Master Wolf

by Rose Estes

  Mika had all the qualifications needed to become a truly great Wolf Nomad one day if he were able to channel his superior strength and intelligence instead of wasting his talents on wenching and pranks. As chief, it was Enor’s duty to see that that happened. As a father whose daughter was infatuated with Mika, it was even more crucial.

  “The caravan, Mika,” he repeated. “Those kobolds didn’t just happen to be there. There haven’t been any kobolds in our territory in decades; we cleared them out long ago. No army of kobolds could have crossed our lands without our knowledge. They had to have been transported there magically. Such a deed would have required a very powerful magic-user. As only you and I know, that magic-user may well be—” Enor paused “—Iuz . . .

  “The question is, why would someone be after the caravan, and is that someone Iuz?”

  “Yes, why?” echoed Mika.

  “I have asked the Guildsman, but he denies any knowledge.”

  “Sneaky bastard,” muttered Mika. “Don’t like ‘im.”

  “Mika, listen to me carefully,” Enor said, taking Mika’s chin in his fingers and turning it so that Mika was forced to look him in the eye.

  “The contract with the Guild is all important to the clan. It pays for our spear points and our axe heads, our saddles and our blankets, our salt and our grain, and many other things that you have come to take for granted. Without them, we would soon be little more than savages in the forest.”

  “Savages,” said Mika, struggling to keep his eyes open.

  “Mika, I want you to accompany the caravan. Be in charge, keep it from danger. Make certain that it arrives in Eru-Tovar safely.”

  “Safely,” said Mika.

  “Something in that caravan is of great value. Find out what it is and protect it, no matter what. If you can do that, those who spoke against you would be proved wrong and you would gain a place at the fire.”

  “The princess?” asked Mika dimly. “The messenger said there was a princess . . .”

  “They have been here four days,” said Enor meaningfully, “and we have seen no princess. That was a dying man’s clever lie intended to incite our bravery. But Wolf Nomads need no special incentive to keep their vows.”

  “Mika’s brave,” slurred Mika, slumping forward as Enor released him. TamTur gave a great snore beside him.

  “Yes, I know you’re brave. You have never had a chance to prove it, Mika, but I know that the courage of the Wolf Clan runs deep in your veins,” agreed Enor. “That’s why I want you to go. You must leave immediately. Time is important, and we have already lost four days that the men could travel because of the ceremony. But I knew that sooner or later, you would come back.”

  “You can count on me,” said Mika, thumping himself hard on the chest. He tumbled over backward. He started to rise, then, with a grunt, collapsed on top of TamTur, and within seconds his snores were mingling with those of the wolf.

  “Come,” said Enor, holding his hand out to his daughter. “We will leave him now. Let the idea take hold in his mind as he sleeps. The worst is over. He will take the caravan to Eru-Tovar, and when he returns, he will be able to get on with his life.”

  “Will it be dangerous, Father?” Celia asked, her lip trembling as she looked down on the man she thought she loved.

  “Yes,” Enor said truthfully, “very dangerous. And it will surely be a test of his determination. He will need his wits about him if he is to complete the mission, and he will not be able to blame anyone other than himself if he fails. It will be the making or the breaking of him.”

  “Do you think he will succeed, Father?” asked Celia.

  “By the Great She Wolf, I don’t know,” sighed Enor. “I just don’t know.”

  Chapter 5

  MIKA FELT SO TERRIBLE the next morning, he could conceive of no danger greater than moving. Opening his eyes was sheer agony. He was afraid to turn his head for fear that it might fall off his neck. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a midden heap, and someone, probably Whituk, was beating a drum somewhere nearby. It pounded incessantly. Mika groaned. He thought he might die. He hoped that it would be soon. Suddenly, bright light flooded the room, cruelly lancing his brain like fire.

  “Hush, Mika,” said a soft voice that rumbled like boulders clashing together. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better soon.”

