His words echoed bravely in his own ears, and as he spoke Celia murmured her approval. That was enough to bring him to his senses and almost as soon as he spoke the words of folly, Mika was silently praying that his father would forbid him to go.
Veltran paused for a long moment, during which time Mika-oba's hopes crawled upward only to be dashed an instant later.
Whituk was glaring at Mika still, his anger never far from the surface, always furious that he would be passed over as the chief shaman of the tribe in favor of Mika-oba whom he viewed as a lazy, insolent upstart.
Whituk spoke out in a shrill voice. 'The man passed his mission on to Mika-oba. I heard him with my own ears. Mika-oba must go! It has become a matter of honor!'
'Honor is as important as duty,' Mika-oba's father said solemnly, looking up to Enor as though for confirmation. His sad, tired eyes looked at Mika through heavy lids. His face was a somber map of wrinkles under the grinning wolf skull. He considered his son soberly.
'I will give you my leave if Enor wishes it,' Veltran finally said, and gesturing with his right hand, he invoked the protection of the gods. Mika's heart sank, and he smiled weakly at Celia.
'His strong arm would be useful,' agreed Enor, placing his large tanned hand on the shoulder of the chief shaman as though in thanks for his sacrifice, and turning, began barking out the names of those who would accompany them.
All told, there were two score and four who left the camp before the sun reached the top of the trees. They rode the small, shaggy horses of the steppes that could continue the pace, carrying both rider and baggage, long after a long-legged horse of the lowlands had dropped in its tracks.
Each man was accompanied by the wolf that had bonded to him shortly after its birth, a wolf completely loyal to him alone and wild and ferocious to his enemies.
The Wolf Nomads wore heavy leather tunics that covered their hard muscular bodies from neck to knee, flexible yet tough enough to deflect all but the most direct of sword blows.
Their arms were bare to enable them to use their weapons more easily. They carried a wide variety of weapons from the smallest, sharpest knives to huge battle-axes, massive maces, longswords strapped on their backs, and tall, powerful roanwood bows with quivers full of sharp-tipped sablewood arrows.
Their hair, worn free in times of peace, was scraped back up and away from their faces and braided from the hairline down to the nape of the neck in a tight queue, then covered with a form-fitting leather skullcap that flowed into the top of their tunics. Many such helmets were topped with the snarling skulls of wolves that had died in honorable combat, and wolf tails dangled like fringe.
What little flesh remained to be seen was painted with a dull blue-grey clay that gave them an eerie, otherworldly look that often served to rout their enemies before a single blow was struck.
Their feet were clad in knee-high boots made of the same thick leather that protected their bodies. They provided little warmth and no comfort, but comfort and warmth were supposedly the last things of interest to a Wolf Nomad riding out to war. Not so to Mika, however, who regarded the extreme discomfort as one of his primary objections to war-next to death, of course.
They rode on and on westward across the endless rolling plains, settling down to a steady, ground-eating pace that would bring them to their destination before the sun rose.
Enor, father to Celia and chief of their tribe of Wolf Nomads, was always asking Mika what his intentions were. Mika did not think it was wise to tell him. Fortunately, there were many other suitors for Celia's hand, so the issue had not been pressed. But Mika knew that it was only a matter of time before he was forced to make a serious decision.
His own father, Veltran, was even worse than Enor, insisting that Mika sit with him for hours on end and learn vast quantities of nonsensical chants and boring lists of stinky weeds and their various uses.
But no matter how hard Mika tried-though when he was being completely honest, he had to admit that he had never tried terribly hard-he could never remember the chants. The rhymes were tricky and strange, and Mika always felt slightly ridiculous repeating them.
The words had a habit of turning themselves round in his head, sometimes producing quite startling results, like the time in the spring when he had accidentally turned a woman into a cat. She had strayed in front of him just as he was chanting. It was not his fault that she had been pursued into the forest by Tam and a horde of very hungry wolves.
Fortunately for the woman, his father had placed a hold spell on the wolves and reversed the chant, turning the cat back into a woman. That was a rather ticklish spell, but Veltran was a high-level magic-user, as well as a shaman. The spell was child's play for one with his skills, so in the end, there was no harm done.
Mika thought it was very unfair of Celia's brother, Enor-oba, to suggest that he had done it on purpose. The fact that the woman was Celia and Enor-oba's mother, a hateful, prune-faced crone who came between him and Celia every chance she got, had absolutely nothing to do with it. Mika was quite certain that it was an accident- well, almost certain, and had no problem looking Celia in the eye and telling her so. Celia, in turn, had no problem believing her beloved. And the chief, Enor, in his wisdom, chose to overlook Mika's indiscretion.
But the chants weren't the real problem. Mika-oba knew in his very heart of hearts that he wasn't cut out to be a shaman, a healer, or a magic user. Lofty and noble ideals were needed for the job, and Mika knew himself well enough to know that he simply didn't possess those qualities. Or perhaps he did, but if so, they were well buried under the desire for good times and available women.
He knew that he'd never be the shaman his father was. That was obvious to Mika, and he wondered why his father persisted in the training that was so painful for them both. Mika scowled into the dark night and heaved a deep sigh.
'Soon, my brother, soon,' called a man who rode an arm's-length away, mistaking his sigh for impatience, 'our swords will drip with kobold blood!'
'None too soon for me,' Mika replied heartily, inwardly damning the fool who would choose killing over a warm bed and a warm woman. TamTur, racing alongside his horse, howled into the night. At least his wolf was hungry for action.
It was all his brother's fault, mused Mika. If he hadn't died, none of this would be happening. Veltran-oba had been his father's apprentice since childhood and was content to spend many long hours puttering around in the forest collecting bits of bark and weeds, fungus and flowers, and scarcely even looking at any of the many beautiful girls who hung around him, oohing and ahhing over his stupid plants, while yearning for the stature that was attached to the wife of a shaman. Veltran-oba had been a serious fellow, but he had taken his brother's disinterest in stride and had even been amused upon occasion by Mika's antics.
But while Mika had not shown any great aptitude for magic and healing, he had become proficient at weaponry and lovemaking, both of which he had learned to handle well and with great precision.
Everyone had expected Veltran-oba to don his father's mantle when the time came, but he had died two winters ago in the sickness that also robbed Mika-oba of his mother and younger sister. Twenty-seven others went to their ancestors at that time, as well, their lungs filled with thick white fluid that choked the breath off in their throats while they burned and trembled with a great fever. It had been a hard winter.
Until the sickness, there had been few clouds on Mika's horizon, other than keeping Celia satisfied and her father in the dark. He and the other nomads spent their time sleeping, hunting for roanbuck in the forest, eating great quantities around the burning campfires while telling stories of wolf heroes, singing songs, drinking mulled mandrake, and spending long hours in mock battle. Life was nearly perfect.
Through luck and good breeding, Mika-oba had been gifted with a magnificent body and handsome, almost noble features. Men thought him a boon companion, and women vied for his favors. He was adept at sword play and most other forms of combat. Fortunately, due to a strong and lasting peace brought about by the Merchant Guild in spite of the grumbling of Wolf and Tiger Nomads alike, there had been few opportunities for serious warfare in many decades. And Mika always had a good excuse when it came to avoiding the occasional kobold battle or bandit-
