Greyhawk Adventures: Master Wolf Part 3

"We were friends," said the Guildsman. "And he was a brave man. Would you not do such a thing to save the lives of your friends under such circ.u.mstances?"

Mika was silent, wondering what he would do in such a situation and hoping that he would never have to find out.

But in spite of the man's words, Mika was convinced that the Guildsman was not telling the truth. There was more here than met the eye, and it had nothing to do with kobolds.

"Well, it's good to be underway again," sighed the Guildsman, attempting to change the subject. "All thanks to you good fellows! There'll be more than a few coppers in it for you once we get to Eru-Tovar! I'll show you a good time and give you my thanks in full once we arrive in safety. No more kobolds! I've had my fill!"

Mika edged his horse-the stubborn grey stallion that fought his every command-closer to the wagons and slowed him to a walk. The Guildsman rode up next to Mika, and kept up a stream of meaningless chatter that Mika ignored. Seemingly more heavily loaded than the others, the wagon creaked along. Its driver was even less informative than the Guildsman.

The driver stared at Mika with a sullen expression on his large moon-shaped face. His arms and upper body swelled with huge muscles, and the reins were all but lost in his ham-like fists. Mika noticed that, while all the other wagons were pulled by a team of two mules, this wagon was drawn by four. Like the other wagons, it was laced tightly shut fore and aft, revealing no clue of its contents.

"What's in the wagon?" Mika asked the Guilds-man one more time, the question unmistakeably sharp and brazen.

"Nothing that's your concern," replied the Guilds-man, all banter gone from his tone. "Mind your own business, nomad, and let me mind mine."

Mika touched his hand to his forehead in a derisive gesture and rode away, more certain than ever that his suspicions were correct.

The Guildsman was no ordinary merchant and there must be something special secreted in the wagon. Somehow, he intended to find out what it was.

Chapter 3.

THE CARAVAN MOVED slowly across the rocky plains, jolting from one uneven slope to the next. The mules bent to their thankless task, heads down, eyes to the ground, and plodded along stolidly.

The wagons themselves were solidly made of roanwood, purchased from Wolf Nomads who did a thriving business in the hardwood which was difficult to cut but impervious to rot and weather. They were covered with hoods of tanned cowhide stretched taut over rounded ribs, which kept the rain off the valuable cargo.

The wheels were huge, reaching halfway up the sides of the cowhide covering. They were made of roanwood saplings, bent and shaped while wet. Once dry, the formed saplings were married to hot hammered metal. A good wheel made by a master wheelwright could last a careful man a lifetime.

The mules were huge, brown s.h.a.ggy things with foul tempers, but they were better suited to the terrain than oxen or horses. In the early days, the wagons had been larger, with four huge wheels, and the teams had consisted of four, six, and even eight mules capable of carrying larger loads and earning the Guild even greater profits. But the challenge of the terrain had quickly put an end to that.

As one left Yecha, the land was smooth and gently rolling. Sweet gra.s.s and cultivated fields stretched for many miles to the east. Then the smooth terrain ceased abruptly, giving way to rock and alkaline earth where only greasewood bushes could find sustenance.

The earth grew increasingly barren and rocky as it plunged through the rugged foothills of the Yatil Mountains, with only small pockets of greenery at the edge of the River Fler. And always the wind blew down from the glaciers in the frozen north.

Once across the river, the land opened onto the true stretches of the steppes, seemingly endless expanses of open plain. But the ground was stony and forbidding, and only greasewood and stringweed, a tough fibrous gra.s.s, were able to survive and in turn nourish the mules that could eat almost anything.

The large, heavily laden wagons struck rocks often, sometimes tipping over and spewing their cargo across the ground, killing or maiming the draft animals and drivers and often damaging the wheels themselves. The stony ground made pa.s.sage difficult, causing many horses to stumble, go lame, and become victims of the roving packs of wild wolves that found horses a tastier than usual meal.

Oxen were tougher but required more forage and more water than the steppes provided. They also traveled more slowly, and their ponderous pace p.r.o.nounced their doom, for traders used up their provisions and died or were slaughtered long before they found more friendly land. And so the merchants and traders had reluctantly traded the larger wagons for the smaller carts that could travel more swiftly and easily over the difficult ground.

The land was the least of the problems actually; there were far greater dangers from other quarters. While the plains were the domain of the Wolf Nomads, they were also home to a large number of wild creatures, from the tiniest of poisonous spiders to fierce packs of wild wolves.

