by Rose Estes
“Iuz,” Enor muttered uneasily, prodding the dead kobold with his toe. “I hope you are mistaken, Mika, or that the creature was lying. Let us pray that it is so. The demon lord has not been heard from in years, and I would have it remain that way.”
Enor stood up beside the dead kobold and stared around him. The field was littered with dead and dying kobolds and a few injured wolves and nomads. Enor gazed off in the distance, where the main body of kobolds, perhaps forty or more, had gathered together for a last stand at the edge of the river. But it was a doomed affair, for the sun was rising, growing in strength and brilliance. Its bright rays shone down, blinding them to the flight of arrows and the final slash and cut of sword and axe. Soon, the last of them were dead, their black blood flowing into the rushing waters of the River Fler.
But Mika was seized with doubt and indecision. Had he heard the kobold leader correctly? So frightening was the thought of Iuz, drummed into his imagination from childhood and the lessons of his father, that he was more than willing to believe that his ears had tricked him, or that the kobold had lied. Enor was equally willing to forget the implications.
“Come, Mika, pay this one no more mind,” directed Enor, pulling him away from the dead kobold. “We must tend to the living and eliminate those few of the enemy that may have survived.”
Mika rejoined his companions, and they combed the battlefield carefully, aided by the wolves and tigers, searching out those humans and kobolds that still lived. They found only one suffering human, a wagon driver, who soon perished of his wounds, although grateful to die in the presence of men and with the sound of prayers in his ears to guide his spirit to the afterworld.
Many kobolds had survived, although bearing horrendous wounds that would have killed a man. They taunted the Wolf Nomads with curses and animal cries and died with smiles on their muzzles as the Wolf Men plunged swords through their hearts.
Mika was troubled by a lingering doubt, and whenever possible, out of the hearing of other nomads, he tried to question all kobolds who came before his sword. He also searched their foul-smelling clothing for documents, but they were either without knowledge or without fear and gave up nothing except their worthless lives.
“Leave them here as a warning to their foul brethren,” Enor directed his clansmen as the sun rose slowly in the cold sky. “Perhaps it will give them reason to think before they attack another caravan. We have given the Guild our word of protection. Wolf Nomads do not make promises that they cannot keep.”
“They will remember the lesson we have taught them today,” Enor-oba said pompously, and Mika was saddened to see that the chiefs son had come through the battle without even a scratch.
“To attack a caravan under the protection of the Wolf Nomads is to attack the Wolf Nomads themselves . . .” Enor-oba continued as the men began to drift away, disinterested in his somber pronouncements. Even Enor turned from his son and began directing the removal of the last few wagons across the river and into the safety of the Wolf Nomad territory.
“You men,” called Enor, pointing at the widely scattered groups of nomads. “Check the area. I want to be certain that every last kobold is dead before we leave.”
Mika was tired. His arms ached and his back was stiff and caked with sweat. All he wanted was to sit down and rest. He didn’t want to look for kobolds. He had seen more than enough kobolds to last him for a long time.
But he knew from long experience that it was no use arguing with Enor. “I’ll check the arroyos,” he cried, and received a brief wave of acknowledgement from Enor, whose attention was focused on the work with the wagons.
The rest of the men were searching the area between the arroyos and the river. No one was near him. Satisfied that he had the area to himself, Mika slipped over the edge of an arroyo and wandered along its length, searching wearily for a concealed spot in which to sit and rest.
Such a spot soon presented itself, a small cut in the bank near the head of an arroyo where he was hidden from casual observation. He sank down on a large boulder, rested his back against the steep slope and closed his eyes with a hearty sigh.
TamTur circled in place several times, then sank to the ground, curled himself into a tight ball, his silvery brush covering his nose, and fell into a deep sleep.
Mika relaxed in the warm sunlight, allowing the tension to flow out of his stiff muscles, and congratulated himself on surviving the battle, despite the shove from . . . Enor-oba, no doubt.
