narrow opening.
Mika-oba could not tell whether the creature standing against the sun was human or not, draped as it was in a heavy dark cloak from head to toe, its features completely concealed by deep, unnatural shadows. The kobold lifted its wrinkled muzzle and spoke to the figure that stood a mere hand span taller.
The kobold seemed to speak with great deference, and its cringing posture suggested fear.
The small dark figure leaned on a thick staff and stared at Mika without movement.
After a few moments of the silent staring, Mika grew increasingly uneasy. There was something quite frightening about the small figure that filled Mika with a sense of dread. He backed up, but there was nowhere to go. The silence stretched on like an unending scream.
Mika shook himself mentally, attempting to shake off his unreasoning anxiety. What was he afraid of? The Wolf Nomads had won, hadn't they? He raised his arm and started to draw his sword out of the sheath that hung between his shoulder blades, taking a step toward the odd pair.
He flexed his massive shoulders-intimidatingly, he hoped-and rattled his sword. He took another step, hoping they would back off, but the twosome stood their ground firmly as Mika-oba approached. His blade snicked through the air, making a most satisfying sound, rather like the sound of a neck separating from a head, Mika thought with a rush of humor. Yet still the pair did not flee. It was definitely unkobold-like behavior. But when he noticed the kobold shrinking back in a most satisfying manner, he drew in a great mouthful of air for his attacking wolf cry, and rushed forward, sword raised high.
Slowly, almost leisurely, the small, dark figure raised a shrouded hand and pointed at Mika, the tip of its cloak and the bountiful folds describing lazy movements in the air.
Mika felt as though he had slammed face first into a pile of sand. The faint tingling he had felt earlier had been but a hint of what he experienced now.
His entire body was wrapped in a numbing cold. Yet he felt as though he were being stung by bees from the top of his scalp down to the soles of his feet.
His heart slammed against his ribcage like a hawk caught in a cage, hurling itself against the bars, determined to escape or die in the trying.
His blood roared in his ears and pressure built behind his eyes till his vision blurred and he could sense only vaguely the kobold and the dark creature approaching him as he stood frozen in place, sword still raised above his head.
'Should I kill 'im, Master?' the kobold asked nervously.
Mika felt sweat pouring down his face, and he strained every muscle in his body, attempting to lower his arms and crash the sword into his enemy. But he could not move his arms. In fact, he could not move anything at all. All he could do was stand there, frozen, and wait for the dark creature to decide his fate.
The cloaked figure did not answer immediately, but walked around Mika-oba as he stood there, with eyes bulging and sweat running down his body, looking like some strange statue dedicated to a rightfully forgotten god.
Mika-oba was in pain. He was cold and his body itched unbearably. He was even a little frightened. But most of all, he felt stupid. Incredibly, overwhelmingly stupid. He marveled at the degree of his stupidity and knew that he deserved to die.
'Can I do it now? Do you wants 'im dead?' the kobold repeated helpfully.
In spite of the fact that he had just decided he deserved to die, it was quite another thing having the kobold agree with him. Mika-oba silently heaped foul curses on the wretched beast and wished with all his might that its tongue would wither in its head.
'I could stab 'im, real easy like,' the kobold offered, completely unaffected by Mika-oba's ardent wishing.
The cloaked figure completed its circuit around Mika's stiffened body and waved the kobold into silence with a twitch of its hand. The kobold fell quiet instantly.
Mika's vision had cleared a little and he was able to focus on the darkness in the center of the hood, yet he could not make out any features, human or otherwise. It was as though the cloak were held up by nothing but blackness.
Then he ceased to wonder about anything, even his fate, for once more he was seized by the incredible cold that seemed to enter his skull and grow more and more intense until there was nothing left of the world but pain.
After several lifetimes, the pain receded and left him still standing, sword above his head, only vaguely aware of his tormentor.
'So he doesn't knows nothing?' queried the kobold, its voice seeming to come from a great distance. 'Can't I kills 'im anyways?' it whined in a disappointed tone. Evidently the answer was negative, for Mika-oba continued to live, although it took him a while to ascertain that fact and even longer to regret it.
As the pain left his body, he stood, still locked in place, sword held high above his head, still cursing himself for being such an ignoramus.
The kobold and the robed creature had vanished. Mika felt ill, not only from the all-too-unpleasant physical effects left over from the encounter, but from the knowledge that he had just had a brush with a dark magic-user. One did not need to see a sign hanging around someone's neck to recognize such a spell-caster. Mika-oba had deserved to die for his negligence and realized that he was alive only because the magic-user had spared him.
After a while, the pain and the cold and the stinging left him and it appeared fairly certain that he would live. But still he could not move. Not even one little finger.
He prayed that none of his companions would come searching for him and find him in such a state. He would be the butt of humorous songs and jokes for centuries to come.
He heard a wide yawn behind him as TamTur stirred, stretched, then got to his feet, having slept through the entire incident. Perhaps the magic-user had arranged it thusly.
Tam walked around Mika, sat down on his haunches, yawned shrilly, then placed his head to one side and stared at Mika-oba curiously. He circled Mika several times, then with a movement that must have been the animal equivalent of a human shrug, TamTur curled himself into a ball at Mika's feet and went back to sleep. Thanks a lot, pal.
Mika grunted and strained and willed his muscles to move. Finally, aided perhaps by some stray gust of wind, he did move. Forward. And down. He could not even close his eyes as he smacked, face first, onto the hard earth and lay there without moving for several additional lifetimes.
'Mika! Mika-oba!' called a voice.
'Mika! Where are you!' cried another.
'Oh no,' Mika groaned inwardly.
'Here he is!' cried a voice filled with relief. Hands seized his shoulders and turned him over roughly.
'Mika! What a place to take a nap!' Hasteen said with admiration shining in his eyes. 'Have you no fear? There might easily be more kobolds sneaking around. Come on, the Guildsman has broken out a wineskin in gratitude for our help.
'Enor sent us to find you. Everyone wants to grip the arm of the man who saved our lives.' And he extended his hand to Mika.
To Mika's amazement and joy, he found that he could move, albeit stiffly, and felt no worse for his experience than he had after a night of drinking honeyed ale. Taking Hasteen's hand, he rose to his feet and walked shakily down the slope with a sleepy Tam trailing behind.
'I can't take all the credit,' he said with a nervous laugh to cover his confusion. 'After all, I did have help,' he said, yawning widely. 'Tell me, how many men did we lose?'
During the trek back to the caravan, which now rested on the Wolf Nomads' side of the river, Mika-oba learned that the majority of the Wolf members who died in the raid had come from a clan that lived closest to the river and were, for the most part, unknown to him. Only two of their own clan had died before killing more than a score of kobolds apiece. Their widows would be well regarded.
The wagons were drawn in a circle, and drivers, tradesmen, and Wolf Nomads mingled freely, passing jugs of root liquor and Celadian wine and chewing on dried sticks of venison. Celebratory voices were raised in boasting and song. The survivors were heroes, and happy to be alive.
'Why do you suppose they did it?' asked one of the wagon drivers, a big burly Yechan who wore a bloody rag
