lives.
The city had grown over the years, having been added onto and built upon until now there was a vast populous of men and women who, though they called themselves Wolf Nomads and wore wolf insignia on their clothes and banners, had never stepped foot in the forest and actually seemed to prefer living in the city! It was all but incomprehensible to Mika.
But even Mika had to admit that the city was an exciting place. Framed by huge, thick stone ramparts that flew the wolf banner, it was crammed with exciting and foreign sights and sounds that flooded the senses like a rare wine.
The streets themselves were narrow and twisting, filled with a wide variety of people-peddlers with packs, hawking their wares; burly countrymen pushing their carts heaped with produce still warm from the earth; painted harridans wearing filmy silks, flanked by massive ebony eunuchs baring naked, curved swords; not to mention ordinary merchants and traders from cities across the whole of Greyhawk, all of whom mingled freely with the everyday citizens of Yecha, exhibiting a multitude of strange manners of dress and customs.
Mika could not imagine how one could possibly live in such a place permanently without losing one's mind. It was barely possible to see the sky, for the buildings were frequently two layers tall and sometimes as many as six, towering higher than the oldest roanwood tree and often leaning out over the narrow streets below.
And the noise! There were no bird songs to be heard and few birds, other than the filthy gulls that flew overhead, laughing shrilly as they dropped evil white deposits on the angry citizenry below. Thin, mangy dogs roamed underfoot searching hopefully for chance morsels and hoping to avoid the prowling wolves that roamed the city freely. At night, the shadows were thick with the massive shapes of rats, their flashing white teeth sharper and more deadly than a cutpurse's knife.
And while he found city men strangely hostile and suspicious of a simple country boy like himself, their women had proved more than willing to make up for the rudeness of their mates.
But all of that would soon be over. Once he became his father's apprentice, there would be no more trips to the city and no more burgher's wives, only dusty old scrolls and stinking weeds.
Following the directions of the dead messenger, the Wolf Nomads approached the banks of the River Fler while mist still curled above the dark waters.
During the long, cold, uncomfortable ride, unremarkable except for the incessant howling of the wolves that flanked them on all sides, Mika-oba had cursed the foolhardy words that had placed him in such danger. Much as he regretted the death of his friends, if indeed they were dead, riding into the arms of a kobold army and getting himself killed would do nothing for his friends, not to mention his own valuable and irreplaceable self.
Although he was very curious about the mysterious princess and her wealth, Mika was determined to stay well to the rear of any battle, maintain a low profile, and return home to the adoring Celia with his skin intact.
Unfortunately, Enor-oba, Celia's hateful brother, had plans of his own, which he implemented as soon as they were within a mile of the river.
The band of nomads had dismounted and staked their horses out after walking and wiping them down to prevent crippling founder. The wolves paced excitedly, dark eyes shining, fangs glinting, knowing by some strange means that blood was about to be shed. TamTur, more disciplined than most of the wolves, heeled to Mika's command, his eyes bright with blood fever.
Enor called the men together as they checked and adjusted their weapons. They grouped in a circle on a small rise, waiting for Enor's strategy.
"We must make our approach before the sun brightens the sky," whispered Enor at last. "But to do so, we must know the disposition and placement of the enemy. Who among you wishes the honor of gathering this information?"
"I would gladly volunteer, Father," Enor-oba said rapidly, before anyone else could speak. "But Mika-oba is the very best among us, by his own admission. I will pass up the honor in deference to Mika-oba's greater skills. I swallow my pride and ask you to allow the better man to go. Send Mika-oba." His tone was serious, yet his dark eyes betrayed his inner malice.
Mika glared at Enor-oba, who crouched less than a hand span away fingering the long white scar that ran down one side of his face.
"I could not take such an honor upon myself," Mika-oba said between clenched teeth. "You go, my brother."
"No," Enor-oba, said firmly, looking at Mika with mocking eyes, stroking the scar softly. "I cannot count the times you have told me that you are the better man. Now, when the stakes are so high, I bow to your greater abilities."
Mika thought he heard a murmur of suppressed laughter among his companions, though all presented somber faces as they waited for his response. But before he could reply, Enor clapped him on the back and said, "Good lad, I know that this is a simple task, but one that you will relish. Spy out the way of things and return in safety." And there was nothing more to be said.
Muttering blackly to himself, trying to think of a spell or an herb that would cause Enor-oba great discomfort while stopping short of actually killing him, Mika set about making his preparations for the dangerous reconnaissance.