His thoughts drifted, considering the wagon train. It had appeared quite ordinary, no different from any other caravan, and certainly not the repository of a beautiful princess and great wealth. Ah, the princess! He had almost forgotten about her. Had the messenger lied? Was it all an elaborate hoax to ensure the rescue of his comrades? Mika thought not, but he would have to get a closer look at the surviving wagons . . . after a brief, well-deserved snooze.
Mika had been seated for only a short time, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and chest, when he felt a strange tingling cover his body. He opened his eyes abruptly.
A small kobold stood directly in front of him, blocking the rays of the sun. Mika cursed his own stupidity for placing himself in such a tightly wedged position where he could not easily wield either axe or sword.
They stared at each other for a long moment, each studying the other. The kobold wore a badly singed orange tunic and its bony crest sagged crookedly above its eyes as though it had been broken by a direct blow. Then, even as Mika considered rushing the creature, overwhelming it by sheer bulk, a second figure appeared in the narrow opening.
Mika-oba could not tell whether the creature standing against the sun was human or not, draped as it was in a heavy dark cloak from head to toe, its features completely concealed by deep, unnatural shadows. The kobold lifted its wrinkled muzzle and spoke to the figure that stood a mere hand span taller.
The kobold seemed to speak with great deference, and its cringing posture suggested fear.
The small dark figure leaned on a thick staff and stared at Mika without movement.
After a few moments of the silent staring, Mika grew increasingly uneasy. There was something quite frightening about the small figure that filled Mika with a sense of dread. He backed up, but there was nowhere to go. The silence stretched on like an unending scream.
Mika shook himself mentally, attempting to shake off his unreasoning anxiety. What was he afraid of? The Wolf Nomads had won, hadn’t they? He raised his arm and started to draw his sword out of the sheath that hung between his shoulder blades, taking a step toward the odd pair.
He flexed his massive shoulders—intimidatingly, he hoped—and rattled his sword. He took another step, hoping they would back off, but the twosome stood their ground firmly as Mika-oba approached. His blade snicked through the air, making a most satisfying sound, rather like the sound of a neck separating from a head, Mika thought with a rush of humor. Yet still the pair did not flee. It was definitely unkobold-like behavior. But when he noticed the kobold shrinking back in a most satisfying manner, he drew in a great mouthful of air for his attacking wolf cry, and rushed forward, sword raised high.
Slowly, almost leisurely, the small, dark figure raised a shrouded hand and pointed at Mika, the tip of its cloak and the bountiful folds describing lazy movements in the air.
Mika felt as though he had slammed face first into a pile of sand. The faint tingling he had felt earlier had been but a hint of what he experienced now.
His entire body was wrapped in a numbing cold. Yet he felt as though he were being stung by bees from the top of his scalp down to the soles of his feet.
His heart slammed against his ribcage like a hawk caught in a cage, hurling itself against the bars, determined to escape or die in the trying.
His blood roared in his ears and pressure built behind his eyes till his vision blurred and he could sense only vaguely the kobold and the dark creature approaching him as he stood frozen in place, sword still raised above his
head.
“Should I kill ‘im, Master?” the kobold asked nervously.
Mika felt sweat pouring down his face, and he strained every muscle in his body, attempting to lower his arms and crash the sword into his enemy. But he could not move his arms. In fact, he could not move anything at all. All he could do was stand there, frozen, and wait for the dark creature to decide his fate.
The cloaked figure did not answer immediately, but walked around Mika-oba as he stood there, with eyes bulging and sweat running down his body, looking like some strange statue dedicated to a rightfully forgotten god.
Mika-oba was in pain. He was cold and his body itched unbearably. He was even a little frightened. But most of all, he felt stupid. Incredibly, overwhelmingly stupid. He marveled at the degree of his stupidity and knew that he deserved to die.
“Can I do it now? Do you wants ‘im dead?” the kobold repeated helpfully.
In spite of the fact that he had just decided he deserved to die, it was quite another thing having the kobold agree with him. Mika-oba silently heaped foul curses on the wretched beast and wished with all his might that its tongue would wither in its head.
