by Rose Estes
The animals were nervous and allowed the humans to do as they wished. The mules showed the whites of their eyes and brayed long and loud, each outburst setting off others until the whole camp echoed with their cries. Even the wolves were affected and lifted their muzzles and howled forlornly till everyone, even the nomads, were half-crazed.
“I’ve never seen nuthin’ like this ‘afore,” cursed the one-eyed driver. “Stupid animals.”
But Mika had his doubts and eyed the storm with apprehension, wondering if it were truly an act of nature or another apparition.
Yet the storm was real and hit them before they had traveled more than a mile. It might have been better had they remained in camp, for they were barely able to turn the wagons into a circle before the curtain of wind and rain smashed into them.
The rain was cold and slashed down on their exposed skin with the force of hail, leaving men and animals feeling bruised and sore after only a few minutes’ time.
The wind tore at them, whipping at their clothes and hair and screaming through the wagons, causing the hides to billow and pop, threatening to overturn those wagons that stood broadside to the force of the wind.
“Turn those wagons!” Mika screamed, and whipping the grey horse into the wind, rode up alongside three wagons that were in danger of tipping.
The wind seized his words almost before they were spoken, plucking them from his lips and hurling them away, unheard. Only by gestures was he able to tell the drivers what to do. So set in their ways were they that it was necessary to beat one of them with the flat of his sword before he would turn the wagon, so that the back end could take the brunt of the wind.
Using his sword, Mika then split the tough cowhide that sealed both front and back, allowing the wind to whistle through unimpeded, doing no damage.
Mika was quick to notice that the Guildsman himself was directing the placement of the creaking wagon and stayed close by its side even when it was in place, its wheels chocked firmly with stones. Many of the drivers had followed Mika’s lead and opened their wagons to allow the wind through. But the secret wagon still remained tightly sealed.
Nor did the driver take shelter under or inside his wagon as many of the others had done. Instead he remained huddled on his seat as though standing guard.
The wolves, fearsome predators and fierce fighters, unafraid of anything that walked or flew, drew the line at rainstorms. They did not like the water, they hated the lightning, and they were nearly driven mad by the thunder.
Each dealt with the storm in the only way it knew, by crawling under the nearest wagon, digging a shallow hole, curling into a tight ball, and burying its head beneath its thick brushy tail.
The nomads knew from past experience that they would not emerge until the storm was over. May the Great She Wolf help them if it were ever necessary to go into battle during a rainstorm!
Mika himself, along with the other nomads, patrolled the perimeters of the wagons, water streaming off their already hopelessly wet heads and shoulders.
As soon as the main front had passed overhead and the wind abated somewhat, Mika and Hornsbuck directed the hanging of waterskins. They used the cowhide flaps to funnel water from the tops of the wagons into the waterskins, which soon bulged with the precious water that would carry the caravan safely across the prairie.
The storm seemed to ease the humiliation of the previous night, and Mika was pleased to note that the men obeyed his orders with no signs of rebellion. He was determined to see that it remained that way.
He was doubly determined to find out what was concealed in the secret wagon.
Thunder boomed and crashed around them, and lightning bolts split the dark skies and pierced the prairie. The rain continued to plummet from the clouds, turning the hard ground into a slippery quagmire on which the horses could find no firm footing.
The storm continued until mid-afternoon, but after the worst of it had passed, Mika, Hornsbuck, and the Guildsman decided that there was no advantage to staying put. They could scarcely get wetter, and everyone, humans and animals alike, would feel better doing something.
Everyone except the wolves. It was hard to stir them, and Mika felt sympathy for Tam. He had proved his mettle many times over, taking on fearsome adversaries, larger and more powerful than he, without a thought for his own safety. But once the wagons creaked forward, the wolves were exposed to the full force of the rain and could do little else but follow.
They did so unhappily, their fur matted and spiky with moisture, their tails curled low beneath their bellies, their feet glopped with clinging mud, and their yellow eyes sick with fear. They slunk alongside their humans, although a few chose to run along beneath the wagons.