Mika removed the light-grey wolf tails from his helmet and checked to make certain that there was nothing on his person that would reflect light. Satisfied, he smeared all exposed skin with a layer of hastily prepared mud, wrapped his dark cloak around himself, and then quietly slipped away from the others with Tam beside him, skipping with excitement.
He moved silently across the dark prairie until the sound of the river could be easily heard. Then, with TamTur following close at his heels, he made his way downstream, hoping to find a spot that would allow him to view the enemy while remaining unseen.
Creeping among the large rocks that lined the river, Mika and the large wolf gradually worked their way toward the shallow ford in the bend of the river where the caravans traditionally crossed.
After some time, they reached a pile of large rocks perched on the edge of the bank which would provide both the height and the cover he desired. Mika sank into the shadow of the rocks, motioned TamTur to stay, and began to climb, cautious not to disturb the balance of the rocks. He was eventually rewarded with a clear view of the battleground. It was not an encouraging sight.
The caravan was stretched across the river. One wagon rested on Wolf Nomad lands. Three wagons stood axle-deep in the river itself, and six wagons remained on the far side of the river in Tiger Nomad territory.
The dead were strewn around the wagons like leaves after the first frost. The thin cold light of the descending moon outlined their still forms, and Mika-oba was able to pick out at least twelve dead humans and a scattering of wolves. More than a hundred kobold corpses littered the ground, but the messenger had placed their numbers much higher. Mika allowed himself a moment's hope. Maybe the kobolds had been driven back and had abandoned their intended prey!
But even as he allowed such wishful fancies to cross his mind, thin cries erupted from the beleaguered wagons. Answering calls to the left drew his attention, and despair washed over him as more than two hundred kobolds emerged from the flank of the foothills, almost exactly opposite his position on the far side of the river, and began advancing on the wagons.
A meager flight of arrows streaked from behind the wagons and fell short of the kobolds, striking none. The kobolds, armed with javelins, short spears, axes, and clubs, continued on in relentless waves.
Mika stared at the kobolds, fascinated in spite of himself, for while he had never actually seen one, he had heard them described in great detail by those who had.
He knew that they were small, barely three feet tall, every inch packed with diabolical cunning. Their skin was a tough, horny substance that covered their body like scaled armor and could deflect all but the most direct hits from blades and arrows. The digits of their feet and hands ended in sharp claws that could inflict infection and disease by the merest contact.
Their heads were ugly, bare skulls ridged with a hard, horny crest, and bestial snouts whose mouths were filled with jagged teeth.
Their presence here at the river was odd, for they were subterranean creatures most often found in dank, dark places like caves or overgrown swamps.
They had obviously chosen their moment of attack carefully, preferring darkness to the painful brilliance of daylight. Mika knew that the pupil of the kobold eye was similar to that of a cat and opened in darkness to utilize whatever light was available. Kobold night vision was exceptional, as it must be for the dark underground environs they normally inhabited. Their human enemies, on the other hand, were both hampered by the dark and exhausted.
Mika-oba groaned at the kobolds' steady progress, knowing that those sheltered behind the wagons would soon be overcome unless the Wolf Clan could cross the river quickly and come to their aid.
The odds did not look good, but Wolf Nomads were not known for their cowardice, and given the stubborn, pig-headed code of valor that Enor lived by, Mika knew that the chief would not stop to consider the odds, but would order his men into the fray.
Mika did not relish the thought of dying under a swarm of kobolds. Nor did he wish to be taken alive; he had heard rumors of what kobold women did to male human prisoners-placing them in cages and using and abusing them sexually until they begged for death. But what other alternative was there?
Mika thought for a minute, then, spying a smooth rock the size of his hand, he picked it up and considered it. Perhaps he could knock himself out and then wake up conveniently after the battle was over. No one would even miss him. He tapped himself on the head experimentally. Damn! Pain, hurt! Just then, there was a soft slither, and Enor-oba crept to his side.
Silently heaping malediction on the fellow, Mika dropped the rock, signaled Enor-oba to follow and quietly rejoined the waiting band.
"It's not good," Mika reported somberly, hoping that he could persuade the chief to abandon his plan. "It appears that most of the men are dead. I counted many human bodies, both traders and nomads. There cannot be many left alive. I also observed a large army of kobolds. They are advancing on the caravan even now. We are hopelessly outnumbered and I fear that it is already too late to rescue the few survivors. Our losses would be great."
Enor's face was cold and hard. "A Wolf Nomad does not know the meaning of defeat as long as he is still alive! We are born for a life of fighting. If death comes, so be it, as long as it is with honor. I know you would not have it otherwise, Mika-oba."
The chief placed his arm around the shoulders of the younger man and gazed deep into his eyes. "I know how your sword lusts to avenge the death of your friends. I know how your heart longs for battle. Well, you shall soon have your wish.
