Master Wolf

by Rose Estes

  “Gonna eat that?” asked Hornsbuck eagerly.

  Mika passed him the bowl without comment and Hornsbuck shoveled the gloppy contents into his mouth along with parts of his beard which he spat out regularly along with a fine spray of food.

  “Can’t waste good food,” grunted Hornsbuck, between mouthfuls. “A man needs something to stick to his ribs!”

  Mika refrained from comment.

  The evening passed almost too slowly for Mika. The men stayed awake for hours, talking and laughing around the campfire. Even the Guildsman was in a good mood and passed his wineskin freely, telling of his adventures across the whole of the known Oerth. Extraordinary stories about fabulous sea serpents encountered while sailing the turquoise depths of the Dramidj Ocean; of mystical meetings with the silver-hued, pointed-eared Olven Folk of the tiny kingdom of Celene; and of narrow escapes from painted savages in the jungles of Amedio. If the man were to be believed, he had led an interesting and charmed life. No wonder the Guild had chosen him to accompany the caravan.

  Mika visited the sentries shortly after nightfall, speaking with each and every man. Tam followed, greeting the other wolves in the usual manner, sniffing noses and genitals.

  “How goes it?” he asked the sentry who stood watch at the northernmost edge of the forest.

  “Quiet,” replied the man. “Nothing stirring. Just as well, there is no moon tonight. But BlackClaw will tell me if there’s anything out there.”

  Mika studied the big black wolf appreciatively while keeping his hands to himself. No man touched another man’s wolf unbidden. A wolf would react before it thought and could easily sever a man’s hand or slice a vein with its great canines. They might regret it later, but by then it would be a little too late for apologies.

  Mika urged the men seated around the campfires to end their songs and get themselves off to their bedrolls. He wanted as many as possible to be asleep when he put his plan into effect.

  Trying to look casual, Mika settled himself on a fallen phost log far enough from the fire that the eerie white glow was clearly visible. Then he opened the pouch and began leafing through the pages of the small leather-bound book, stifling the twinges of pain that came from seeing the tiny loops and curls of his father’s neat handwriting.

  “Pickles . . . pig warts . . . poltergeists . . . Here it is, polymorph,” read Mika, his lips forming the words.

  Looking up from time to time, he smiled at the men occasionally, but not in a manner that would invite company. Tam lay at his side watching with a mournful expression as Mika tried to commit the words of the spell to memory.

  It was difficult. This was the part of magic that Mika always had the most trouble with. The words were confusing. Many of the words rhymed, yet most meant nothing when said individually. In and of themselves they were gibberish. It was only when you strung them together in the right order and said them with just the right intonation and emphasis that you got results. The speaker could only hope the Great She Wolf would guard his tongue and prevent him from forgetting a word or pronouncing it wrong.

  If a word did come out wrong and the speaker was lucky, nothing terrible would happen. The spell would merely fail, canceled out by ineptitude. The only penalty would be being forced to learn it again, for all memory of the spell would vanish once it was used, even if used incorrectly.

  It was when the speaker got the spell wrong and was not lucky that the trouble began. For then, in spite of the fact that some element of the spell was incorrect, the spell worked—but incorrectly, frequently heaping devastating consequences on the inept magic-user who had conjured the spell improperly.

  These effects usually wore off within the time span allotted to the spell. But sometimes, in the interim, the magic-user or an innocent victim would be killed, maimed, or altered irrevocably as had almost happened when Mika changed Celia’s mother into a cat. Celia might never have forgiven him if Tam had actually eaten the cat.

  In spite of his boastful words, Mika was very worried that he might get the spell wrong. One had to be at least at the seventh level to use the Polymorph spell, which allowed one to change from a human form into that of an animal.

  Seventh level was still several years away in ability. Years of intense study. But nothing else would do! If Mika turned himself into a great white snowy owl, he could slit the top of the wagon with his sharp beak and slip inside. Once he had explored the dark interior of the wagon with his superior owl vision, he would let himself out and fly away undetected. The plan was foolproof. Who would suspect an owl?

