Soldiers of Ice (16 page)

“I don’t have the key.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie.

“So there iz a key! Where iz it?”

Martine winced at her blunder. She had just removed 120

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one uncertainty for the fiend. If she told Vreesar the truth —which she could not—the creature would kill her. If she resisted, it could just as easily kill her in a rage.

“I’ll never tell you,” she swore bitterly. She braced herself for another onslaught.

“Oh, yez, you will, human,” Vreesar droned soothingly. It seemed as if the fiend had suddenly lost interest in her.

“Shaman, take my human away.”

As she was taken from the lodge, the Harper couldn’t resist a wistful glance at the stone. The ranger stopped the instant she noticed Krote watching, but by that time it was too late. The shaman had already taken note. If he didn’t know now, the ranger was certain Krote would quickly figure it out.

Outside, WordMaker shoved her toward the small

lodge. Martine was so exhausted she barely noticed when they arrived at her crude prison. Once inside, the woman collapsed onto the furs, ready to surrender to sleep. Krote had other ideas, though. With a firm touch, he pressed his thick-padded hand against her side, seeking out the broken rib.

“What are you doing?” Her words were groggy, confused.

“Healing you.” The shaman waved a primitive icon over her side. “You must not die when the thing questions you.”

Now the Harper was truly confused. Was this an act of kindness, or was it a cruel desire to prolong her suffering?

“Why?”

Without pausing, the gnoll explained. “You are from the warm lands, where humans live, and know many things about them. You must not die before teaching me these things. Remain still.” Krote didn’t wait for her to respond, but began chanting the words to his spell, the same one he had used before on her wounded shoulder. Once again a warmth pervaded her from his hands, flowing into her Soldiers of Ice

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body. Deep inside, her body twitched in response. Suddenly intense pain shot through her ribs. She writhed in

agony, but the gnoll fiercely pressed her down. Martine bit her lip, determined not to scream.

Almost as swiftly as it came upon her, the pain washed away, leaving her feeling stronger and More vigorous than before. The exhaustion that had afflicted her had disappeared, as if she’d had a full day or More of rest.

Krote carefully hung the icon back around his neck.

“Now teach me, human,” he insisted as he sat crosslegged on the opposite side of the hut.

‘Teach you what?” Martine sat up, wary of the gnoll and perplexed at the same time.

From a leather pouch, the gnoll dug out a roll of birchbark.

‘Feach me the symbols,” he demanded as he tossed

the scroll over to her. “You made it. What does it mean?”

Martine recognized what it was as soon as Krote produced it. It was the letter she’d written in desperation to Jazrac. There could be no doubt now that it had gone unread.

“What is it?” the WordMaker demanded.

“It’s called writing,” Martine explained. In nearly any other circumstances, Marline would have been incredulous to discover someone completely ignorant of writing. Many folks throughout the Realms couldn’t read, but at least they were aware of letters and words. The shaman apparently didn’t even comprehend what they were.

“It’s like speaking on paper,” she continued. Her explanation couldn’t compromise her mission, nor could she believe that teaching the gnoll writing would threaten anyone, either herself or the gnomes of Samek. But it could gain her an ally in the tribe, an ally who might prove useful later. Furthermore, she saw an opportunity that she might be able to

get a message off to Jazrac after all. All she needed to do was trick Krote into using the bone-handled knife.

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Unrolling the brittle sheet of bark, she began the lesson.

Slowly and carefully she played the role of tutor, a part she wasn’t particularly suited for. It took More verbal skill and patience than she had to explain the mysteries of writing.

Fortunately for her, the title WordMaker was no misnomer for Krote. She was impressed by the gnoll’s quick

mind and prodigious memory. He could watch her make the strokes of a letter with a piece of charcoal and repeat them perfectly.

Martine decided to take a chance. Pushing a smooth split log in front of the gnoll, she said, “Carve what I show you.

Then you can practice on your own.”

Martine knew it was a gamble and tried not to show her eagerness. Her heart leaped as Krote drew Jazrac’s knife and held it ready to carve.

