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 roanwood, 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 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 spa.r.s.e gra.s.s.

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 phosph.o.r.escent 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 st.u.r.dy 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 know I can do it! And I'll find out what's in that wagon. You wait and see!"

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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 were gibberish. It was only when you strung them together in the right order and said them with just the right intonation and emphasis that you got results. The speaker could only hope the Great She Wolf would guard his tongue and prevent him from forgetting a word or p.r.o.nouncing it wrong.

If a word did come out wrong and the speaker was lucky, nothing terrible would happen. The spell would merely fail, canceled out by inept.i.tude. The only penalty would be being forced to learn it again, for all memory of the spell would vanish once it was used, even if used incorrectly.

It was when the speaker got the spell wrong and was not lucky that the trouble began. For then, in spite of the fact that some element of the spell was incorrect, the spell worked-but incorrectly, frequently heaping devastating consequences on the inept magic-user who had conjured the spell improperly.

These effects usually wore off within the time span allotted to the spell. But sometimes, in the interim, the magic-user or an innocent victim would be killed, maimed, or altered irrevocably as had almost happened when Mika changed Celia's mother into a cat. Celia might never have forgiven him if Tam had actually eaten the cat.

In spite of his boastful words, Mika was very worried that he might get the spell wrong. One had to be at least at the seventh level to use the Polymorph spell, which allowed one to change from a human form into that of an animal.

Seventh level was still several years away in ability. Years of intense study. But nothing else would do! If Mika turned himself into a great white snowy owl, he could slit the top of the wagon with his sharp beak and slip inside. Once he had explored the dark interior of the wagon with his superior owl vision, he would let himself out and fly away undetected. The plan was foolproof. Who would suspect an owl?

Tam nudged Mika's leg with his nose. All right, all right. So Tam would know, but fortunately, he couldn't tell.

The words marched round and round in his brain, till he could repeat them perfectly, well almost perfectly. Each time he thought he had the spell memorized, he would go blank and forget a phrase or blither and mix two words up front to back. But he kept at it, goading himself with the thought of the wagon.

Mika stared into the forest dreamily. Pearls. That had been his latest guess. Pearls from the kelp beds. l.u.s.trous beads that he could drape round his woman, all around and under the sweet soft naughty places, a great long rope of pearls.

Mika sighed deeply, looking off into the dark night, seeing Celia in his mind's eye reclining on the green moss wearing nothing but a string of pearls. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Matin appeared on the moss next to Celia, reached out for the rope of pearls and . . . Mika straightened up with a frown on his face.

"Problems, Captain?" asked Klaren sympathetically, appearing unseen and unheard at Mika's side.

"What! Oh! Um, well, just thinking about tomorrow. Plans. Strategy. That sort of thing," Mika said brusquely.

"Sorry to intrude, sir. Just wanted to report that all is quiet. The last of the men have turned in and we'll be ready for an early start. You should try and get some rest, too, Captain. It's been a long day."

"Thanks, lad. I'll be turning in soon," said Mika, not mentioning what he would be turning into. "Sleep you well."

"And deep," he muttered beneath his breath as the young nomad nodded and turned away.

Mika continued to study the elusive words until he was quite sick of them. Finally, he shut the book, stuck it in his pocket and, hanging the precious pouch from his shoulder, toured the camp once more.

It was as Klaren had said, everyone was asleep. Even the Guildsman snored as heartily as Hornsbuck, thanks no doubt to the largess of his wineskin.

Unfortunately, the wagon that was Mika's objective stood closest of all to the bonfire, which still blazed high against the damp of the evening.

Anyone or anything, even a great snowy white owl, that tried to enter the wagon would be easily seen.

Mika fretted, wishing that the circ.u.mstances were more to his liking. He considered waiting another night, possibly even longer, until conditions were more favorable, but his natural impatience, which always demanded immediate gratification, whispered, "Do it now. Do it now." And it was impossible to argue.

Mika and Tam walked deep into the forest, pa.s.sing the second and then the third of the springs that had risen to the surface, then further still, forcing their way into the thickest, most tangled copse.

The light of a fallen phost tree drew him like a beacon, and he settled gratefully on its rough, s.h.a.ggy surface, trying to still his hammering heart.

As the moment drew closer, he found himself filled with doubts. He might have turned back at that last moment, but Tam pawed at his knee and looked up into his eyes, whining plaintively, as though begging him not to try the spell. Mika's resolve hardened.

