Nor did the driver take shelter under or inside his wagon as many of the others had done. Instead he remained huddled on his seat as though standing guard.
The wolves, fearsome predators and fierce fighters, unafraid of anything that walked or flew, drew the line at rainstorms. They did not like the water, they hated the lightning, and they were nearly driven mad by the thunder.
Each dealt with the storm in the only way it knew, by crawling under the nearest wagon, digging a shallow hole, curling into a tight ball, and burying its head beneath its thick brushy tail.
The nomads knew from past experience that they would not emerge until the storm was over. May the Great She Wolf help them if it were ever necessary to go into battle during a rainstorm!
Mika himself, along with the other nomads, patrolled the perimeters of the wagons, water streaming off their already hopelessly wet heads and shoulders.
As soon as the main front had passed overhead and the wind abated somewhat, Mika and Hornsbuck directed the hanging of waterskins. They used the cowhide flaps to funnel water from the tops of the wagons into the waterskins, which soon bulged with the precious water that would carry the caravan safely across the prairie.
The storm seemed to ease the humiliation of the previous night, and Mika was pleased to note that the men obeyed his orders with no signs of rebellion. He was determined to see that it remained that way.
He was doubly determined to find out what was concealed in the secret wagon.
Thunder boomed and crashed around them, and lightning bolts split the dark skies and pierced the prairie. The rain continued to plummet from the clouds, turning the hard ground into a slippery quagmire on which the horses could find no firm footing.
The storm continued until mid-afternoon, but after the worst of it had passed, Mika, Hornsbuck, and the Guildsman decided that there was no advantage to staying put. They could scarcely get wetter, and everyone, humans and animals alike, would feel better doing something.
Everyone except the wolves. It was hard to stir them, and Mika felt sympathy for Tam. He had proved his mettle many times over, taking on fearsome adversaries, larger and more powerful than he, without a thought for his own safety. But once the wagons creaked forward, the wolves were exposed to the full force of the rain and 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. "Yon Guildsman places great importance on his wagons arriving safely and on time. Were it left to me, I would be the first to head for these springs and slaughter every bandit there. Rid the plains of the low-life!"
"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.