Soldiers of Ice (18 page)

“You do not need to threaten me with the sword. I will not escape,” the shaman finally growled as he brushed snow from his dirty bindings.

Martine thought she heard an edge of bitter irritation in his voice. ‘
-hy not?” she asked doubtfully.p>

“I cannot go back.”

%Vhy not?” It seemed all she could manage to say.

Krote’s lips curled in a snarl. “Vreesar banished me. If I go back, I die.”

“I heard him bar you from his lodge. That’s not banishment.”

Martine poked her sword at the snowbank, carving

little holes near the gnoll.

“Lodge and tribe are one.”

“How come he didn’t kill you? He killed Hakk and that other gnoll.”

Krote waggled an ear at her words. “You saw that,

human? I live because even Vreesar fears the gods.” Krote jangled the charm that hung around his neck. “Kill me and you anger Gorellik, the god of my people.”

That was enough talk for Martine. She didn’t like the implied threat in the shaman’s words, and so with a rough shove of her foot, she got the gnoll back on his feet For the next hour, the woman plodded in silence. It took all her effort just to keep her attention on the trek, and she had no desire to talk through her cold-burnt throat. The path became even harder to follow as dusk fell, the thick shadows hiding jarring bumps and holes. Her leg muscles were beyond aching, numb with incessant pain. Sweat weighted her clothes. Even with the growing cold of nightfall, she drove them on by moonlight. Moonlight was

almost a euphemism, silver Selune not yet even half full and barely penetrating through the black-needled boughs. Sil-Soldiers of Ice

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ver rivers ran through the trees, broken by black rapids of bare rock and exposed moss.

Martine had no idea how many hours or days it had been since starting when she finally called their march to a halt.

Krote, exhausted as well, stood still among the dimly lit trees. “If we stop, we freeze,” he warned grimly.

Freezing almost seemed appealing to Martine, but the gnoll was right. They needed protection from the night cold.

%Ve’ll dig a shelter,” she said, pointing to a large snowbank at the base of a bluff. She began to scoop away handfuls of snow. Krote did not resist or argue but mutely held up his bound hands for her to cut them free.

In a short time, the two had tunneled out a chamber—a tomb fit for an ice queen, Martine felt—barely big enough for them to lie down in. “This is where we sleep,” the woman explained as she rebound the gnoll’s wrists. She didn’t have enough cord to tie his ankles, so she could only rely on common sense and trust. “If you run away, you’ll freeze in the cold. If you kill me, you’ll freeze here. Understand?”

The WordMaker nodded. “And if you kill me, human,

you freeze. This night we need each other.”

Martine nodded, her sore shoulders screaming at even that slight turn of the head. With tinder and Jazrac’s knife, Martine kindled a tiny fire in the entrance that barely warmed them.

Dinner consisted of moss and tender bark, the best the ranger could gather in the snow. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but her captivity had left her starving. Krote was not that desperate and so only watched her eat.

“Inside,” Martine said after the unappetizing repast. As the gnoll squeezed in through the entrance, Martine gave one last look skyward. Selune’s Tears, a waft of star motes that hung off the crescent hook of the butterfat moon, 138

The Harpers

weaved through the sparse branches of the wind-blasted pines along the cliff face. The sky was clear and bitter.

Night birds lurking in the icebound woods called to any listening ear, speaking to each other of their might and wisdom.

Something, a breeze or a small beast, snuffled beyond the rim of light. The night forest excited her; even here, it was a world she understood and loved, More so than the timid towns and villages she had sworn to defend as a Harper.

A grunt from Krote broke the mood. Drawn back from

her reverie, the Harper numbly crawled inside, taking care to keep her sword ready. Now came the time when she had no choice but to trust the shaman. Trust out of necessity did not come easy.

In the near darkness, the WordMaker had twisted and squirmed his rude bed closer to the ice-sheened wall, distancing himself from Martine’s space. Even so, the two,

woman and gnoll, were still pressed tight to each other.

Martine placed her drawn sword along the wall, just in case. Only exhaustion would grant her any rest tonight.