Thieves, murderers, brigands, and all manner of desperate rogues also wandered the steppes- outcasts of Yecha and Eru-Tovar who had been banished from the cities for their crimes, an easier and far more cruel punishment than imprisonment.

Here the hapless criminal was permitted to live. But there was no shelter, no food, and more than a thousand treacherous miles between Yecha and Eru-Tovar. These men were fair prey to the more bloodthirsty of the Wolf and Tiger Nomads who hunted them from horseback like pigs, if the wild animals did not get them first.

Some, of course, did survive by some manner of miracle, and they in turn preyed on the caravans, seeing them as the only means of sustenance in the desolate territory.

The danger from wild animals and desperate men provided both Tiger and Wolf Nomads with steady and profitable work accompanying the caravans across their lands. The nomads found the work much to their liking, for they enjoyed nothing more than hunting wild animals and dangerous criminals for sport and would have done so even without getting paid. As a system, it worked well. There had been few incidents in Mika's lifetime. Until now.

The caravan lurched slowly across the plains, heading for the Wolf Nomad camp where it was agreed that the worst of the wounded would remain until they were well. They would be replaced by Wolf Nomads who, including some of those who had gone on the raid, would accompany the caravan to Eru-Tovar.

The wagons progressed at a snail's pace, the mules' bells tinkling melodically. But one wagon, the secret wagon as Mika had dubbed it, moved more slowly and much more heavily than the others, its wheels chunking from one rock to the next. The four mules that pulled it were the most immense mules Mika-oba had ever seen. But despite their great size, the weight of the wagon's load lathered their backs and lips with thick white foam.

The Guildsman was tending to duties at another part of the caravan. Mika saw his opportunity once again and angled his horse closer to the secret wagon, hoping that the ends of the wagon might now be unlaced. They were not. The driver threw him a scowl, and Mika noticed that he wore two knives at his belt and looked as though he knew how to use them. The man watched him closely as he brought the grey alongside the laboring wagon.

"Ho, brother. It is well that we are away," Mika said genially, smiling across at the man in a friendly manner. "An evil business. How did your cargo fare?"

The man did not answer, merely leaned forward and slashed the reins down cruelly on the mules' backs.

"Hold, brother," Mika said pleasantly, although a hint of something hard had crept into his voice. "No need to harm the beasts; it looks as though they are giving you their all."

The man turned his head toward Mika and spoke quietly but with force. "I am not your brother, and my cargo and animals are none of your concern. Go away."

TamTur growled deep in his throat, and Mika did not have to look at the beast to answer the question. He waved his hand in a command gesture, forbidding the wolf the right to attack.

"I was merely pa.s.sing the time of day, brother," Mika said, using the term purposefully now. "I am not well versed in the ways of the city, but out here on the plains, it does not pay to be rude intentionally. One never knows when one might need a friend."

The man's dark eyes held Mika's gaze without flinching and Mika knew that this one would never call for help no matter what the circ.u.mstances.

Mika slowed his horse and fell back, allowing the wagon to pa.s.s him. He studied it carefully. Front and back were still tightly sealed. The wheels groaned in protest against the heavy load, and the axle complained in a shrill unending shriek that grated on the nerves. TamTur whined and shook his head, the high-pitched noise hurting the tender membranes of his inner ear.

Mika brought the grey to a halt, allowing the wagon to pull away, studying it as it rode low to the ground, and decided that he would have a closer look at it and its mysterious cargo once they reached camp, whether or not the driver or Guildsman approved. If there was a beautiful princess inside, she was yet to be glimpsed, and not a whimper of complaint or request issued from the wagon as it groaned along the route.

They reached camp at nightfall, greeted while they were still far out on the open prairie by a host of young, semi-naked boys daubed blue, riding bareback, and accompanied by their wolves, most of which were still leggy and ungainly with puppyhood.

The boys rode wide circles around the caravan, yipping and caroling wolf cries, parodies of the calls that would be used later in more serious encounters. They carried lances, some of which bore banners bearing the wolf emblem, and others that streamed long wolf tails.

They were answered by the returning warriors who wailed their own wolf calls into the cold night air. Their cries set off the wolves, which reared their heads and joined their voices in an eerie chorus that hung on the ear and sent s.h.i.+vers up and down the spines of those in the wagon train.

The sound of their voices brought people hurrying to the edge of the forest and crowding out onto the Far Fringe. Mika rode to the fore, placing himself next to Enor and Enor-oba, looking casual and unconcerned, his eyes searching for Celia.

