by David Cook
“If you kill me, you’ll never know,” she whispered. She heard him snarl, heard the clawed arm draw back. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone bone dry.
“Consider the human’s words before you strike her again, Hakk.” The voice came from the very back of the lodge, from deep behind the antlers, the skeletons, and the furs. It was clear and authoritative without being loud.
The chief’s arm remained poised. “I asked for no advice, Word-Maker.”
The darkness rustled, and from its perimeter emerged the speaker. As the creature neared, his features resolved themselves out of the gloom. Martine’s first impression was of a skeletal mockery of a living thing, even of its own kind. He appeared emaciated, with a sunken muzzle and bony pits for eyes. Mustard-brown skin was drawn tight over hard ridges, while patches of fur hung in stringy clumps from his long jaw. Unlike the others in the lodge, the stranger was dressed for warmth. Ragged ears jutted through gaps in a dirty scarf wrapped around his head. Bandagelike wrappings covered his arms, twining all the way down to his clawed fingertips. Leather straps, gleaming red in the firelight, crossed and wound over themselves to hold the rags in place. Where the straps crossed the backs of the gnoll’s hands, they glittered with spiked silver. Broad crossbelts of dark brown banded his skeletal chest. Each was decorated with metal studs and beadwork worked into crude designs of birds, wolves, and other symbols the Harper could not identify. They rippled in the lodge’s wavering light like things alive. A grimy bearskin cloak was draped over his gaunt shoulders. The incongruity of his dress made him stand out from the bestial crowd.
The gnoll came forward almost hesitantly into the light. As it had for Martine, the pack parted before the new arrival’s advance, shrinking back with his every step forward.
At the edge of the fire pit, just short of where Hakk stood, the challenger stopped. His black lips pulled back from his long muzzle in a brutal smile. From this distance, the Harper could see that fully half his taut face was etched with tattooing. Two purple-black scars radiated from one eye, the first cutting a wedge from his matted hairline, the other running down the length of his muzzle.
With the sweep of one long arm, the new arrival threw his heavy bearskin cloak off. It landed with a dull thud on the ground behind him.
“You may not wish to hear my advice, but a corpse tells neither truth nor lies.”
“It lies about another creature on the ice, mighty chief! We told you the truth about what happened. Nothing else is on the ice.” Brokka stepped closer to Hakk, leaning over the chieftain’s shoulder to hiss the words.
The chieftain took it as a cue. “You question Brokka’s word, Word-Maker?”
“I am sure Brokka saw what he saw.”
Clever, thought Martine. His answer ducked the chieftain’s challenge. Better still, it was beginning to appear as if Word-Maker wanted her alive. Tymora’s wheel seemed to be turning back in her favor.
“Then she knows nothing and is of no use to us. We will kill her for the meat.”
The Harper could see her chances doing an about-face again and refused to remain silent about her own fate. “Brokka did not see the death creature … the fiend. The fiend hunts us all.”
Barely had she finished the words before the chieftain threw his head back and burst into a chorus of baying yelps that sounded like laughter. The pack held silent for only a moment before the young curs began to yip derisively. The joke grew as they drummed the earthen floor with savage delight.
“This is our valley. No one comes here who does not fear the Burnt Fur. Let this fiend come if he does not fear our might.” Hakk’s boast triggered scattered howls of approval as the drumming faded in the hall. Then he turned once more to face Martine. “As for you, you will be meat in our stewpots.” The chieftain drew a knife of curved bone from its sheath.
“It is a shame to kill such a prize, Hakk Elk-Slayer,” the one called Word-Maker said, nodding toward the woman. Already tensed for the deathblow, Martine grew tenser still as she wondered what the gnoll was up to.
“I do not fear a shortage of meat for the tribe,” the Word-Maker continued, so softly he was almost whispering. “You are a great hunter and will lead us to game. You do not need to kill this scrawny human for our pots. Let her live, and we will steal the humans’ secrets from her.”
Hakk shook his head. “Humans are weak. They teach us nothing. She will merely be another mouth to feed.”
“But think of the fame you would gain with a human captive in your lodge. In all the tribes, the packs would repeat your name with respect around their fires.”
