could do little else but follow.
They did so unhappily, their fur matted and spiky with moisture, their tails curled low beneath their bellies, their feet glopped with clinging mud, and their yellow eyes sick with fear. They slunk alongside their humans, although a few chose to run along beneath the wagons.
TamTur ran beside Mika's horse, all but groaning when the grey kicked up water that splashed into his face. Mika met his eyes briefly and had to repress a smile at the look of disgust the wolf gave him. Mika shrugged, 'I'm as wet as you are. Don't like it overly much myself. Just be glad we have water. We could be choking on our own dust.'
Tam did not seem to appreciate Mika's logic and ran onward with his head down.
Mika forced the grey into a gallop, advancing until he found the scout who rode the forward point.
'How are we progressing?' he asked the man, a squinty-eyed dark-skinned nomad named Marek from one of the Eastern clans along the River Fler, from whose ranks most of the casualties had come during the battle of the kobolds.
'All right. Better than I would have hoped,' replied the man as he ran a well-callused hand over his dark braid. 'The wind is behind us and is pushing us forward.'
'The wagon wheels are sliding in the mud, easing the mule's loads,' Mika added. 'Almost like sledding.'
'Whatever the reason, we're doing well and should make twenty, thirty miles today if we keep on as we are. That will bring us to Bubbling Springs, and we can make camp there tonight.'
'Bubbling Springs?' asked Mika, totally unfamiliar with the geography of this stretch of the plains, having always followed the forest route.
'Sometimes there's as many as three springs there,' replied Marek. 'Sometimes none. But there must be water under the land; there's a large grove of trees that are always green, even in the dry years. We might have to fight for it though, because bandits are drawn to it like bees to honey.'
'How many bandits? Would it be safer to avoid the area?' asked Mika.
Marek gave him a sideways glance from narrowed eyes, clearly surprised that a Wolf Nomad would avoid the chance for battle.
'I speak out of concern for the caravan, not out of my own preference,' Mika said hastily.
'Water the din with their blood!' added Marek, reassured by Mika's words. 'No, we'd be safer in the woods and would have wood to burn as well, which we'll need after this wet day. Killing them as are hiding there will give the men a little bonus, cheer them up like. You can have first crack at them, being commander and all.'
'No, I wouldn't think of depriving you of your pleasure,' said Mika, who could not think of anything he'd less rather do than fight a bunch of desperate bandits.
'I shall kill one for you, sir,' said Marek, his dark eyes bright with growing admiration.
'Do that,' said Mika. 'May the Great Wolf Mother, she who birthed the world, watch over you and keep you safe!' Smiling, he allowed the grey to drop back. The rain quickly blurred his vision.
'Fool,' whispered Mika. 'He'll never make old bones.' Positioning himself among the wagons, he rode without incident throughout the remainder of the day.
As Mika rode, once again he pondered the secret wagon. But he could not decide on a plan that would provide him with enough time to enter the wagon and discover its contents. Sooner or later, he told himself, something would occur to him.
Marek had figured correctly, and shortly before dark, just as the rain was ending, the lean nomad rode back to pass along the news that Bubbling Springs could be seen on the edge of the eastern horizon.
Anxious to be done with hard wagon seats and saddles, wet chafing clothes, and the constant chill of moisture, drivers and nomads whipped their tired animals until they were within easy viewing distance of the woods. Smoke rose above the treetops in several different locations.
'Best take some men and see who's there,' Mika advised Marek. 'But be certain that they are bandits before there is any bloodshed. We wouldn't want to slaughter any innocents; it would cause too much trouble with the Guild if their bones were found.'
Marek nodded his understanding, and taking half of the nomads, he rode swiftly toward the distant woods, wolves streaming behind him and the party.
For a time there was silence, then there was an eerie howl that climbed high and hung on the air, shivering the skin, followed by other wolf voices, the ululating cries of a wolf pack on the hunt, destined to bring fear to all who heard.
Those wolves that had remained behind circled wildly, then stopped abruptly, threw back their heads, and added their frenzied cries to those of their brothers. The howls almost covered the sound of human shrieks, but not completely.
Mika's stomach turned queasily, and for a moment he sympathized with the unknown humans who were going to their deaths violently, their throats ripped out by wolves or hacked to death by nomad swords.
After a while there were no more cries, and Marek and his companions rode back out of the woods and rejoined the wagon train.
'All clear, Captain,' Marek said with satisfaction.
'You're sure?' asked Mika, not at all interested in meeting up with some crazed survivor.
'I swear it on the Great Mother's tail,' Marek said solemnly. 'We hunted them out from under every bush and stone. We dragged them out of trees where they thought to hide, and we stuck a few with swords where they hid in holes in the ground.
'You may tell these townsmen that they have nothing to fear. There were but a dozen of the creatures, and they had no more than three knives among them, although they fought like wild men, and one of them even dared to throw a club at Klaren. Hit him, too!'
'Is he all right?' Mika asked anxiously, unwilling to lose even one of his men in case there was more fighting to come.
'He'll be fine after a good night's sleep,' said Marek, noting Mika's concern with approval. It was always good to have a captain who cared about the welfare of his men. 'The club did no more than crease his thick skull. Can you imagine the luck of such a one felling a nomad?' Shaking his head over the disrespect of the dead man, Marek took his leave.
Nomad though he was, Mika could very much imagine the situation. If he himself were attacked by someone bent on taking his life, he knew that he would fight with any means available to him, and he spared a moment of begruding respect for the brave, but dead, bandit.
Bells jingling cheerfully, the wagons rolled along smartly. A strange light, thrown into contrast by the dark clouds now far to the east, bathed the prairie with a glowing incandescence, transforming the bare rocky earth into shining gold and the puddles into pools of quicksilver. The freshly washed, electrically charged air was sharp and clear and held the rich scent of earth and wood smoke.
Although humans and animals alike were still wet, cold, and uncomfortable, their earlier misery was all but forgotten with the promise of food and rest as the wagon train entered the dripping forest.
Chapter 9
The bodies of the slain bandits were dumped unceremoniously in a far corner of the woods where animals and birds of prey would dispose of them.
After double checking to make sure that no more of the would-be cutthroats were lurking in the small forest of dwarf roan wood, phost, and the occasional yarpick, the men set up camp.
It was undoubtedly the fruit of the thorn-studded yarpick that sustained the bandits who sheltered in the forest, supplementing whatever wildlife they might be lucky enough to catch.
Yarpick nuts were as large as a child's fist and were eaten whole or ground into meal. Mika was glad to see that the trees bore a heavy crop and decided that before they left, he would order drivers and nomads alike to knock the fruits from the trees with sticks and gather them into piles. Later, the tasteless fruit would be separated