"Come, men, we must act immediately if we are to save them," said Enor, and Mika knew that there was nothing that he could do or say to convince the chief to change his mind.
Mika stamped his feet and shook his sword with the rest of them, while inwardly raging at the foolhardiness that could so easily cause him to forfeit his life. All Mika truly wished for at that moment was to be safely at home, tucked away in a dark nook, enjoying Celia's favors. It was not his intention to die on the blade of some stupid dwarf of a kobold just to save a wagon load of trade goods. All thoughts of rescuing the mysterious wealthy princess had long since vanished from his mind. Somehow, he must see to it that he was positioned in the rear when they attacked.
"We must cross the river and outflank the kobolds," droned Enor, his arm still wrapped around Mika's shoulders as the men conferred in a tight huddle, wolves crowding in at their feet. "Our only hope will be to trap them between ourselves and those in the wagons. We must not allow them to slip past us and reach the foothills where others of their kind are sure to be hiding."
"Mika-oba must lead us," Enor-oba said with quiet persistence while Mika cursed him silently. "He is, after all, the best bowman among us."
"That is true," Enor said, turning to Mika with a smile. "It is a position of great danger and I would not ask it of you, but I know that one of your prowess would demand it.
"Then, too, you have never had the opportunity of war to exhibit your abilities, since we have been cursed with this lasting peace. Friendly competitions are all right, but there is nothing like a good battle to get a man's blood running and show what he is really made of. I know that you must welcome this opportunity. All eyes will be on you, Mika."
Mika's heart shriveled within his breast. All thoughts of hiding in the rear were now banished by Enor's words. What misfortune! With a surge of panic, he looked from face to face around the circle of warriors, and saw nothing in their eyes but readiness.
"Light!" croaked Mika-oba, his voice shakier than he wished. "Light can be a weapon, honored chief. You are right, I do welcome the challenge, but there are so many kobolds, I dare not risk one of us, not even myself, over such a foolish thing as pride, until all of our comrades are safe. As you know, kobolds hate bright light. If we could fashion flares or large bonfires, it would hurt their eyes and deflect their aim."
"And make ourselves better targets, too," muttered one of the younger men whose older brother had been among those sent to accompany the caravan. Others nodded in agreement.
"Besides, there are no trees this far south of the forest and nothing but rock on the other side of the river," said Enor. "I am afraid we will have to rely on arms and if some of us fall, so be it."
"Grease bushes!" said Mika-oba with a sudden burst of inspiration. "We'll use grease bushes. Spread out and collect as many as possible. Fill your cloaks and wrap them well, for we will have to cross the river, and they must remain dry if they are to serve the purpose."
There was some indecision among the nomads, for not all of them were convinced that Mika knew what he was talking about, but in the end, unable to suggest an alternative plan, Enor nodded his approval and they did as directed.
Mika-oba smiled to himself as he hacked through the tough stem of a squat, round grease bush, piling it on his cloak with the others he had wrested from the hard ground. He pictured the devastation they would cause while allowing him to remain away from the kobolds.
Grease bushes were so named because they stored pockets of a pitch-like substance in their dry branches. Wise travelers avoided their easy abundance and sought other material for building camp-fires, for while grease bushes burned easily and well, heat caused the pockets of pitch to explode and coat the unwary with spills of clinging fire. With any luck, the kobolds would discover just how painful that could be.
Their cloaks were soon filled and the Wolf Nomads followed Mika as he picked his way downstream.
Enor dogged Mika's heels, pushing him on more quickly than he liked. The wolves were in the lead, running silently, tongues lolling, canines gleaming white in the occasional flash of moonlight. The cries of battle were swept toward the party by the winds, faint yet filled with the despair of death and, even more horrible, blood curdling kobold yelps of victory. Even Mika felt his blood stir as his feet carried him ever closer to the battle.
Once past the bend in the stream, the river swung south and then straightened for its descent into Lake Quag. Here, the banks rose steeply and the river rushed at a rapidly increasing speed. In its lower reaches, the water foamed and hurled itself around jagged rocks fallen from the sheer cliffs that framed it on either side. Fortunately, Enor and his men were able to cross before the river entered the narrow divide.
The water was cold and pulled at their boots, attempting to trip them and suck them beneath the dark current. Holding their cloaks on top of then-heads, they carefully waded across the watery boundary, climbed out onto the rocky shore, and entered the land of the Tiger Nomads.