The chieftain paused and gave a sly glance toward the one called Word-Maker. By now the lodge had quieted as their audience slowly realized something was afoot.
“What other chief could rival you?” Word-Maker pressed on. “The human is a good omen. Brokka said the ice stopped moving when he found her. She might have great powers.” His long tongue licked greedily as the chieftain prowled before the fire pit, considering the Word-Maker’s words.
The scene swirled before her as Martine awaited the outcome. Blood loss, fatigue, and the raw grate of overtaxed nerves were overcoming the Harper. Only fear kept her conscious. The scene around her blurred until she saw only Elk-Slayer and Word-Maker standing before the glowing pit.
The chieftain stopped pacing and reclaimed his position on the wooden platform. Martine snapped back to full consciousness. “I have chosen!” Hakk barked loudly to the pack. Ears eagerly perked to listen, the gnolls ceased their murmured barking and focused their attention on the platform.
“Brokka, you are a brave hunter. You bring the tribe much meat.” At these words, the old gnoll smiled toothily at the rest of the pack. Praise from the chieftain probably translated into improved status—better meat, better females, Martine guessed.
The chieftain wasn’t done speaking, however. The ranger tensed again, fully expecting him to pronounce a grim judgment for her. “Let the tribe know I offer three fine robes and the first meat of our next kill for the human. Does my hunt-brother agree?”
Martine hadn’t enough skill to read Brokka’s emotions accurately and could only guess that the gnoll was surprised. Still, considering the honor just accorded, the gnoll was not in a position to refuse. “Elk-Slayer is kind. He gives me more robes than the human is worth.” Apparently the old gnoll knew how to play the game.
“It is good,” the chieftain said. The pronouncement ended what little bargaining there was. With cold yellow eyes, he sized up his new possession, still sprawled on the floor. “Word-Maker!” he roared.
“I am here, Elk-Slayer.”
“I claim the female for my harem. I will not eat the human unless she displeases me. Will this bring me honor?”
“A human female among your wives—every lodge will speak of it.”
Wives! Weak or not, the word electrified Martine. She was to be one of this brute gnoll’s wives? She was about to lurch to her feet to protest this arrangement when a cold glare from Word-Maker stopped her. The look was clear; it carried in it neither lust nor kindness, but rather a cautionary warning to stay out of something she did not understand. The Harper sagged back to the ground, quaking with anger that quickly turned to violent shivering as her weakened body finally surrendered control.
“Krote Word-Maker, say the words to finalize my claim.” The chieftain’s voice rang deeply through the lodge, triggering an excited buzz from the assembled tribe.
The gaunt Word-Maker nodded sharply and turned to the pack. “Hear the words of the servant of Gorellik. Hakk Elk-Slayer has claimed the human female. To take her is to challenge him. To injure her is cause for blood feud. This female is claimed. Gorellik approves this.” The words were recited as an old formula, familiar and easy in their utterance.
At first the tribe’s response sounded like a low grumble of snarled voices laden with discontent. The Harper’s ears proved wrong, however, as the growl quickly resolved itself into a rhythmic chant. The drum
ming of paws slapping against the earth rose higher and higher. Though the accompanying words were garbled by the clustered voices and unfamiliar phrases, Martine caught the unmistakable strains of a mating chant.
I’ve just been married! she realized suddenly.
The realization left her stunned, both by the deed itself and by the haste at which it had been accomplished. Married to a gnoll! Fortunately weakness and fear blotted out any thoughts of what her new duties might be, leaving only the vague realization of the hopelessness of her situation. Blackness swirled into her vision, leaving only the two, chieftain and shaman, before her in the firelight.
“Word-Maker!” her new husband barked over the rising chorus. “The female must not die. Heal her or suffer the consequences.”
The other gnoll bristled instinctively at the command, lips curling slightly to expose yellow fangs. Then, just as quickly, the Word-Maker recovered his composure. “I will do it,” he grunted with a nod toward the chieftain. “Take her to the spirit lodge.”
Someone seized Martine under the arms, tearing open the half-frozen bandage on her shoulder. Fresh blood oozed out through the crystals. Martine tried to stand, but her legs gave out beneath her as a new wave of pain assaulted her body. She could barely feel the ground as she staggered along, half-dragged by her captors.
