by Rose Estes
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 foolhar-diness 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 their 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 p
lan 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.
Chapter 2
ULULATING WOLF WAILS rose from the throats of the Wolf Clan as they slashed their way through the astonished kobolds. A chorus of elated wolf cries answered them from the wagons. Hasteen and several of the younger nomads perched on the lip of the arroyo and continued firing flaming grease bushes into the churning ranks of the kobolds.
Mika, finding himself suddenly alone but surrounded by kobolds on the rocky slopes, seized his battle axe and began whirling round and round, while screaming like a madman. Blood flew—kobold blood—and hope grew that if he could just keep swinging, the wretched creatures would not be able to get close enough to hurt him.
Tam crouched at his feet, just below the arc of the blade, snarling, ready for any kobold foolish enough to venture within reach of his open jaws. Some did, and Tam feasted on their blundering bodies.
A short distance away, the kobold leader roared in anger and beat out the fiery sparks on his orange tunic with his horny palms while urging his followers to stand fast and attack the newcomers. A few did as he directed, but the majority were too confused and frightened by the flames, which continued to rain down on them. Those few kobolds that did manage to reach the attacking Wolf Clan did not live long enough to regret their mistake.
Emboldened by the presence of their rescuers, twenty-odd survivors emerged from behind the wagons and joined their comrades.
The battle was long and fierce, but the advantage had been tipped in favor of the nomads, and as the first light of dawn crept over the eastern edge of the hills, its cold bright light so painful to the kobold’s sensitive eyes, the nomads seized the initiative and pressed the creatures into a total rout.
Screaming their wolf cries, the nomads moved about them with axe and sword, hacking and slashing, killing kobolds in large numbers.
The wolves and the few tigers that remained alive were charged with a maniacal blood lust. Their eyes glittered crazily and their open jaws revealed sharp teeth that drooled with dark kobold blood.
The crazed animals seemed to favor prey that moved, and they brought down one fleeing kobold after another. A few kobolds, more clever than their unfortunate companions, took advantage of this tactic and dropped to the ground and played dead, crawling off after the bloodthirsty animals had passed them by.
Toward the end of the bloody battle, Mika-oba, who had grown both weary and dizzy, found himself face to face with the kobold leader. Its rusty brown hide was burned and bleeding in a dozen places, but fury still glowed in its orange eyes.
“You have won the day,” the kobold growled in a guttural voice as it circled Mika-oba wielding a broken shortsword, searching for an opening, “but you will lose in the end. . . .”
Mika-oba responded in a cool, doubting tone, “It is you who will die, and we who will dance in your blood. . . .”
But the kobold was smarter than Mika-oba thought, having survived more than a few battles and learned from them as well. He opened his muzzle as though to speak further. When Mika-oba hesitated, the kobold lashed out with his sword and slashed Mika-oba diagonally across the chest. Only his fast reflexes saved him from a fatal blow.
Mika struck out with his axe and the kobold ducked low, letting the heavy blade swish harmlessly overhead. He used the opportunity to cut at Mika’s knees with his bit of broken sword. Mika felt the blade nick him and leaped back, wishing that Tam had not abandoned him to join in the frenzied killing of the kobolds in retreat.
Mika and the kobold drove back and forth on the rocky slopes, neither able to gain the advantage. Mika was tiring, his muscles stiffening and trembling with fatigue. He knew he had to kill the kobold before he grew too tired to lift the heavy axe.
Giving a loud shriek, he raised the axe above his head and swung it in short, tight circles, driving the kobold back. The kobold could only retreat and soon found itself plastered against a stony outcrop.
As Mika raised his axe for the final blow, the kohold’s brutal face snarled up at him with unremitting hatred. Then suddenly, before he could bring the axe down on the kobold’s horny head, something sped past him with a harsh exhalation of air and thunked into the kobold.
The kobold shrieked and clutched its chest. Black blood erupted through its scaly fingers as did the shaft of a spear. As it sank to its knees, the kobold’s face contorted, and Mika realized with a shock that it was smiling!
“... Iuz . . . will . . .” gasped the kobold, struggling to form the words, but they did not come, and with a final shudder, it toppled onto its face and died.
“Iuz will do what? What about Iuz!” screamed Mika-oba as he grabbed the dead kobold and shook it violently. Enor materialized beside him and with some effort extracted his spear from the kobold’s dead body. Then the chieftain noticed Mika’s wild expression and grasped him firmly on the shoulders, intending to calm him.
“What are you doing?” Enor asked. “The creature is obviously dead. It has gone to its ancestors, if there is a place for such as these after death.”
“Enor, it said something about Iuz right before it died,” said Mika.
No Wolf Nomad could help but be disconcerted over the mention of the evil demon, lord of the Middle Lands in whose name untold acts of horror had been committed, and whom even the Wolf Nomads, whose lands bordered his, had cause to fear. Iuz had been ominously quiescent for generations. There were rumors about his presence from time to time, and there were unfounded reports of his foul deeds, but nothing certain or reliable. Why would Iuz be aligned with lowly kobolds?