“I could stab ‘im, real easy like,” the kobold offered, completely unaffected by Mika-oba’s ardent wishing.
The cloaked figure completed its circuit around Mika’s stiffened body and waved the kobold into silence with a twitch of its hand. The kobold fell quiet instantly.
Mika’s vision had cleared a little and he was able to focus on the darkness in the center of the hood, yet he could not make out any features, human or otherwise. It was as though the cloak were held up by nothing but blackness.
Then he ceased to wonder about anything, even his fate, for once more he was seized by the incredible cold that seemed to enter his skull and grow more and more intense until there was nothing left of the world but pain.
After several lifetimes, the pain receded and left him still standing, sword above his head, only vaguely aware of his tormentor.
“So he doesn’t knows nothing?” queried the kobold, its voice seeming to come from a great distance. “Can’t I kills ‘im anyways?” it whined in a disappointed tone. Evidently the answer was negative, for Mika-oba continued to live, although it took him a while to ascertain that fact and even longer to regret it.
As the pain left his body, he stood, still locked in place, sword held high above his head, still cursing himself for being such an ignoramus.
The kobold and the robed creature had vanished. Mika felt ill, not only from the all-too-unpleasant physical effects left over from the encounter, but from the knowledge that he had just had a brush with a dark magic-user. One did not need to see a sign hanging around someone’s neck to recognize such a spell-caster. Mika-oba had deserved to die for his negligence and realized that he was alive only because the magic-user had spared him.
After a while, the pain and the cold and the stinging left him and it appeared fairly certain that he would live. But still he could not move. Not even one little finger.
He prayed that none of his companions would come searching for him and find him in such a state. He would be the butt of humorous songs and jokes for centuries to come.
He heard a wide yawn behind him as TamTur stirred, stretched, then got to his feet, having slept through the entire incident. Perhaps the magic-user had arranged it thusly.
Tam walked around Mika, sat down on his haunches, yawned shrilly, then placed his head to one side and stared at Mika-oba curiously. He circled Mika several times, then with a movement that must have been the animal equivalent of a human shrug, TamTur curled himself into a ball at Mika’s feet and went back to sleep. Thanks a lot, pal.
Mika grunted and strained and willed his muscles to move. Finally, aided perhaps by some stray gust of wind, he did move. Forward. And down. He could not even close his eyes as he smacked, face first, onto the hard earth and lay there without moving for several additional lifetimes.
“Mika! Mika-oba!” called a voice.
“Mika! Where are you!” cried another.
“Oh no,” Mika groaned inwardly.
“Here he is!” cried a voice filled with relief. Hands seized his shoulders and turned him over roughly.
“Mika! What a place to take a nap!” Hasteen said with admiration shining in his eyes. “Have you no fear? There might easily be more kobolds sneaking around. Come on, the Guildsman has broken out a wineskin in gratitude for our help.
“Enor sent us to find you. Everyone wants to grip the arm of the man who saved our lives.” And he extended his hand to Mika.
To Mika’s amazement and joy, he found that he could move, albeit stiffly, and felt no worse for his experience than he had after a night of drinking honeyed ale. Taking Hasteen’s hand, he rose to his feet and walked shakily down the slope with a sleepy Tam trailing behind.
“I can’t take all the credit,” he said with a nervous laugh to cover his confusion. “After all, I did have help,” he said, yawning widely. “Tell me, how many men did we lose?”
During the trek back to the caravan, which now rested on the Wolf Nomads’ side of the river, Mika-oba learned that the majority of the Wolf members who died in the raid had come from a clan that lived closest to the river and were, for the most part, unknown to him. Only two of their own clan had died before killing more than a score of kobolds apiece. Their widows would be well regarded.
The wagons were drawn in a circle, and drivers, tradesmen, and Wolf Nomads mingled freely, passing jugs of root liquor and Celadian wine and chewing on dried sticks of venison. Celebratory voices were raised in boasting and song. The survivors were heroes, and happy to be alive.