  Tam nudged Mika’s leg with his nose. All right, all right. So Tam would know, but fortunately, he couldn’t tell.

  The words marched round and round in his brain, till he could repeat them perfectly, well almost perfectly. Each time he thought he had the spell memorized, he would go blank and forget a phrase or blither and mix two words up front to back. But he kept at it, goading himself with the thought of the wagon.

  Mika stared into the forest dreamily. Pearls. That had been his latest guess. Pearls from the kelp beds. Lustrous beads that he could drape round his woman, all around and under the sweet soft naughty places, a great long rope of pearls.

  Mika sighed deeply, looking off into the dark night, seeing Celia in his mind’s eye reclining on the green moss wearing nothing but a string of pearls. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Matin appeared on the moss next to Celia, reached out for the rope of pearls and . . . Mika straightened up with a frown on his face.

  “Problems, Captain?” asked Klaren sympathetically, appearing unseen and unheard at Mika’s side.

  “What! Oh! Um, well, just thinking about tomorrow. Plans. Strategy. That sort of thing,” Mika said brusquely.

  “Sorry to intrude, sir. Just wanted to report that all is quiet. The last of the men have turned in and we’ll be ready for an early start. You should try and get some rest, too, Captain. It’s been a long day.”

  “Thanks, lad. I’ll be turning in soon,” said Mika, not mentioning what he would be turning into. “Sleep you well.”

  “And deep,” he muttered beneath his breath as the young nomad nodded and turned away.

  Mika continued to study the elusive words until he was quite sick of them. Finally, he shut the book, stuck it in his pocket and, hanging the precious pouch from his shoulder, toured the camp once more.

  It was as Klaren had said, everyone was asleep. Even the Guildsman snored as heartily as Hornsbuck, thanks no doubt to the largess of his wineskin.

  Unfortunately, the wagon that was Mika’s objective stood closest of all to the bonfire, which still blazed high against the damp of the evening.

  Anyone or anything, even a great snowy white owl, that tried to enter the wagon would be easily seen.

  Mika fretted, wishing that the circumstances were more to his liking. He considered waiting another night, possibly even longer, until conditions were more favorable, but his natural impatience, which always demanded immediate gratification, whispered, “Do it now. Do it now.” And it was impossible to argue.

  Mika and Tam walked deep into the forest, passing the second and then the third of the springs that had risen to the surface, then further still, forcing their way into the thickest, most tangled copse.

  The light of a fallen phost tree drew him like a beacon, and he settled gratefully on its rough, shaggy surface, trying to still his hammering heart.

  As the moment drew closer, he found himself filled with doubts. He might have turned back at that last moment, but Tam pawed at his knee and looked up into his eyes, whining plaintively, as though begging him not to try the spell. Mika’s resolve hardened.

  “It’ll be all right,” he reassured the wolf. Then he undressed, placing his leggings, cloak and boots alongside the glowing log. Why burden the owl with clothing?

  He picked up the book and the feather, quickly found his place and scanned the words one last time. For the millionth time he regretted that one could not read a spell aloud but must have it
memorized. It was also necessary to close one’s eyes and picture that which you hoped to accomplish, at the same time that you said the words.

  Mika squared his shoulders. Then, he tucked the book back into the pouch and cleared his throat nervously. He sighed deeply and clutched the feather with determination. There was nothing left, he was as ready as he would ever be.

  He closed his eyes and started chanting. One. Two. Three sentences done! Four. Five. Six. Uh oh, a slight bobble on his intonation as nervousness gripped his throat. Mika paused, waiting for the knowledge that he had failed. But there was nothing. Maybe it was still all right. He continued. Seven. Eight. Tam whined. Nine. Damn! Now his nose itched. Ten. Done! He kept his eyes closed, unable to look, knowing that he would soon be aware of whether the spell had worked ... or failed.

  Mika felt dizzy and a bit sick to his stomach. He put out an arm to steady himself and could not open his fingers. He opened his eyes and for a minute the world spun dizzily around him. Then it stilled and he found that he was looking Tam directly in the eyes.