TamTur ran beside Mika’s horse, all but groaning when the grey kicked up water that splashed into his face. Mika met his eyes briefly and had to repress a smile at the look of disgust the wolf gave him. Mika shrugged, “I’m as wet as you are. Don’t like it overly much myself. Just be glad we have water. We could be choking on our own dust.”
Tam did not seem to appreciate Mika’s logic and ran onward with his head down.
Mika forced the grey into a gallop, advancing until he found the scout who rode the forward point.
“How are we progressing?” he asked the man, a squinty-eyed dark-skinned nomad named Marek from one of the Eastern clans along the River Fler, from whose ranks most of the casualties had come during the battle of the kobolds.
“All right. Better than I would have hoped,” replied the man as he ran a well-callused hand over his dark braid. “The wind is behind us and is pushing us forward.”
“The wagon wheels are sliding in the mud, easing the mule’s loads,” Mika added. “Almost like sledding.”
“Whatever the reason, we’re doing well and should make twenty, thirty miles today if we keep on as we are. That will bring us to Bubbling Springs, and we can make camp there tonight.”
“Bubbling Springs?” asked Mika, totally unfamiliar with the geography of this stretch of the plains, having always followed the forest route.
“Sometimes there’s as many as three springs there,” replied Marek. “Sometimes none. But there must be water under the land; there’s a large grove of trees that are always green, even in the dry years. We might have to fight for it though, because bandits are drawn to it like bees to honey.”
“How many bandits? Would it be safer to avoid the area?” asked Mika.
Marek gave him a sideways glance from narrowed eyes, clearly surprised that a Wolf Nomad would avoid the chance for battle.
“I speak out of concern for the caravan, not out of my own preference,” Mika said hastily. “Yon Guilds-man places great importance on his wagons arriving safely and on time. Were it left to me, I would be the first to head for these springs and slaughter every bandit there. Rid the plains of the low-life!”
“Water the dirt with their blood!” added Marek, reassured by Mika’s words. “No, we’d be safer in the woods and would have wood to burn as well, which we’ll need after this wet day Killing them as are hiding there will give the men a little bonus, cheer them up like. You can have first crack at them, being commander and all.”
“No, I wouldn’t think of depriving you of your pleasure,” said Mika, who could not think of anything he’d less rather do than fight a bunch of desperate bandits.
“I shall kill one for you, sir,” said Marek, his dark eyes bright with growing admiration.
“Do that,” said Mika. “May the Great Wolf Mother, she who birthed the world, watch over you and keep you safe!” Smiling, he allowed the grey to drop back. The rain quickly blurred his vision.
“Fool,” whispered Mika. “He’ll never make old bones.” Positioning himself among the wagons, he rode without incident throughout the remainder of the day.
As Mika rode, once again he pondered the secret wagon. But he could not decide on a plan that would provide him with enough time to enter the wagon and discover its contents. Sooner or la
ter, he told himself, something would occur to him.
Marek had figured correctly, and shortly before dark, just as the rain was ending, the lean nomad rode back to pass along the news that Bubbling Springs could be seen on the edge of the eastern horizon.
Anxious to be done with hard wagon seats and saddles, wet chafing clothes, and the constant chill of moisture, drivers and nomads whipped their tired animals until they were within easy viewing distance of the woods. Smoke rose above the treetops in several different locations.
“Best take some men and see who’s there,” Mika advised Marek. “But be certain that they are bandits before there is any bloodshed. We wouldn’t want to slaughter any innocents; it would cause too much trouble with the Guild if their bones were found.”
Marek nodded his understanding, and taking half of the nomads, he rode swiftly toward the distant woods, wolves streaming behind him and the party.
For a time there was silence, then there was an eerie howl that climbed high and hung on the air, shivering the skin, followed by other wolf voices, the ululating cries of a wolf pack on the hunt, destined to bring fear to all who heard.
