by David Cook
In her first two passes over the valley, Martine noticed the meandering track of several game trails, mountain streams reduced to waterfalls of ice, and the grass-tufted snowfields of frozen bogs, but no sign of a village. It was on the third pass, as Astriphie banked into a turn that tilted the saddle to a dizzying angle, that Martine caught sight of a wisp of smoke rising through the thick-growing trees. With a quick series of whistles and a hard pull on the reins, the ranger swung the hippogriff in a broad loop that came to bear straight toward the smoke. Black-green branches flashed beneath her feet as she urged Astriphie lower until her mount’s hooves scraped off the branches of the uppermost pines. Martine strained in her saddle to peer over the hippogriff’s side while its wings rose and fell in massive beats. Bearing straight on, they closed on the column of smoke that was their guide.
Flying almost too fast, the pair shot over a small clearing and straight through the rising plume of smoke. Martine instantly noted it had the tang of woodsmoke. Whipping around in her saddle, she caught a glimpse of a cabin and a man on the ground, staring up, with an axe in his hand. Not pausing to consider the consequences, she yanked back on the reins and shouted, “Down, Astriphie! Land.”
The hippogriff plunged toward the nearest clearing, a smooth meadow along the banks of a stream. The beast hit the snow with a running bounce that jarred the ranger in her saddle and engulfed them in a blizzard of white powder. Martine wasted no time unbuckling herself and dropping to the ground, catfooted and ready, her sword already in her hand. “Stay, Astriphie,” she commanded, leaving the hippogriff unhobbled just in case something dangerous happened by. The mighty steed flexed its wings contentedly and seemed to chirp back in understanding.
Once she was into the woods, the snow was far deeper than Martine had expected, and it was with considerable difficulty that she floundered through the heavy drifts. By the time the Harper reached the clearing she had spotted from the air, she was panting and sweat-soaked. She didn’t try to scout out her goal, but stepped through the screen of underbrush boldly and stood in full view of the axeman. At first glance, she guessed the cabin’s owner was at home in the woods like herself, a man who chose to live out in the wilds, and so she placed her faith in the usual frontier hospitality.
The man was standing near a stump where he had been chopping wood. There was a neatly piled stack of waiting logs on one side of him and a jumbled heap on the other. Behind him stood a small cabin built of solid pine logs. A rickety stone chimney clung to one side of the house, and a little shed that looked like a combination storehouse and entrance jutted off the front. The substantial walls were broken by one small window, heavily shuttered. The yard around the cabin was cluttered with snow-mounded piles of cordwood and what she could only guess were the half-finished projects of every frontiersman.
Despite the chill, the man wore no coat or gloves, and his tasseled woolen cap was pushed far back on his head. His hair was dun gray and short, cut carelessly so that it cropped out over his ears. Dark stains of sweat marked the heavy smock he wore.
As Martine stepped out of the woods, he hefted his axe in one hand, and she noted he held it the way a warrior would, rather than a lumberjack. He was a big man and older than Martine. She guessed his age at forty or perhaps fifty, her father’s age, at least judging by his graying brown hair and the slightly stiff way he moved. His nose was crooked, as if it had once been broken, and a thick stubble grew on his chin, the look of a man who had few guests. His expression showed no surprise or emotion beyond the wariness that filled his eyes.
“Greetings,” he said with the same hospitable caution she had shown. The stranger’s voice was deep, and when he spoke, haggard lines flexed across his face as if his weatherbeaten cheeks were unaccustomed to shaping words. “I am Vilheim, son of Balt.” He stopped, offering no more information about himself, although his sharp accent was like those she had heard along the Chessentian coast in the south.
“My respects to you, sir,” Martine offered deferentially, taking care not to move any closer. “I have traveled a long way to see the gnomes of this valley. Do you know of them?”
The man swung his axe with a casual stroke and sank it into the stump. The sharp chunk of the blow echoed dully through the snowy woods. He spread his hands slightly, as if to show that he was unarmed, though Martine noted he never stepped out of arm’s reach of the axe. Again there was a long silence that neither seemed eager to fill.
