by Rose Estes
Master Wolf
Greyhawk Adventures Book 3
by Rose Estes
1987
A novel of quest and romance,
sorcery and death
Cover art by Clyde Caldwell
Interior art by Bart Sears
This book has been written in appreciation of
friendship—the highs, the lows—
for my sister, Jeniece Douglas,
and for Michael Douglas and Bert Weil—
friends and forever family
Chapter 1
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,” Celia 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 on
ce 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 Hon-dred 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, surel
y 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.