  Tam stared at him long and hard, then sniffed him softly, snuffling his scent through the big black nose that would be so easy to nip with a sharp beak, and then lay down on the carpet of dead leaves with a great sigh.

  Nip Tam’s nose with a beak? Whoa! Mika’s eyes swiveled around, and he saw why he had been on a level with Tam. The spell had worked! He had really done it! He, Mika, a lowly, lazy, bumbling fourth-level magic-user had pulled off a seventh-level skill! He had always known he could do it. Why did everyone think this magic stuff was so hard?

  Mika puffed out his huge fluffy white chest and took a step forward, feeling the need to strut, to get the hang of this owl stuff.

  Then he stepped on a yarpick thorn that pierced the bottom of his foot and caused him to hop around the tiny clearing hooting with pain.

  Wait a minute, this wasn’t supposed to happen! Thorns weren’t supposed to stick you if you were an owl! Owls had tough, scaly feet with long curved talons. You only got stuck if you had big, soft, floppy human feet with ugly toes.

  Mika looked down with a sinking heart and letting out the owl equivalent of a human groan as he saw his own huge, big, soft, floppy human feet, complete with ugly toes, sticking out at the bottom of his beautiful owl body. He had goofed! Mika stomped around the thicket muttering curses. He circled around the log and walked right over Tam who followed his progress with mournful eyes.

  Mika kicked a stump. It hurt. He tore a hunk of wood out of a branch with his beak. Blehh, it tasted terrible. Damn! What now? Would he be stuck like this forever?

  Mika forced himself to calm down, glaring at Tam with fierce owl eyes, which he was not pleased to notice had retained their human vision instead of gaining the owl’s ability to see in the dark. Curses! Why did nothing ever go right!

  Mika continued glaring at Tam as though daring the wolf to give him his I-told-you-so look. But Tam turned his head, refusing to meet Mika’s furious gaze.

  Finally, unable to vent his anger on anyone other than himself, and unable to think of a solution, Mika shrugged his wings, which he had to admit were very handsome, and admired himself as he pondered the problem.

  All right, so he’d botched things a little. But all things considered, they’d worked fairly well for a mere fourth-level magic-user. So he had human feet, the better to land with, except on little branches, of course.

  He had to look on the bright side of things. It might have been worse. He might have gotten the feet part right and wound up with hands instead of wings. That would definitely have made flying difficult.

  Well, there was no sense in standing around moping. Best to get on with it. Thinking calmly, he assumed that the strange combination would disappear with the dissolution of the spell. It was time to get on with the plan.

  Mika flapped his wings once or twice, trying to get the feel of being an owl. But there were too many bushes and limbs in the way and he was unable to extend his wings to their full length. Ducking his head down, he pushed his way through the underbrush, a subdued Tam following along behind.

  Actually, his feet worked pretty well. Probably better than those little stumpy feet that owls have. They probably should have been designed this way in the first place. Hmmm, maybe if the Great She Wolf were watching, she’d rethink the whole owl design.

  Pondering the matter of owls, religion, and anatomy, Mika the owl stalked into a clearing, startling a mouse. It stared at him with immense eyes, then disappeared with a terrified squeak.

  Mika stifled an immediate craving for mouse and looked up at the dark sky. No moon, just as the guard had said. Good. He patted Tam on the head awkwardly with one large white wing and then, concentrating hard, began to flap his wings.

  It was easier than he thought it would be. The powerful wings forced the air beneath them, pushing it down against the ground, creating a resistance, and at the same time, his body just seemed to flow upward with the silly human feet trailing beneath him.

  It was beautiful. It was glorious. It was magic. Mika flapped harder and harder, his large white body rising higher and higher in the dark night sky.

  Mika could see the forest below him and the single bright eye that was the campfire. The wind sang in his feathers and rushed past his body, softly stroking it like a lover’s caress.