“Why do you suppose they did it?” asked one of the wagon drivers, a big burly Yechan who wore a bloody rag tied around his head. “I ain’t never known kobolds to be that brave and I never heard tell of any around here before.”
“And they ain’t known for cooperatin’ with each other, neither,” added another man who seemed to be in charge of the mules that pulled the wagons. “I never seen any two of ‘em who could get along fer longer than a heartbeat.”
Enor-oba was equally puzzled by the attack but passed it off with a casual comment. “Kobolds are stupid. They don’t need a reason for anything, they just do it.”
Mika-oba had never spent much time pondering the intelligence of kobolds, but reason told him that it took a certain amount of mental ability to gather several hundred kobolds and mount a concerted attack on a heavily guarded caravan.
Mika was scarcely able to enjoy the fine Celadian wine or pay much attention to the comments and congratulations of his comrades, so deep was his feeling that there was something very wrong about the raid. The kobold who mentioned Iuz, the encounter with the magic-user . . . Everything pointed to something exceedingly strange afoot. But Enor had shrugged it off. And Mika knew nothing really—just misgivings and an incident without proof, clues . . . Who would listen to him?
Even after the wagons set off across the plains, Mika-oba considered confronting Enor with everything that had happened, but the thought of relating the humiliating experience with the magic-user turned his ears red, and he knew that he could never speak of it to the chief. He put it aside in his mind. It was an isolated incident, he told himself, of no great importance. There would be no further mischief.
He was bolstered by the reaction of the Guilds-man, a small, thin, bald man with bright blue eyes, who clasped his hand and regarded him with a thoughtful eye.
Mika had ridden up alongside the Guildsman in an effort to peer into one of the wagons. Now that danger was past, his thoughts returned to the wealthy princess ... if she existed. All the wagons looked more or less alike, but Mika couldn’t help but notice that the caravan leader never strayed far from the side of one that looked to be pulling an especially heavy load. When Mika leaned over to get a better view of the wagon, the Guildsman’s smiling face blocked his view. He engaged Mika in conversation about the kobold battle, but
in Mika’s opinion there was something shifty, evasive, about the man. And he never did get a clear look at the wagon.
“Forget them,” the Guildsman said of the kobolds with a dismissive gesture. “Kobolds are as unpredictable as they are stupid. We will see no more of them now that we are out of the foothills.”
“What is your cargo?” Mika asked with interest. “Are you carrying anything unusual, something special that would draw their attention?”
“Nothing more than the usual imported wines, lengths of sablewood, and spear points required by our brothers to the east for their continued daily existence,” the Guildsman said with a shrug. “Certainly nothing that would attract an army of kobolds.”
“Nothing like a beautiful princess or coffers of fabulous wealth?” Mika said in an offhand manner, watching for the man’s response.
“Don’t I wish,” said the Guildsman with a rueful chuckle. “It would make this job a lot more interesting.
“That is what your messenger told me,” said Mika. “The kobolds had ripped him up pretty bad. I can’t imagine anyone suffering like he did to reach us to get help unless you carried something of great importance.”
“We were friends,” said the Guildsman. “And he was a brave man. Would you not do such a thing to save the lives of your friends under such circumstances?”
Mika was silent, wondering what he would do in such a situation and hoping that he would never have to find out.
But in spite of the man’s words, Mika was convinced that the Guildsman was not telling the truth. There was more here than met the eye, and it had nothing to do with kobolds.
“Well, it’s good to be underway again,” sighed the
Guildsman, attempting to change the subject. “All thanks to you good fellows! There’ll be more than a few coppers in it for you once we get to Eru-Tovar! I’ll show you a good time and give you my thanks in full once we arrive in safety. No more kobolds! I’ve had my fill!”
Mika edged his horse—the stubborn grey stallion that fought his every command—closer to the wagons and slowed him to a walk. The Guildsman rode up next to Mika, and kept up a stream of meaningless chatter that Mika ignored. Seemingly more heavily loaded than the others, the wagon creaked along. Its driver was even less informative than the Guildsman.