  Groaning, trying to uncross his eyes, Mika crawled shakily into a seated position in front of the long dead fire. He took the carved wooden mug Celia handed him and allowed her to help him guide it to his rubbery lips. The first scalding sip flowed down his throat and Mika recognized the acrid taste of roanwood tea, a well-known remedy for the aftereffects of too much mandrake wine, one cure he was personally familiar with, although never could he remember feeling quite this dreadful. It seemed that he had slept where he had fallen, on the hard-packed earth floor of Enor’s home.

  TamTur groaned. His legs stiffened and twitched. He moaned again, a pitiful sound, one that Mika could sympathize with completely. “Celia, give Tam some, too,” he whispered.

  “Don’t be silly, Mika. Wolves won’t drink roan-wood tea. It tastes terrible,” Celia said, cocking a well-rounded hip to one side and shaking out her mass of flowing hair. She had dressed quite carefully that morning, putting on her newest tunic of pale ivory doeskin, edged with velvety moleskin and hung with hundreds of tiny silver bells and turquoise beads, hoping to create an image that Mika would remember on the long journey.

  “Please, Celia, don’t argue, give him some,” Mika groaned, burying his head in his hands and covering his ears to shut out the horrible jangling of the bells and beads.

  Celia pouted but did as he directed, pouring a bowl full of the strong tea and placing it in front of the wolf. To her amazement, TamTur turned his head and began lapping the contents of the bowl from a recumbent position. Only when the bowl was empty did he rise, although somewhat shakily, and lean against Mika, his head hanging low and his tongue lolling from his mouth. The whites of his eyes were yellow, and even his whiskers seemed to hang limply from his muzzle.

  “Oh, you’re too awful. And that stupid wolf is just like you, doing everything you do! I don’t know why I bother to care!” Celia cried, and turning, she stomped out of the room, leaving the miserable pair wincing at the noise of her steps.

  One at a time they staggered from the building and made their way to the stream where they soaked their aching heads in the icy water and made extremely brief ablutions.

  Squinting against the clear bright light of morning, Mika walked back into the center of camp and was handed a hot plate of food by an older woman who had seen many mornings after mandrake and knew that, although it often seemed like punishment, hot food eased the ravages of the drink.

  Mika seated himself on a log worn smooth by many generations of Wolf Nomads, and gingerly swallowed the scrambled hawk eggs, fried loin of hart, and hunks of toasted mealybread.

  The elder woman appeared at his side, took the empty plate from his hands and handed him a large mug filled with fragrant coffee ground from kara beans and heavily laced with honey and a hair of the wolf, a dollop of mandrake.

  “You’ll feel better soon, lad,” she said kindly, and took herself away, sparing Mika the effort of speech.

  And surprisingly enough, he did. Whistling for TamTur, who had slunk out of the forest and obviously did not share Mika’s renewed interest in life, Mika made his way through the camp to the Far Fringe where the caravan was still quartered, guarded by a full complement of twenty men. The men were fully armed and alert, an unusual circumstance, for who would be fool enough to attack a Wolf

  Nomad camp?

  Mika located the captain of the command and made his way to the man’s side, delighted to find that it was Hornsbuck, a grizzled nomad with whom he had lifted many a cup.

  Then, his step slowed as the strangeness of the situation struck him. If the caravan were truly in danger and truly important, why place Mika above Hornsbuck? Hornsbuck had long
passed his fortieth winter and had seen much combat. He was far senior to Mika in warfare, weaponry, and the command of men.

  Mika began to suspect that he had been given command in title only. Hornsbuck was really in charge and Mika had been fed the lie simply to ease him out of camp and avoid an unpleasant confrontation with Whituk.

  Mika seriously considered turning around, taking a horse, and riding away, leaving everything and everyone behind. Starting new somewhere else.

  But he did not own a horse, nor a saddle, nor did he have food or equipment for such a journey. The whole supporting the few. Enor’s words rose up to confront him and he knew them to be true; he had not earned his place at the fire.

  His detractors, those who had spoken against him, were undoubtedly waiting for him to fail, to allow some harm to befall the caravan. Well, he would surprise them! He would conduct himself in absolute propriety and deliver the caravan safely to Eru-Tovar. He would honor the memory of his father in the only way left open to him.