  He opened his great curved beak to taste the air. He reveled in the passage of air as it slipped through the tips of his wings, felt the sliding pressure against his body as he found a low riding thermal and rode it like a curling wave. And his feet ... his feet were cold. Definitely cold. Like little nubs of ice.

  Time to descend. It wouldn’t do to be up here if the spell ended suddenly. Shivering at the thought, Mika turned his body into a soft curve and floated silently down, back toward the forest.

  He judged his distance correctly but not his speed. Opening his wings to brake, he almost overshot the wagon and only stopped himself at the last minute by running along the top of the cowhide roof and stabilizing himself with his big human feet. See, they weren’t such a mistake after all!

  Mika looked around him cautiously, swiveling his head in all directions. He saw no one awake except Tam, who sat watching at the edge of the forest.

  Mika lowered his great feathered head and studied the cowhide surface. Just plain cowhide, laced together here and there with thin leather strips; no problem at all for his sharp beak.

  Feeling confident, Mika clacked his beak experimentally and then rapidly snipped a half a dozen turns of the leather, opening a hole the size of his hand . . . when he used to have one.

  Excitement beat in his breast as he placed his eye to the hole and looked down into the dark interior of the wagon and saw . . . nothing. It was too dark.

  Muttering owlish imprecations, he quickly snipped several dozen of the leather strips. No turning back now, it would be obvious that someone or something had entered the wagon, so he might as well do it right.

  The hole gaped darkly, inviting Mika to solve the mystery of the wagon. Visions of gold and jewels and pearls filled his head as he leaned forward and looked inside. But still he saw nothing; it was as dark as a robber’s heart, or, um, dark as a cave in there.

  Mika leaned farther, trying to grip the edge of the cowhide with his toes, but there was really nothing to grip. Now, here was a case where talons would have served him better.

  Mika stuck his head completely through the opening and hung upside down, determined to see, once and for all.

  Suddenly, he felt himself losing balance. His human feet scrabbled helplessly on the smooth cowhide but found no grip, and he felt himself falling through the hole, falling straight down with no chance or room to flap his wings, and no hands to break his fall.

  Awwkk! He landed with a thump on the top of his head. On something soft. Very soft.

  He righted himself carefully, sliding first one foot then another along the curious softness. The softness which was also warm. And curved. Nicely curved. Hm
m, it all seemed very familiar. Celia?

  His toes found what felt like the edge of a bed and, flapping himself upright, he stabilized, then peered about, trying desperately to see what it was he had found.

  But it was dark, too dark to see anything at all. There were sounds. The sound of soft breathing, little murmurs such as a woman makes while sleeping. And scents. A wonderful scent like cinnamon and cloves, maybe just a hint of celandon. Oh, if he could only see something!

  All of a sudden, there was a harsh scratching noise. Then, as though in answer to his wish, a dim light flooded the interior of the wagon.

  In the few seconds that it took his dazzled eyes to adjust to the light, Mika was stunned, unsure of what he was seeing, doubting his eyes, thinking it an illusion.

  But as his vision cleared, he saw that he had not been mistaken. He was standing on the edge of a bed, just as he had suspected. A bed of silk and the softest down.

  Mika shivered. Sprawled delicately on the pink silk comforter was the most beautiful young woman in the entire world.

  The Princess!

  Her hair was a mass of curly black ringlets that covered the pillow cradling her head and shone with small blue highlights.

  Her skin was alabaster white, lustrous as pearls, and faintly tinged with the most delicate blush of pink. Her lips, slightly parted, were tiny soft petals.

  She was clad in the softest, most fragile gown of pink silk that clung to her voluptuous body like down on a ripe peach.

  Her tiny hands were open, slightly curled, and Mika could all but imagine how they would feel on his . . .

  At which point, out of nowhere, a sword appeared in front of his face, or more specifically, in front of his beak.

  Belatedly, his brain began to function, assimilating facts, yelling messages: Light! Sword! DANGER! even as he flung himself sideways and rolled back on top of the sleeping beauty, reasoning, he hoped correctly, that whomever wielded the sword would not take the chance of endangering the girl.