Those wolves that had remained behind circled wildly, then stopped abruptly, threw back their heads, and added their frenzied cries to those of their brothers. The howls almost covered the sound of human shrieks, but not completely.
Mika’s stomach turned queasily, and for a moment he sympathized with the unknown humans who were going to their deaths violently, their throats ripped out by wolves or hacked to death by nomad swords.
After a while there were no more cries, and Marek and his companions rode back out of the woods and rejoined the wagon train.
“All clear, Captain,” Marek said with satisfaction.
“You’re sure?” asked Mika, not at all interested in meeting up with some crazed survivor.
“I swear it on the Great Mother’s tail,” Marek said solemnly. “We hunted them out from under every bush and stone. We dragged them out of trees where they thought to hide, and we stuck a few with swords where they hid in holes in the ground.
“You may tell these townsmen that they have nothing to fear. There were but a dozen of the creatures, and they had no more than three knives among them, although they fought like wild men, and one of them even dared to throw a club at Klaren. Hit him, too!”
“Is he all right?” Mika asked anxiously, unwilling to lose even one of his men in case there was more fighting to come.
“He’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep,” said Marek, noting Mika’s concern with approval. It was always good to have a captain who cared about the welfare of his men. “The club did no more than crease his thick skull. Can you imagine the luck of such a one felling a nomad?” Shaking his head over the disrespect of the dead man, Marek took his leave.
Nomad though he was, Mika could very much imagine the situation. If he himself were attacked by someone bent on taking his life, he knew that he would fight with any means available to him, and he spared a moment of begruding respect for the brave, but dead, bandit.
Bells jingling cheerfully, the wagons rolled along smartly. A strange light, thrown into contrast by the dark clouds now far to the east, bathed the prairie with a glowing incandescence, transforming the bare rocky earth into shining gold and the puddles into pools of quicksilver. The freshly washed, electrically charged air was sharp and clear and held the rich scent of earth and wood smoke.
Although humans and animals alike were still wet, cold, and uncomfortable, their earlier misery was all but forgotten with the promise of food and rest as the wagon train entered the dripping forest.
Chapter 9
THE BODIES OF THE SLAIN BANDITS were dumped unceremoniously in a far corner of the woods where animals and birds of prey would dispose of them.
After double checking to make sure that no more of the would-be cutthroats were lurking in the small forest of dwarf roanwood, phost, and the occasional yarpick, the men set up camp.
It was undoubtedly the fruit of the thorn-studded yarpick that sustained the bandits who sheltered in the forest, supplementing whatever wildlife they might be lucky enough to catch.
Yarpick nuts were as large as a child’s fist and were eaten whole or ground into meal. Mika was glad to see that the trees bore a heavy crop and decided that before they left, he would order drivers and nomads alike to knock the fruits from the trees with sticks and gather them into piles. Later, the tasteless fruit would be separated from the nuts which could be sold in Eru-Tovar as well as adding variety to their own foodstuffs.
The men would grumble, of course, but since the nuts were widely regarded as a delicacy, they would do as they were bid.
Right now, the first business at hand was to strip the horses and the mules of their waterlogged trappings and rub them down. It would not do to have sick animals. This done, they were hobbled and let out to browse on the sparse grass.
The men were no less anxious than the animals to be free of their sodden garments, and it was with a feeling of great relief that they rubbed themselves dry with rough cloths and stood in front of the bandits’ fires warming their clammy bones.
Mika stood apart from the various groups of men and watched as they snapped each other’s flanks with damp cloths and shrieked with mock rage, acting like children.
Mika knew that the play was harmless and even desirable in that it would relieve the tension of the last few days. Should it become necessary, the men would fight better, having had a brief respite of fun.
The wolves joined in the fray. A small, grey female seized the end of a waving cloth, ripped it out of the hands of the holder, and began racing around the camp with all the other wolves giving wild chase.