Enor-oba looked at Mika with hatred, his hand going to the white scar on his face, almost without thought. "You shall not have her," he said through gritted teeth.

"What?" asked Mika, startled.

"You shall not have my sister," repeated Enor-oba. "You may have my father fooled, but not me. You are a coward and care only for yourself. I will do whatever is necessary to expose you as the scoundrel you are. Believe me, for I mean what I say."

Mika looked into Enor-oba's eyes and saw the hatred that burned there.

"What has set your ears on end, brother?" he asked with an easy smile. "We have competed since our earliest days. We crawled into the same den together and took our cubs from the same litter . . ."

"Yes, and you took the one I wanted," Enor-oba said bitterly, "and left me the female runt."

"... so why declare me enemy now, after so many years?" Mika continued, the smile still on his lips.

"I know that you are a coward who wants nothing more than to laze among the women," Enor-oba spat. "Had I not seen to it, you would have stayed at the rear throughout the entire conflict. I prayed that you would die, but you survived and now others will think you a hero. I know the truth and have had my fill of your posturing. I will see to it that others know as well. Including Celia. Especially Celia."

Mika saw that Enor-oba meant what he said, and that no words of his could change the man's mind. Besides, every word that he said was true.

He looked into the hate-filled eyes and grinned complacently, remembering the day shortly after their fifteenth year, when they had completed the last and the most important of the requirements for their initiation into adulthood, the acquiring of a wolf cub that would bond with them and remain loyal to them unto death.

The taking of a cub was no easy matter, for while a pack only had one dominant male and female that bred and produced cubs, there might easily be up to six other members of the pack that guarded, fed, and helped raise the pups.

A cub had to be taken young, before it had bonded to its wolf parents. And it was difficult to approach them at such an early age, as the wolves stayed close to the den.

Mika-oba and Enor-oba had both spied out the same den, yearned after the same large, black male pup, whose only other sibling was a small, runty female.

On the day of the taking, Mika had tricked Enor-oba into believing that the cubs had been moved to an alternate den. Enor-oba had believed Mika and had crawled into the den in search of the cub.

Later, Mika protested innocence and denied any knowledge of the fierce lone wolf that had taken up residence in the den. He had even offered to help his father mix up the ointment that would prevent the long deep wound on Enor-oba's face from scarring and festering.

The next day, while Enor-oba lay abed with his face mysteriously bloated to a grotesque size and his eyes swollen shut, Mika had brought him his new black wolf pup to admire. Enor-oba would not stop howling and had to be forcibly restrained from trying to strangle Mika.

By the time he recuperated, the only cub left was the tiny female that never attained full size and would obey all commands except those of Enor-oba. Mika grinned at Enor-oba, the memory still bright in his mind's eye.

Still smiling, Mika touched his heels to the ribs of the grey and caused it to leap away in a spray of gravel and dirt that showered down on Enor-oba as Mika rode for camp whooping and hollering exuberantly.

There was much commotion in camp as the women dropped what they were doing and hurried to the sides of their men.

"You are well?" asked Veltran as his eyes sought evidence of injury on his son's body.

"Yes, Father, I am well," sighed Mika-oba as he clasped the older man's fragile shoulder, taking in the sight of his tiny shrunken body, draped as always in the heavy wolf headdress and pelt.

Veltran's eyes, though blue, were faded and dull, and wrinkles criss-crossed his face in a cruel map of his years. Mika saw the weariness and pain that he carried with him like a visible burden. His father had become an old man without his even noticing.

Suddenly, he felt shamed and he realized for the first time how hard the death of his mother, sister, and brother had affected his father, how precious he himself had become.

"I'm fine, Father," he said gently, as they walked along the line of wagons that had entered the camp and creaked to a halt.

"There are many wounded to be tended to. I will help you as best as I am able."

"You are not hurt?" asked his father, placing a thin hand lined with prominent veins on Mika's tanned arm.

"Just tired and stiff," replied Mika. "It was a long ride and I will welcome my bed tonight." Or Celia's, he thought to himself.

"What casualties?" asked his father, walking quickly toward the lead wagon and fumbling for the large pouch of healing herbs that he always carried at his waist.

"Ten dead, all told. Only two from our camp. But many are wounded; they are all in the first three wagons."

"I am glad you are unharmed," Veltran said, pausing beside one of the wagons. "You are all that the G.o.ds have left to me, and my heart falters at the thought of losing you. I will not rest easy until you wear the robes of the high shaman as I do and put the danger of war aside. Promise me that you will not do this again. Promise me!"

