by Rose Estes
“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 chiefs 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 s
cattering 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 relendess 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.