“All right. Copy this,” Martine instructed as she smoothed out a piece of leather. Carefully she drew the symbols in a neat row for Krote to copy. ‘q’hese are all different letters you can practice later. Just do them in this order when you With a generous smile, she slid the leather to Krote. In neat block letters, it said, “CAPTURED BY GNOLS. M.”

“You must teach me More,” the shaman insisted, not

ready to stop.

Martine shook her head. “You must practice—like a

young cub learning to shoot a bow. Then I will teach you More .” The whole success of her plan hinged on the shaman carving the message for her. And while he was doing that, she could plan her escape.

“I will practice,” the shaman said with reluctance as he rolled up the leather. “Remember, you must not die when our new chieftain questions you.” Martine was sure she heard a note of distaste in the shaman’s words when he said “new chieftain.”

“I have no intention of dying, WordMaker,” she assured Soldiers of Ice

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him as the gnoll left the hut

Martine flopped back onto the flea-infested furs as all the tension drained out of her body. ‘q’ymora be praised!” she sighed. She’d done it. She’d tricked the WordMaker into sending her message. It hadn’t been easy. Now she could only hope that Jazrac looked into his crystal ball at the right time and understood what he saw. Too much still hinged on luck for her to feel secure.

I have to escape soon or I’ll be dead, she thought frankly.

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Eight

Martine was grateful for the wakefulness

Krote’s spell provided. It was the

first time her head had felt clear since

the one called Brokka had brought her

down from the glacier. She needed a

dear head if she was going to escape.

Carefully the ranger peered through

a crack in the door curtain and looked out onto the white clearing beyond. Immediately alongside the entrance was the thick-furred leg of a guard. The leg was at an odd angle, and the ranger guessed the gnoll was bored and leaning on his spear. She slid away from the entrance, trying not to reveal that she’d been spying. The guard would be a problem, though the fact that he was probably bored might

help.

The first thing is to get together a survival kit.., anything that can help me stay alive once I get away, she

thought. Unless I can survive in the snow, there’s no point in even trying to escape. Whatever I can scrape together in this lodge will have to do.

The Harper fell to searching the birchbark hut as quietly as she could. She set aside anything potentially useful, whenever possible hiding it under the furs of her mattress.

There was precious little, but it was still better than nothing at all. By the time she was done, her hoard consisted of several sharp pieces of bone, a long fire-hardened stick that she could sharpen to a point, a leather pouch stuffed with tinder, a gourd dipper she could rig up as a firepot, and the flea-infested but warm furs she was sitting on. Working carefully so as not to bring the lodge down upon her, the ranger undid some of the bindings that lashed the frame of the hut together. The cords were made of strong sinew.

Stretched between her hands, it would make a crude but effective garrote.

Martine meticulously rolled and tied the items into a bundle, pleased with her luck. Her finds provided More than she expected—crude weapons, fire, and shelter. What remained were food and a better weapon, but as a prisoner, the woman doubted she’d be able to get her hands on these.

There was still the matter of the guard outside, and once she was past him, the rest of the tribe. If she had a knife, she reasoned, then she could cut her way out the back of the lodge, but a few experiments showed the wall was too firmly built for her to cut through with her crude bone tools. If she was going to get out, it would have to be through the front door.

With her sharp stick in hand and escape kit within reach, there was nothing for Martine to do but huddle by the door and wait. She waited as her fire, lacking More wood, died away to a ruddy bed of coals that warmed the hut but provided little light. She waited as the sun traveled across the sky till it slowly gave way to the mountain shadows that preceded night. She waited as the magical vigor faded from

her nerves and her stomach started to knot with hunger.

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Finally she allowed herself to doze, trusting her senses to wake her should any opportunity arise.

Perhaps her instincts failed her, or perhaps nothing happened, for the next thing she knew, the thin light of morning was seeping through the gap around the curtain. She heard voices shouting outside. Her legs were knotted from sitting all night, she discovered when she unwound herself to peer through the crack.