As she lay in the darkness, the ground chill insinuated its way through the layers of her leather parka, into its sweat-matted fur lining, through torn and stained clothes, past

skin, until it reached muscle and bone. Martine could feel it creep through her body. The cold wanted to kill her, to stalk down the warmth within her and leech it into the snow until she was left an ice-filled husk. In the near darkness, these thoughts obsessed the woman. She had camped

in the woods as much as she had lived indoors, but never could she remember a night so hostile.

“Gods, I’m freezing,” she chattered softly.

“So am I,’ her companion answered unexpectedly from the darkness.

Tentatively the pair inched closer to each other. Neither wanted to get close to the other, but they needed each Soldiers of Ice

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other’s warmth. Finally their bodies huddled together. The gnoll stank, and where his fur poked through, it scratched her, but the contact kept the cold at bay. Finally the Harper drifted into a dim semblance of sleep.

When the cave walls began to glow autumnal gold, Martine at first dismissed it as another waking dream. The light persisted, until she finally realized it was no fantasy. Wriggling through the narrow entrance, she gratefully drew in a lungful of clear morning air. Accustomed to the den, she had forgotten just how thick, rank, and humid the snow cave was until she was outside of it.

It was incredibly bright outside, the kind of brightness that comes when all the moisture has been frozen out of the air, allowing the sun’s rays to burn unhampered onto the ice-sheeted ground, where the sunlight reflects back up and for a brief moment crosses itself to intensify the glare.

On such mornings, it seems as though the whole world has risen up from an ocean of light.

Retrieving her sword, the Harper tugged on the WordMaker’s boot until the gnoll finally woke. She had expected the shaman to wake quick and alert, as matched the feral reputation of gnolls, but Krote, it seemed, was a terrible sluggard. Only after a fair amount of growling was she able to get the gnoll outdoors.

“Why get up? It was warm in the cave,” the shaman

grumbled as he suppressed a yawn.

“I want to cross the pass before noon. Once we’re in Samek, we should be able to find a farm or something.”

Martine was already stowing her bundle for the journey.

“What will happen to me? The little people are not

friendly.” As he spoke, Krote held his wrists up, asking to be unbound. Catching the suspicious look in her eye, he added with an angry snarl, ‘qqrists hurt. I could have killed you in the cave.”

Martine drew the bone-handled knife and absentmind-

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edly stroked the blade as she considered the gnoll’s request. “Your oath, shaman. I cut you loose and you come with me. No tricks.”

“So you give me to the little people?” he snorted.

”You’re my prisoner. The Vani won’t hurt you.”

”Your oath, human?”

“By the blood of my family.”

‘qhat is good. I give you my oath, human—but only until we reach your valley.”

“Only if you swear by Gorellik, your god.” Martine bit her lip.

Krote scowled. Martine was getting better at reading the gnoll’s expressions. “Gorellik sees all and knows Krote gives his word. We will travel in peace, Martine of Sembia.’

“Praise to Mielikki,” Martine added, beseeching in her heart the blessing of the Lady of the Forest. It might mean everything or it might mean nothing, but Martine instinctively believed the WordMaker’s oath to be valuable. Now

that she had it, the Harper cut the bonds with some sense of confidence.

The pair started the day’s march without delay. To an untrained eye, it would have seemed as if they were traveling through More of the same as yesterday—the same gray pines, the same dazzling whiteness, the same rocks, the same streams—but to Martine’s practiced eye, there were important differences. Gradually the pines no longer grew as high and the brooks gurgled with less water, both clear signs that they had begun the climb up the pass. The snow was deeper, too. Krote waded on through drifts up to his waist, drifts whose smooth tops came as high as the smaller ranger’s chest. Woodpecker drills echoed through the woods while the squawks of the ravens grew less frequent.

Overhead, an eagle circled a nearby meadow, patiently waiting for a marmot or a field mouse.

By midmorning, Martine’s hope was revived. There was no doubt they would clear the ridge today. At worst, it would be one, perhaps two More days before they reached the Vani warren. The prospect of rest and hot food renewed her flagging energy.