Veltran gripped Mika-oba's wrist with surprising strength and his rheumy eyes stared intently into those of his son.

Mika squirmed under the intensity of his father's gaze, wanting to please the old man, but unwilling to commit his life to the gathering of smelly weeds and the memorization of reams of confusing spells.

"Promise me," urged his father while Mika hesitated, trying to think of some reply that would satisfy his father without binding him to some awful vow. On the other hand, there were definite advantages to curing beautiful maidens. And there was the grat.i.tude of young wives and the comforting of grieving widows to consider.

"Promise me!" insisted his father, leaning closer.

Mika opened his mouth, still not knowing what he would say, when suddenly the cowhide covering of the wagon they were standing alongside ripped open and a spear thrust through the opening and rammed deep into his father's side, emerging between the ribs on the opposite side of Veltran's body, the black obsidian blade dripping with dark arterial blood.

Veltran opened his mouth, but no sound came out and he collapsed in a crumpled heap on the trampled gra.s.s.

Mika reacted instantly, ripping his sword from its sheath. He slashed the cowhide coverings from the wagon frame, revealing the kobold, a pale dingy beige from the loss of blood from a dozen wounds, laughing up at Mika-oba. Ocher blood ran from the corner of its mouth, and its filed teeth were bared in a grimace of hatred.

Mika plunged his sword through the chest of the kobold, skewering it on the razor-sharp blade, then pulled the blade down through the body, slicing it in two.

Black blood poured from the body, staining the sides of the wagon as Mika wrenched the horrible creature out onto the gra.s.s and hacked off its head which still bore the hateful leer, knowing that it had paid its death dues with the life of a human shaman.

Mika continued to slash at the kobold long after it was dead, hacking and slicing it into tiny bits of b.l.o.o.d.y flesh and bone.

Then, tossing his sword aside, he dropped to his knees beside his father and tenderly lifted the man in his arms.

"Father, Father, I promise! I give you my word!" he cried. "I will be the man you wish me to be! Please don't die!"

There was a terrible roaring in his ears and his vision clouded, shutting out everything else in the world.

"Mika! Mika-oba!" said the voices, falling on his ears like incessant rain. "Mika! Mika!" and he felt the hands pulling on his arms, taking his father away from him.

His eyes filled with tears and he lashed out at the hands, feeling satisfaction as he struck them aside and heard the gasp of their breath. Suddenly he was filled with rage and the need to cause pain. He threw back his head and howled. Falling to his knees, he screamed out his anger and his pain till his voice was ragged and his throat was raw. TamTur crouched beside him as he knelt on the gra.s.s, and head thrown back, the wolf joined his voice to Mika's. Together their howls careened up and down, mournful cries of grief that keened and s.h.i.+vered on the wind.

At last there was no more left inside of him. He was drained. Empty. Hands led him away, took him to his own hearth and covered him with blankets. But soon he rose and with unseeing eyes, withdrew into the forest with TamTur at his heels to do his grieving and sing his death songs alone.

Chapter 4.

FILLED WITH GRIEF that was deeper than he would have imagined himself capable of, Mika-oba plunged into the forest and tried to lose himself in its vastness. Like a wounded animal he sought out its darkest corner and lay there h.o.a.rding his pain, all that was left of the man who had been his father.

Voices were heard dimly on the first day, and torches flitted through the forest like giant fireflies during the night. The voices grew louder on the second day, calling his name like a relentless echo. But Mika did not answer, unwilling to share his grief with others who did not matter. Somehow he felt that to accept their kind words and soft glances, to allow them to ease the pain, would somehow diminish the reality of his grief, and would put his father firmly into the land of the spirits.

Mika knew that by now the body would be placed atop a pyre of roanwood and that his presence was both required and expected. It was one of the most sacred rituals of the Wolf Nomads, the burying of a shaman. But he was not ready to appear, to watch the flames consume the small body. The man that had been his father still lived as long as he remained silent, remembering.

On the fourth day, his body rebelled and his mind was sluggish and would not focus. TamTur had renewed his efforts to cause him to rise, pawing at him, raking his sides with long claws. The memories of his father faded and refused to be recaptured. His stomach growled and his throat ached with lack of moisture. TamTur watched anxiously as Mika stumbled slowly to his feet, knowing that it was time to go. His grieving was done. He would return to camp and become the man his father had wanted him to be. He would don the cloak of shaman which had been in his family for generations. He would study his father's works until he knew them by heart. He would collect every green stuff known to man and learn its uses. He would become a tribute to the memory of his father.