  “We are ready to leave as soon as you give the word,” Hornsbuck said in a neutral tone. “Unless you wish to check the supplies and the men personally.”

  “No, Hornsbuck. I’m certain that nothing is lacking if you are in charge,” Mika said with a smile, determined not to offend the venerable warrior.

  Hornsbuck’s huge grey-blond mustache and beard twitched in surprise at the compliment, and his green eyes gave Mika an appraising glance. Then, bowing slightly from his thickened waist, he strode off on muscular legs, bowed from many years of life in the saddle.

  Mika returned to camp to dress himself in the soft leather tunic, waist-high leggings and gloves that comprised the normal traveling gear. He left off the wolf-skull headpiece all of the others wore, in deference to his still-pounding head, which he now recognized was pounding of its own accord and not from any drumming of Wintuk’s.

  When he returned to the caravan, the men were mounted and ready to leave. Wolf banners hung from tall staffs and fluttered in the cool morning air. Wolves of all sizes and colors circled the horses of their human companions, yipping sharply and howling with excitement, anxious to be on their way.

  The sharp-spined, grey stallion was as ornery as ever. As he mounted, the stallion whipped its blocky head around and attempted to nip his leg. Mika kicked it in the muzzle and pulled back sharply on the reins, causing the beast to rear up on its hind legs in an attempt to shake him from its back.

  Mika clung expertly, hugging the massive ribcage with his knees, determined to rid himself of the obstinate creature one of these days. Moving to the front of the caravan in a bone-jarring trot that amplified the pounding in his temples, he gave the signal to move out.

  Reining in on a slight rise, with the grey high-stepping in place and champing at its bit, Mika watched with a critical eye as wagons, wolves, guards, and the heavily loaded supply wagon paraded before him.

  As the last of them passed, he turned to look back toward camp, thoughts of his father rising unbidden before him.

  Enor and Celia broke free of the crowd of well-wishers and relatives who had gathered on the edge of the Far Fringe to see the caravan off and walked out to where he stood.

  Mika was not pleased to see that Celia was accompanied by Matin the Pleasant, a tall, well-built, good-looking young Wolf Nomad who had his arm wrapped around her narrow waist in a conciliatory— and most proprietary—manner. Lurking over Celia’s shoulder was Enor-oba, smirking with satisfaction. The smile on Celia’s fair face was more ambiguous—hurtful and coy.

  “Here,” said Enor as he handed a leather pouch up to Mika. “This holds your father’s spell book, magic scrolls, his healing herbs, and ungents. They were his personal property and as such belong to you now.

  “You possess the basic knowledge necessary for healing which could come in useful if you run into trouble on the plains. And if you don’t, you can always study.

  “There’s nothing to stop you from becoming a magic-user if that is what you wish. It’s up to you, Mika. You can become as much ... or as little, as you choose.

  “Some of us will be interested to see what you decide. Take care of yourself and the caravan. May the Great She Wolf guide your steps and bring you back safely.”

  Celia seemed more interested in tracing Mating jaw line than in saying good-bye, but her father turned to her and called her name sharply with a frown on his face.

  “Oh, yes! Well, good-bye, Mika,” Celia said prettily, her dimples creasing her rosy cheeks. “Try not to get yourself killed. And don’t worry about me, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Matin said nothing, merely grinned at Mika and pulled Celia closer, causing her to giggle and protest laughingly.

  Anger merged with suspicion as Mika glared down at Celia, noting the handsome tunic that showed her figure in all its soft curves. Had he only imagined the tears and concern?

  It would serve her right if he got killed! Muttering to himself, he kicked the stallion hard and rode swiftly after the departing caravan, TamTur at his heels.

  Chapter 6

  THE COLD, BRISK AIR of the plains was a welcome relief to Mika’s throbbing head, and despite the ragged lope of the grey stallion, he soon shook off the last remaining effects of the mandrake. TamTur also seemed invigorated by the rush of cold air and took off to run at the side of a small, dun-colored female.

