from the nuts which could be sold in Eru-Tovar as well as adding variety to their own foodstuffs.
The men would grumble, of course, but since the nuts were widely regarded as a delicacy, they would do as they were bid.
Right now, the first business at hand was to strip the horses and the mules of their waterlogged trappings and rub them down. It would not do to have sick animals. This done, they were hobbled and let out to browse on the sparse grass.
The men were no less anxious than the animals to be free of their sodden garments, and it was with a feeling of great relief that they rubbed themselves dry with rough cloths and stood in front of the bandits' fires warming their clammy bones.
Mika stood apart from the various groups of men and watched as they snapped each other's flanks with damp cloths and shrieked with mock rage, acting like children.
Mika knew that the play was harmless and even desirable in that it would relieve the tension of the last few days. Should it become necessary, the men would fight better, having had a brief respite of fun.
The wolves joined in the fray. A small, grey female seized the end of a waving cloth, ripped it out of the hands of the holder, and began racing around the camp with all the other wolves giving wild chase.
At any other time, Mika might easily have been among the naked throng, roaring out his bet as to which of the wolves would end up with the prize, but his thoughts were on other matters.
He sat down on a fallen phost tree, its phosphorescent glow lost in the still-bright evening. Later, its pearly aura caused by decomposition would be clearly visible in the darkness. For the moment, though, it provided a sturdy seat as Mika combed out his long dark hair, toweled it dry, and rebraided it into a thick central braid that ran from forehead to mid-back and was then doubled back on itself and tied at the nape of his neck with a length of leather.
Years of experience enabled him to do the intricate braiding both swiftly and neatly. As he tied off the braid, he chanced to look down, and there, lying on the carpet of wet forest leaves, was a single feather, pure white and the length of his hand.
Mika picked it up reverently, knowing from the size and color that it had come from the wing of a great snowy white owl, a huge silent messenger of the north that struck without warning, its prey dying with long, curved talons curling through their organs before their minds even grasped the fact that they were in danger.
Mika stared at the omen, ideas flitting through his mind, wondering if he dared, even as he laid his plans. Holding the feather gently, as though it were a precious gem, Mika located his saddlebags and, dumping his wet leathers on the ground, rummaged through his possessions until he found the pouch that Enor had handed him as he left the camp.
He untied the leather strings that held the pouch shut and pried it open gently, daring to hope that Enor had spoken truly, that it contained more than just herbs and vials of potions. He prayed that it held his father's book. The book that contained all the permanent spells, charms, and enchantments that he knew, and the scrolls that held those spells that could be used only once before they disappeared.
'It's here, Tam! It's here!' Mika said, looking into the mouth of the bag and sighing happily. 'Won't old Whituk be angry? I can see his face now-may he eat sour grapes forever!'
Tam wagged his huge tail from side to side, his eyes bright with the happiness in Mika's voice. He rested his huge muzzle against Mika's leg and whined shrilly.
'I think it's above my skill level, Tam,' Mika confided. 'I'll have to be very careful. I don't want to make any mistakes, not when I'm out of my body. But what could possibly go wrong if I read it carefully and memorize all the words?'
Tam groaned deep in his chest and pawed at his nose with his paw, hiding his eyes. Mika knew that it was probably just a flea, but it seemed as though Tam were laughing at him! Doubting him!
'Don't you think I can do it?' Mika asked, more hurt than he would like to admit. 'Come on, you're supposed to be my best friend! Let's have a little bit of faith here! I bet I can do it! No! I
But TamTur merely groaned louder and longer and lifted his muzzle to let out a short agonized howl.
'Fine friend you are,' muttered Mika, and yanking the strings shut around the mouth of the pouch, he hung it from his shoulder and went to find dinner.
The wagons had been drawn into a wide circle inside a natural clearing in the forest. A small, dark spring that did indeed bubble rose from the ground at the far east end.
The horses and mules were wandering outside the perimeter of the wagons, browsing on grass and tender leaves. The men had added armfuls of firewood to the bandits' fire and now lounged before it, reveling in its great heat as they ate their evening meal. A feeling of contentment pervaded.
'A good day's work, Mika,' growled Hornsbuck. 'Waterskins filled. Miles under our belt. Yarpicks to eat. Did the men good to sink their swords into those dungeon slime. Picked them right up. I always say a little killing can do wonders for a man.'
'Mmmm,' said Mika, dipping his bowl into the communal pot of beans, the remainder of the batch from the previous evening now reinforced with even more beans, bits of smoked dried rabbit, and too much salt. Damp chunks of mealybread added to the bulk.
Meals were terrible for the most part. The worst part of every trip. Occasionally, the cooks were men of inspiration, but more often they were whey-faced, dour individuals, who were unhappy in life and were determined to ruin as many other lives as humanly possible. Their foul cooking generally accomplished that mission with ease. Mika ate as few camp meals as possible, making do with small game roasted on spits.
'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