The wind was frigid, carrying the cold winds of the Land of the Black Ice from far to the north as it swept down across the desolate tundra. Water clung to their legs like icicles, and their heavy leather boots and tunics were stiff and hard. But this was scarcely noticed, for all their attention was focused on moving as rapidly and quietly as possible. All knew that the kobolds' hearing, framed and funneled by their large pointed ears, was as acute and well-developed as their fabled night vision.
The nomads could hear the cries of battle clearly now, and it seemed that the kobold voices were harsh with the sound of victory.
Driven by the fear that they would be too late, Enor urged his men forward, and they swarmed over the rocks heedless of the noise, hoping that the moving water would swallow the sound of their passage. Mika ran at their side, begrudging every step and hoping that his plan would work.
To their right rose the black bulk of the base of the foothills which marked the short range of mountains that marched along the edge of the river. Their flanks were eroded by deep arroyos that carried the spring runoff into the river. Because of the depth of the arroyos, the battle could only be heard and seen when one stood on their crests. The men scrambled up and down their steep sides, frustrated at the amount of time lost to their passage.
The wolves flowed up and over with ease, the hard scrabble of their claws and panting of their breath the only sounds, and they appeared to be no more than swiftly moving shadows. Tam was breathing heavily and nipping at Mika's heels, stirred by the Wolf Nomads' shouts, which resounded from the wagons.
To Mika's sorrow, they finally crossed the last of the arroyos and peered over its edge, taking advantage of its shelter and position above and behind the kobold lines.
The closest wagon lay a scant hundred paces away on a sand beach at the edge of the water. Seven Tiger Nomads were crumpled in various poses of death, the striped bodies of their tiger companions close beside them, constant even in death.
The sight of the Tiger Nomads and their fallen beasts wrenched something deep inside Mika-oba. Wolf and Tiger Nomads had few ties, sharing little but the same ancient warrior heritage, favoring distance rather than close contact.
Tiger Nomads were brave men, accustomed to living simply and harshly according to the laws that guided them, and in company with their fierce, bonded tigers. These deaths, more than the greater number of fallen traders, brought home the meaning of the deadly game they were about to enter.
The Wolf Nomads crouched at the lip of the arroyo, looking down on the rocky slope of land that stretched between themselves and the bend of the river. The ground was covered by a frenzied army of kobolds that screamed and yelled and waved their weapons in the air as they closed the gap between themselves and the remaining survivors.
"Pray the Great She Wolf your plan works," whispered Enor. And Mika did so fervently as he pounded the point of a war arrow into the base of the grease bush. The moon was nearly set and the sun had not yet cleared the tops of the mountains to the east. It was the time which men fear most, the time of grey darkness when spirits most often join their ancestors.
All around him, men followed his lead and forced their arrows into the dry bushes, while wolves crouched at their sides, tense and anxious, whining high-pitched cries that were feverish with excitement.
"The bushes are heavy," grunted Mika-oba, "and will pull the points of the arrows down, but they must fly only a short distance, and we are above the target. Pull hard, aim high, and it will work." And he fervently hoped that he was right.
Hasteen, brother of the missing Haj, struck a fire-stone with a hissing intensity and, barely waiting for Enor's cry of "FIRE!" each man shot his arrow high into the air above the kobold ranks, then bent with scarcely a pause and pounded home another.
The air was filled with a fiery rain as the brightly burning bushes pelted down on the unsuspecting kobolds, showering them with explosive bursts of hot burning pitch.
The night was rent with screams of pain as the burning pitch burned the kobolds' scanty raiment and continued searing their horny skin. Writhing in anguish and rage, the kobold leader, an ugly brute half again the size of his followers, turned and scanned the rocks behind his ragged army, seeking the origin of the unexpected attack.
Mika-oba knew that the element of surprise was over. The kobold would soon spot them and direct his followers to attack the attackers. Rising to his feet at Enor's signal, Mika shrieked a hair-raising wolf cry, and waved nomads and wolves onward down the slope toward the kobold army.
Suddenly, just as the last of the men had passed him, a hard shove from behind pushed Mika off balance and he was forced to run downhill as fast as he could go in a desperate attempt to remain on his feet. With utter horror, he found himself overrunning his companions and plunging well ahead of the front line on a course that would soon place him squarely in the middle of the kobold lines.
A shriek of terror lifted from his throat and his comrades, taking it as a cry of courage, increased their strides and closed behind him in a solid wedge, propelling him on, their own wolf calls drowning out his piteous bleats of fear.
Axes, swords, pikes, and javelins raised above their heads, screaming madly, the Wolf Nomads, terrifying in their blue war paint with their ravening beasts beside them, caromed down the hill and slammed into the rear of the kobold army.