“Gnomes, eh?” he finally intoned. “You came here to talk to gnomes. That was you flying overhead, right, Miss …?”
“Martine. Of Sembia.” She shifted from side to side to keep her feet from freezing inside her boots. “I’m hoping the gnomes will guide me onto the Great Glacier.”
The man’s weatherbeaten face almost broke into a grin at the relish of some private joke, and then his stoic face regained its composure. “Forgive me, I have forgotten my manners,” the woodsman quickly said, his voice apologetic. “I fear you have come a long way for naught, Martine of Sembia. The Vani are not friendly to strangers.”
“The Vani?”
“The gnomes of Samek.” He spoke in strained tones as he stiffly picked up his coat, a heavy parka of fur and leather, from the ground and brushed away the snow that clung to it.
Martine persisted, stepping forward to press her claim. “I still would like to try. Can you guide me to them?”
He stopped and suddenly scrutinized Martine, looking at her and beyond her into the gray woods, as if searching for any others who may have accompanied her. His gaze was startlingly sharp and intense, far more than she expected from an ordinary frontiersman, and it made Martine wonder if she had done the right thing by showing herself so abruptly. This simple woodsman wasn’t what she had expected, and that made her nervous.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“Yes. Are you?” She felt her hand inch unconsciously toward the sword that dangled from her hip.
Vilheim flicked his eyes between the sky and Martine until he finally seemed to compromise and gazed at the trees behind her. He rubbed at the thick stubble of his cheek tentatively. “Alone? Yes … I’m alone.” Martine thought she detected a trace of sorrow in his voice.
The man met her gaze evenly. A shiver made her legs tremble, and she was suddenly aware just how cold it was as the dry breeze swirled up motes of ice between them.
“You’ll freeze out here tonight,” the woodsman said abruptly, a smile finally breaking across his face. “I can offer you a hot meal and a place to sleep. You are welcome to stay, although you may find me a disappointing cook. Your search for the Vani might best be done tomorrow when there is more of the day.”
Martine accepted Vilheim Baltson’s sudden hospitality at face value. She sensed a basic decency in the man. It wasn’t just intuition, but also trust in the simple ways of the frontier. Visitors were too few to be abused or driven away. Martine seized the opportunity, thankful for the offer of warmth and comfort. “Much kindness, Master Vilheim. As soon as I’ve tended to my hippogriff, I’ll gladly accept what I’m sure will be considerable improvement on another meal of boiled jerky and biscuit.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Vilheim warned as he pulled the axe free from the log to take it back inside. “Bring your animal up and come inside when you’re ready. I’ll straighten up the place a little.”
Martine trudged back through the snow to fetch Astriphie. The hippogriff was crouched in bloodstained snow, tearing at the carcass of a deer, forcing the ranger to wait until the meal was done. Finally she was able to remount the hippogriff safely and fly to the cabin. After making a quick bed of pine boughs for Astriphie, she knocked at the cabin door.
“Come in,” Vilheim called from the other side.
With one hand close to her sword, just in case, she opened the door and was instantly assaulted by an outrush of steamy warmth. Compared to the cold dryness outside, the cabin was like the tropics, and after days of camping in snow, it was a blessing.
“Come in quickly and close the door, or there’ll be more wood to cut,” her host chided from the fire. He was already ladling bubbling stew into two thick, wooden bowls. “Sit at the table. Please.”
Martine didn’t require more urging and pulled up one of the two rickety chairs she saw. The whole cabin was a single, sparsely furnished room—one wobbly table, two chairs, a bed heaped with comforters, and a chest. A well-polished, dented breastplate hung from a rack by the door, along with a battered war helm, several spears, and Vilheim’s coat. The crudely tanned bear rug on the smooth wood floor in front of the fireplace was testimony to her host’s prowess with bow and sword. These two weapons hung over the log mantel, both unpretentious but well made. Aside from these martial touches, the rest of the cabin’s furnishings were purely functional—pots and pans, lamps, dishes, and the like. Overhead, the scarred wood rafters were carelessly decorated with leather bags hung from pegs and, in one case, a bent-handled dagger driven into the wood. Above the rafters, cobwebs glowed in the flickering light. There was one other door, which Martine had little trouble guessing led to an attached privy.