"It'll be all right," he rea.s.sured the wolf. Then he undressed, placing his leggings, cloak and boots alongside the glowing log. Why burden the owl with clothing?

He picked up the book and the feather, quickly found his place and scanned the words one last time. For the millionth time he regretted that one could not read a spell aloud but must have it memorized. It was also necessary to close one's eyes and picture that which you hoped to accomplish, at the same time that you said the words.

Mika squared his shoulders. Then, he tucked the book back into the pouch and cleared his throat nervously. He sighed deeply and clutched the feather with determination. There was nothing left, he was as ready as he would ever be.

He closed his eyes and started chanting. One. Two. Three sentences done! Four. Five. Six. Uh oh, a slight bobble on his intonation as nervousness gripped his throat. Mika paused, waiting for the knowledge that he had failed. But there was nothing. Maybe it was still all right. He continued. Seven. Eight. Tam whined. Nine. d.a.m.n! Now his nose itched. Ten. Done! He kept his eyes closed, unable to look, knowing that he would soon be aware of whether the spell had worked ... or failed.

Mika felt dizzy and a bit sick to his stomach. He put out an arm to steady himself and could not open his fingers. He opened his eyes and for a minute the world spun dizzily around him. Then it stilled and he found that he was looking Tam directly in the eyes.

Tam stared at him long and hard, then sniffed him softly, snuffling his scent through the big black nose that would be so easy to nip with a sharp beak, and then lay down on the carpet of dead leaves with a great sigh.

Nip Tam's nose with a beak? Whoa! Mika's eyes swiveled around, and he saw why he had been on a level with Tam. The spell had worked! He had really done it! He, Mika, a lowly, lazy, b.u.mbling fourth-level magic-user had pulled off a seventh-level skill! He had always known he could do it. Why did everyone think this magic stuff was so hard?

Mika puffed out his huge fluffy white chest and took a step forward, feeling the need to strut, to get the hang of this owl stuff.

Then he stepped on a yarpick thorn that pierced the bottom of his foot and caused him to hop around the tiny clearing hooting with pain.

Wait a minute, this wasn't supposed to happen! Thorns weren't supposed to stick you if you were an owl! Owls had tough, scaly feet with long curved talons. You only got stuck if you had big, soft, floppy human feet with ugly toes.

Mika looked down with a sinking heart and letting out the owl equivalent of a human groan as he saw his own huge, big, soft, floppy human feet, complete with ugly toes, sticking out at the bottom of his beautiful owl body. He had goofed! Mika stomped around the thicket muttering curses. He circled around the log and walked right over Tam who followed his progress with mournful eyes.

Mika kicked a stump. It hurt. He tore a hunk of wood out of a branch with his beak. Blehh, it tasted terrible. d.a.m.n! What now? Would he be stuck like this forever?

Mika forced himself to calm down, glaring at Tam with fierce owl eyes, which he was not pleased to notice had retained their human vision instead of gaining the owl's ability to see in the dark. Curses! Why did nothing ever go right!

Mika continued glaring at Tam as though daring the wolf to give him his I-told-you-so look. But Tam turned his head, refusing to meet Mika's furious gaze.

Finally, unable to vent his anger on anyone other than himself, and unable to think of a solution, Mika shrugged his wings, which he had to admit were very handsome, and admired himself as he pondered the problem.

All right, so he'd botched things a little. But all things considered, they'd worked fairly well for a mere fourth-level magic-user. So he had human feet, the better to land with, except on little branches, of course.

He had to look on the bright side of things. It might have been worse. He might have gotten the feet part right and wound up with hands instead of wings. That would definitely have made flying difficult.

Well, there was no sense in standing around moping. Best to get on with it. Thinking calmly, he a.s.sumed that the strange combination would disappear with the dissolution of the spell. It was time to get on with the plan.

Mika flapped his wings once or twice, trying to get the feel of being an owl. But there were too many bushes and limbs in the way and he was unable to extend his wings to their full length. Ducking his head down, he pushed his way through the underbrush, a subdued Tam following along behind.

Actually, his feet worked pretty well. Probably better than those little stumpy feet that owls have. They probably should have been designed this way in the first place. Hmmm, maybe if the Great She Wolf were watching, she'd rethink the whole owl design.