At any other time, Mika might easily have been among the naked throng, roaring out his bet as to which of the wolves would end up with the prize, but his thoughts were on other matters.
He sat down on a fallen phost tree, its phosphorescent glow lost in the still-bright evening. Later, its pearly aura caused by decomposition would be clearly visible in the darkness. For the moment, though, it provided a sturdy seat as Mika combed out his long dark hair, toweled it dry, and rebraided it into a thick central braid that ran from forehead to mid-back and was then doubled back on itself and tied at the nape of his neck with a length of leather.
Years of experience enabled him to do the intricate braiding both swiftly and neatly. As he tied off the braid, he chanced to look down, and there, lying on the carpet of wet forest leaves, was a single feather, pure white and the length of his hand.
Mika picked it up reverently, knowing from the size and color that it had come from the wing of a great snowy white owl, a huge silent messenger of the north that struck without warning, its prey dying with long, curved talons curling through their organs before their minds even grasped the fact that they were in danger.
Mika stared at the omen, ideas flitting through his mind, wondering if he dared, even as he laid his plans. Holding the feather gently, as though it were a precious gem, Mika located his saddlebags and, dumping his wet leathers on the ground, rummaged through his possessions until he found the pouch that Enor had handed him as he left the camp.
He untied the leather strings that held the pouch shut and pried it open gently, daring to hope that Enor had spoken truly, that it contained more than just herbs and vials of potions. He prayed that it held his father’s book. The book that contained all the permanent spells, charms, and enchantments that he knew, and the scrolls that held those spells that could be used only once before they disappeared.
“It’s here, Tam! It’s here!” Mika said, looking into the mouth of the bag and sighing happily. “Won’t old Whituk be angry? I can see his face now—may he eat sour grapes forever!”
Tam wagged his huge tail from side to side, his eyes bright with the happiness in Mika’s voice. He rested his huge muzzle against Mika’s leg and whined shrilly.
“I think it’s above my skill level, Tam,” Mika co
nfided. “I’ll have to be very careful. I don’t want to make any mistakes, not when I’m out of my body But what could possibly go wrong if I read it carefully and memorize all the words?”
Tam groaned deep in his chest and pawed at his nose with his paw, hiding his eyes. Mika knew that it was probably just a flea, but it seemed as though Tam were laughing at him! Doubting him!
“Don’t you think I can do it?” Mika asked, more hurt than he would like to admit. “Come on, you’re supposed to be my best friend! Let’s have a little bit of faith here! I bet I can do it! No! I know I can do it! And I’ll find out what’s in that wagon. You wait and see!”
But TamTur merely groaned louder and longer and lifted his muzzle to let out a short agonized howl.
“Fine friend you are,” muttered Mika, and yanking the strings shut around the mouth of the pouch, he hung it from his shoulder and went to find dinner.
The wagons had been drawn into a wide circle inside a natural clearing in the forest. A small, dark spring that did indeed bubble rose from the ground at the far east end.
The horses and mules were wandering outside the perimeter of the wagons, browsing on grass and tender leaves. The men had added armfuls of firewood to the bandits’ fire and now lounged before it, reveling in its great heat as they ate their evening meal. A feeling of contentment pervaded.
“A good day’s work, Mika,” growled Hornsbuck. “Waterskins filled. Miles under our belt. Yarpicks to eat. Did the men good to sink their swords into those dungeon slime. Picked them right up. I always say a little killing can do wonders for a man.”
“Mmmm,” said Mika, dipping his bowl into the communal pot of beans, the remainder of the batch from the previous evening now reinforced with even more beans, bits of smoked dried rabbit, and too much salt. Damp chunks of mealybread added to the bulk.
Meals were terrible for the most part. The worst part of every trip. Occasionally, the cooks were men of inspiration, but more often they were whey-faced, dour individuals, who were unhappy in life and were determined to ruin as many other lives as humanly possible. Their foul cooking generally accomplished that mission with ease. Mika ate as few camp meals as possible, making do with small game roasted on spits.