She had barely settled in before her host quickly set the table with bowls of hot stew, great brown rounds of bread, and a pot of fresh cheese. The aroma of grease, fried onions, and salted venison belied the threat of bad cooking. After Vilheim pulled up the other chair and mumbled a grace, Martine set to eating with a vengeance. She ate greedily while Vilheim observed silently.
After both had pushed their bowls away and Martine profusely thanked her host, the talk gradually turned to news of the outside world. They talked about trivialities—who ruled where, and what new wonders had arisen. He was particularly interested in how the land’s faiths fared, and although she wasn’t very religious, she told him what she knew. As the conversation continued, Martine came to call him “Vil,” and he in turn managed to drop the formal “of Sembia” from her name.
Yet throughout their conversation, Vil revealed but little of himself. He was from Chessentia, as she had guessed, and had been living in the valley for about three years. He had settled here for privacy, he explained, and it was as good a reason as many she had heard.
She offered little more about herself. No mention was made of her role in the Harpers or of her current mission. It wasn’t wise to carelessly advertise one’s allegiance. Her host seemed satisfied to let her keep her secrets.
At last the Harper broached the subject of the gnomes.
“I know them,” Vilheim allowed. “I’ve been their neighbor for three years now—but a short time, in their estimation. They’re good enough neighbors, but in their own way.” Vil paused and sucked on his lip as he tried to think of the right words. “They prefer their privacy.”
“Do you think I could meet with them?” Martine tried not to sound too eager. Unconsciously her fingers started playing with her table knife, spinning it back and forth. “Or could you guide me to the Great Glacier?”
Vil leaned back, considering the young woman’s question. “Better you try the Vani first. I usually stay away from glacier country. Tomorrow I will take you to see them, and you can ask for yourself.”
Two
Wakefulness came slowly to Martine the next morning. Sunk into the depths of Vilheim’s feather bed, which he had insisted she occupy while he slept on the floor, Martine had no desire to rise. The Harper lay staring upward at the semidarkness, listening to the bleak, cold wind that moaned outside the window. Gradually the dim outlines of the rafters and the black roundness of a hanging venison haunch took shape over her, illuminated by the dying glimmers from last night’s ash-banked fire.
What time she woke and how long she lay there, Martine could not say. Wake and sleep blurred together, one coming, the other going, in repeated cycles. Finally the dim shapes overhead lightened and filled as the eastern sun cleared the distant ridge and sent its rays through the gaps between the window shutter’s slats, followed by the clank of cooking pots as Vilheim prepared breakfast.
With a sigh, Martine clawed her way out of bed and groped her way through the worn blanket divider, another thing her host had insisted upon last night. Instantly cold air swirled around her bare legs, reminding her of where she stood. She pulled her tunic closer to her for warmth. “Morning,” Vil called out as he ladled water from a barrel and into a pitted old pot.
“Good morning to you, and thank you for the bed. Did any woman ever tell you you snore?” Martine cheerfully tweaked him as she rummaged through her clothes at the foot of the bed. Finding the warm leggings she sought, Martine pulled the curtain closed to get dressed.
“You’re the first,” Vil shouted over the makeshift wall. “Rose hip tea or hot goat’s milk?”
Goat’s milk sounded revolting. “Tea—” Martine began, only to suddenly awaken to the implications of the man’s words. “Wait … am I the first one to tell you you snore? Surely you’re jesting me.” Even as she said it, Martine realized it was none of her business. Damn, she chided herself. I’ve really stuck my foot in my mouth.
There was a cough from the other side of the curtain. “I meant that you are the first—umm—woman to tell me that. Although the arrangements were always … well … pretty much like last night.”
Martine remembered to think this time and decided not to ask any further questions. She was surprised her host hadn’t taken offense, especially since the man seemed possessed of a decided puritan streak. Perhaps he was trying to reassure her of his own intentions.