The huntress was waiting, feet stomping impatiently, as Krote crossed a fallen tree spanning a frozen stream. Just when the gnoll was halfway across, six small shadows stepped from the thickets that lined the far bank. Their spears were ready, their bows drawn. Unarmed and exposed, Krote froze on the log bridge as his muzzle flared and his ears stiffened straight back, ready for a fight.

The six small shadows were short and stocky—Vani

gnomes. The grins of their successful ambush played across their faces.

“Don’t hurt him!” Marfine yelled as they sprang onto the slick log. “He’s my prisoner!”

Nine

“Hold! Don’t harm him!” rang Vil’s

bass voice from the woods.

Martine wavered with uncertain

relief. Am I saved? Can I stop struggling

and sleep? Her exhausted mind was too

befuddled to do More than vaguely

imagine the reality before her. She

fought back the sudden flood of exhaustion that came with trying to comprehend.

Dumbly the Harper scanned her rescuers, staring at

them like mirages. She thought she identified Jouka Tunkelo’s belligerent scowl, although it was hard for her to see clearly enough. Ice crusted around her eyes, and her pupils burned from hours in the brilliant snow. The blurry faces of the gnomes were little More than thick stockings, black bristling beards, and slitted wooden goggles that shut out the glare of the snow.

“Four days… I told you, Martine.” The thicket rustled and cracked as Vii stepped through the center of the Vani line.

Seeing her, he stopped abruptly. “By Torm, what happened?”

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“Avalanche… Vreesar… gnolls.., cold.” The jerky words were clear to her, her memories filling the gaps between each. The sight of her rescuers drained her of the instinctive fear that had kept her going for the last several days. Suddenly, after days of ordeal, the woman was tired, raw, wet, freezing, thirsty, hungry, and More things than her numb mind could comprehend. “I’m… alive,” she croaked even as she wavered.

“Don’t hurt Krote. I gave my word.” As if her will had kept her standing long enough to say that, the ranger’s legs gave out from under her and consciousness slid away into a dream.

There was a faint feeling, deep in the core of Martine’s body, that she was flying—perhaps ascending to the planes of her ancestors, she thought bemusedly. It ended abruptly in a thump. The landing launched a dull wave of pain that spread throughout her body, transforming the gray haze into turbid and unrestful darkness.

It was warm, wet liquor, strong on caraway and heady alcohol, that revived her. Vilheim Baltson, four days unshaven, knelt over her, carefully forcing a thimbleful of spirits through her lips. The curious faces of gnomes clustered behind him, but Krote was nowhere in sight. She

tried to rise to find the gnoll, but the man’s firm hand pressed her down.

“Drink,” he advised, tipping the small cup to her lips.

Martine sputtered and then let the warmth trickle down her cold-scorched throat. Another thimbleful followed the first. The alcoholic warmth numbed the pain she felt.

“Where’s the WordMaker?” she whispered.

“The gnoll? He’s unharmed. Take my word for it. Don’t worry.”

Martine didn’t worry. She knew Vil was good for his word.

“Vreesar’s hunting for me.” Martine surprised herself, 144

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remembering to warn them about her pursuers.

Vii nodded. “Then we should get going. Drink some More .” He pushed the cup into her trembling fingers and then turned to the gnomes behind him. “Master Jouka, the woman cannot ski. Can you build a drag for her? She says there are More guolls coming.”

Martine wanted to correct Vil’s error, to tell him that Vreesar wasn’t a gnoll, but the words wouldn’t form. Soon the forest rang with the bite of axes against wood.

Once the drag was built, Vil helped Martine onto the frame and bundled her in dry blankets, all the time fussing over her wounds. I must be a sight, Martine decided, judging from Vil’s concern.

As she was settling into her bed, Krote was dragged into her view. A burly, thick-browed gnome, Ojakangas by name, pulled the shaman along by a rope that bound his wrists. The Vani had given Krote a pair of snowshoes, but other than that, they showed him none of the kindness she had received.

“Move, dog-man,” the guard rumbled, jerking the weary gnoll onto the trail. The gnome acted without cruelty or kindness, only a matter-of-fact coldheartedness. The WordMaker staggered a bit as he followed, but held himself stiff.