  Mika smiled, urging the horse into a canter as he rode alongside the wagons, eyeing them in a speculative manner, inspecting each for potential problems. All seemed in good condition except the secret wagon. It still rode low to the ground, and its axle squeaked so loudly that Mika felt it must be heard in Yecha.

  Holding his hand to his head, Mika swung his horse away from the wagon and made a note to implore the Guildsman to have some of its mysterious load transferred to another wagon and to grease the noisy axle. The same driver rode atop the high seat and glared at Mika in the same hostile manner, causing him to reflect that the man just might learn a few manners on the trip.

  After a short mounted conference with Hornsbuck, they agreed to follow the usual trail, skirting the edge of the Burneal Forest to take advantage of the ample water, game, and firewood there.

  The forest route would add several days and many miles to their journey. It would be far shorter to head directly across the plains, angling sharply toward Eru-Tovar. But there were disadvantages to such a route. Firstly, there was no water on the open plains, and while the mules might handle the shortage with few complaints, the horses would not, and heavy water bags would only slow them down.

  Then, too, there were the brigands to consider. These men, desperate as they were to survive, generally avoided the forest, for they had few if any weapons and found it difficult to defend themselves against the many dangerous creatures that lived in the forest, not to mention the nomads themselves, who killed them on sight.

  These dangerous men were often to be found on the plains, and so great were their thirst, hunger, and desire to live that they would attack caravans against even overwhelming odds.

  All things considered, Hornsbuck suggested, and Mika was quick to agree, that there was little advantage to the direct route.

  The first day went smoothly and they traveled more than twenty-five miles by nightfall. Drawing the wagons into a circle, mules and horses staked outside to give early warning in case of attack, they made camp.

  A hunting party entered the forest and was lucky enough to encounter a large doe which they quickly brought down with a well-aimed sablewood arrow. As the meat roasted over the fire, Mika and Hornsbuck discussed the journey.

  “If we are able to hold to this pace,” Mika said thoughtfully, “we ought to make Eru-Tovar inside of twenty days.”

  “Something will go wrong,” growled Hornsbuck, taking a deep swallow of the honeyed mead that he allowed himself at the end of each evening. “An axle will break or a mule will die or the provisions will spoil and we’ll have to hunt. Something always goes wrong; you can count on it. Be
tter figure twenty-five days at least.”

  “Nothing will go wrong,” said a deep, firm voice from the shadows. “And it is most important that we arrive in Eru-Tovar no later than ten days hence. We’ve already wasted enough time while you practiced your barbaric rites, burying that witch doctor.”

  Mika started to rise, anger clouding his mind, but Hornsbuck’s massive hand closed over his shoulder and forced him to remain seated.

  “That witch doctor,” said Hornsbuck with controlled fury, “was a great healer, sir, and he died long before his time, thanks to a kobold who, may I remind you, was hidden in one of your wagons. He was also this lad’s father.”

  “My apologies, sir,” said the man as he moved into the circle of light cast by the firelight. It was the Guildsman.

  “My words were ill-chosen out of concern for my schedule, which has been badly affected by the events since we left Yecha. It is most important that we arrive no later than the twelfth of Harvest Moon.”

  “But that is only ten days hence,” Hornsbuck replied in a genial tone, still gripping Mika’s shoulder firmly. “That is not possible.”

  “It is possible if you take a more direct route,” insisted the Guildsman.

  “Sir, that is a most dangerous path,” said Mika, once more in control of his temper. “We deem it wiser to take the forest route, which will ensure the safe arrival of your cargo.”

  “I did not think that danger was an important issue with you Wolf Nomads,” said the Guildsman. “I thought you cut your teeth on daggers and fought wild boars for sport.”

  “We are not afraid,” Mika said stiffly, “but only a fool risks his skin when it is not necessary. We will travel as fast as possible and perhaps shave some time off our reckoning if there are no problems with the wagons.”