Across the clearing, the main lodge was the heart of pandemonium.

Gnolls tumbled from the longhouse, shouldering

each other aside in a savage rush to escape from

something inside. Their shouts, barks, and howls quickly alerted the rest of the village. From every hut, close and distant, warriors snatched up spears and sprinted toward the commotion. The guard outside her hut wavered, torn between the conflicting courses of duty as guard and warrior.

The beast’s hesitant steps toward the fray gave Martine hope, and she quietly tucked her bundle under her arm in preparation to make a dash for freedom.

Before the guard could reach a decision, a furry figure hurtled through the great lodge’s doorway and crashed against the backs of the slowest sprinters. Thundering after it came Vreesar, barely able to squeeze through the narrow doorway. Its chest was mottled with a ghastly pinkish stain, livid on its silvery whiteness like a fresh scar.

“Where iz the whelp who burned me?” With long, cold arms, Vreesar sifted through the terrified gnolls, seizing those closest to it, only to cast them aside once it was satisfied they were not its prey. Even at the distance between the two lodges, Martine could see the fiend’s ice-spined brow tremble and twitch with fury. Abruptly it lunged forward and caught something with a triumphant cry. “Ahhh!

You would try to kill me? Who told you to do thiz?”

The elemental hoisted aloft a squirming gnoll, not much older than a kit, judging by its size. Vreesar’s chilling claws encircled the guoll’s neck tightly, but the fiend took sadistic care not to squeeze its prize so tightly that its struggling ceased.

“You burned me. Now you will freeze. That iz your punish—”

“Lord of the Burnt Fur, it is our custom that a chieftain does not kill warriors,” Krote WordMaker interrupted boldly, almost shouting to be heard over the din. Standing in the dark doorway of the main lodge, the shaman had only just appeared on the scene. Like one accustomed to enforcing the burden of tribal memory, the WordMaker spoke with the absolute certainty of tradition. His words silenced the gathered warriors as they expectantly awaited the outcome.

Ľreesar peered back over its shoulder and stabbed the shaman with an incensed glare. “what do I care for your customz?” it crackled.

The gnoll snapped his fangs in surprise that anyone, even a thing as alien as the elemental, should ask such a question.

‘qhat is what makes us the Burnt Fur,” he replied, his tone one of horrified amazement. “Great chieftain, without the laws, the right ways of doing things, we would be no More than—than the wolves of the forest. The old ways made you chieftain. If custom is not followed, then you will not be our chieftain.”

“Fear makez me chief,” Vreesar snarled evilly. The prisoner’s kicks grew weaker and weaker. W/hat do I care for

thiz weak tribe’z customz? You are my slavez. Thiz pathetic creature tried to kill me, and az hiz master, I can kill him if I choose.”

Whether from bravery or foolishness, Krote stepped forward to stand directly in front of the chieftain. “Only if there is a duel. That is the correct way.” He spoke in a soft voice that the wind barely carried to Martine. “It was an accident.

The kit did not mean to spill his soup on you. Spare his life, 128

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and the kit will die willingly for you in battle.”

The fiend paused as if considering Krote’s words, although at her distance Martine could not read any expression into the creature’s face. The WordMaker stepped back a pace, trying to ease the tension of the scene.

“You are right, WordMaker. The kit will die—but not willingly.” The elemental clenched its hand More tightly.

The young gnoll convulsed in a single twitching spasm as its larynx and vertebrae were crushed with a series of thick, meaty popping sounds that echoed over the silent clearing. Marfine had heard that sound before, many years ago in the port city of Westgate, when a mob had hanged a pair of suspected thieves. Like those hanged men, the gnoll’s jerky struggles lasted longer than its life, the muscles flailing long after the mind had ceased to control them.

As if the dead body were no More than a soiled rag, Vreesar let the corpse drop. “My slavez will not be clumsy,” it hummed. Of all the warriors, females, and kits gathered before the longhouse, the elemental ignored them all save one—Krote, who still stood directly facing the creature.

The WordMaker was rigid with outrage.