“Well, you don’t snore much,” she lied, hoping that would end the subject. She straightened out her tunic and stepped back into view.
Vil had just finished hanging the pot on the claw over the fire and was leaning against the mantel, carefully prodding the coals into life with a poker. A small swirl of embers rose from where Vil poked the ashes. “Ready for breakfast?”
“Mm-hm. It smells wonderful in here.” She wasn’t exaggerating; the air was tangy with the aroma of fruit and herbs. She took down the curtain to clear space for both of them at the small table.
“Cured venison, fresh cheese, whey, berry jam, and hardtack; tea or milk, as you prefer. I have a chance to make up for the meager table I set last night.” He laid out a simple meal for the pair, unwrapping cloth-bound packets of soft, fresh cheese and dry biscuits, followed by pots of thick jam and translucent whey. With a final flourish, he set a marbled haunch of meat in the center of the small table so that one leg wobbled perilously under the weight.
“Good meal, indeed!” Martine gaped. Pulling over the two chairs, she waited for him to say a blessing and then dug in. Eagerly she ate chunks of hardtack smeared with buttery goat cheese and red jam and topped with slivers of venison. Even the fresh goat’s milk, which she tasted dubiously at first, was refreshingly welcome after drinking only cold water and birch tea on the trail.
After a bit, when the silence made it apparent that Vil was rusty as a conversationalist, Martine asked, “Are you known among the gnomes?”
“We are … good neighbors, as I said last night.” Vil shaved off another piece of venison. “I respect their ways, and they tolerate me.” Behind him, the rekindled fire gave a popping sound as a pocket of resin ignited. “When I first came up here, I didn’t see a gnome for a year. I think they hoped I would go away. It was only after I built the cabin that any of the Vani came by.”
“Three years ago?”
He nodded as he finished his tea. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait that long. If we leave after breakfast, they should still be in council when we get to the warren. With any luck, they’ll see you today.”
This suited Martine just fine. She hurriedly finished her breakfast, only to have to wait until Vil finished eating. After helping him scrape the dishes and clean the table, Martine struggled into her coat and stood by the door, waiting.
“Have you ever been on skis?” her host asked as he laced up his coat, refusing to let himself be hurried.
“Yes.” Twi
ce … and the first time was when I was ten, Martine thought.
“Good. It’s time to go.”
Outside, in the morning shadow cast by the mountains, Martine, with Vil’s paternal advice, laced the ungainly boards to her feet and set out to follow him across the snowy hummocks, wobbling along, barely steadied by her poles. The route he followed led through an icebound world of alternating light and dark. Where it could penetrate the forest branches, the dawn sunlight turned the soft snow-clad outlines of trees and roots into a dazzling domain of white. Elsewhere, deep shadows quickly closed in and clothed the landscape in darkness.
The air was rich with the scent of pines. Martine’s skin prickled from the cold. The trees loomed over the pair, their white-dressed boughs locked so close together that the bottom branches were hidden permanently from sunlight, leaving them scraggly dead sticks occasionally tufted with needled clusters. The great trunks stirred with the wind till the forest echoed with muted popping and creaking sounds. Winter birds confided secrets to each other and warned of the passing strangers.
After they had pressed on for an hour or so, judging from the rise of the sun over the eastern ridge, and Martine was lathered in a fine sweat despite the cold, they struck a narrow path that twisted round gnarled roots and tunneled through arched brambles. The path was clearly meant for creatures much smaller than even the petite Martine. She and Vil ducked, bobbed, and pushed their way through the tangles until finally Vil pulled aside the last thorned branch and slid easily into a small clearing at the base of a steep knoll. The hillside was a tumble of granite shelves and trees clinging precariously to the slopes, all draped with snow.
The trail they were following led to the very base of the mound and then vanished—or so it seemed to Martine at first glance. In truth, the path ended at a cunningly concealed arch, shaped to match the jutting rocks that framed it. Set back deep in the opening were a pair of squat wooden doors of weathered gray pine, cleverly carved with vines and rocks so that their shadowed surface mimicked the summertime slope of the hill. Together the doors were almost as broad as they were high.