Even the bitter cold outside did little to revive the Harper. Packed snow crackled as her captors led her across the clearing, jerking her upright each time she stumbled over the gnarled ground. In the dim light of the late-rising moon, they reached a little leather and birch hut, a round gray shape against the darker border of the trees. In a moment she was inside its steamy warmth. With ungentle grace, her captors dropped her onto a mass of greasy furs. To Martine, the flea-bitten pelts felt like down.
“Leave now,” a voice, the shaman’s, barked. There was a rustle of closing curtains, and the last of the cold blasts ended with it.
The ranger was already sliding into darkness and relief when cruel pain jerked her back to wakefulness. Eyes bolting open, she stared into the animalistic face of the Word-Maker as he squatted over her. In one clawed hand, he held a knife; in the other, he held bloody strips of clothing. There was a sharp tearing sound and more pain as he sliced away the frozen shreds of her parka.
In a matter of moments, her hands, shoulder, and toes burned like fire as the lodge’s heat penetrated her frostbitten skin. Martine’s muscles trembled uncontrollably. The gnoll pressed a bony knee into her stomach and snarled, “Lie still, human. I will not let you die.” The words were more threat than promise.
Finally the shaman finished cutting his patient free from her garments, leaving her gashed shoulder exposed. With a sharp claw, he scraped away the frozen blood and dirt in each gouge, releasing new welling streams that flowed down over her skin. With each scrape, the ranger felt hot jets of pain. Finally the shaman sat on her torso to pin her down. Martine ground her teeth in a futile effort to keep from screaming. Nothing remained of the real world but the gnoll’s grinning face and her own agony, until finally the pain was so intense it no longer mattered.
At last the gnoll stopped, and the spasms subsided. Dimly the ranger could see him holding an unfamiliar charm, circling it over her wounds. “Bones knit. Skin seal.” The shaman chanted his droning prayer over and over as he rubbed one hand over her injured shoulder.
Almost immediately the pain in Martine’s wounds took on a new dimension. The dullness of overstressed nerves transformed as new pains jangled alarms. Tendons and muscles shifted under the tingling fire emanating from the gnoll’s palm. Her whole arm jerked spasmodically as strange signals aroused her dormant muscles. Without stopping his prayer, the shaman slid his hand across the woman’s body, letting the power of his spell penetrate. Deep in her chest, Martine felt her ribs clutch and seize, then settle into a soothing numbness. The frostbitten fire surged in her extremities.
Then suddenly the pain, all of it, old and new, abruptly ended. The absence of any feeling was almost as excruciating as the pain itself. Dimly Martine realized she lay soaked in sweat, her jaw clenched so tight she thought it was locked.
It was done. Word-Maker took his hand away and ended his prayer with a final harsh benediction, then prodded and poked at Martine, examining his handiwork. “Gorellik has favored me, outsider,” the shaman remarked as he packed away his charm. “He has shown his blessing to a human and let us both live. Your wounds are healed.”
Martine barely heard the gnoll, so overwhelmed was she by the emptiness that replaced her pain. Thank him, a small voice within her said.
“Thank—thank you,” the Harper stammered brokenly. In a language she seldom used, her words were stiffly formed. The cold, the battles, and the healing had left her drained, until even speech was a prodigious effort. She tried to raise a hand, but her muscles were limp and helpless after her ordeal.
Word-Maker noted her effort and snorted as he stood, wrapping his dirty robes over his sharp shoulders. “I go tell Elk-Slayer of my success. I leave you here—unbound. If you try to escape, you will only freeze in the snow.” Saying no more he slipped past the door flaps and out into the night.
It’s an accurate prediction, even if I could get outside, the Harper thought, but I’m not helpless. If only I can get a message to Jazrac … a letter. He might scry and see it, even without the dagger.
That thin hope kept Martine from collapse as she slowly gathered the simple materials for the task. A half-burnt stick, scraped from the lodge’s small fire, became a pen, a curl of birchbark her paper.
Poised to write, Martine paused. I’m overreacting. I’ve made it through the worst, she chided herself. If I call for help now, that’ll be a sign of weakness. I’ve got to prove to Jazrac I can be a Harper. I can make it. I know I can.
Taking a deep breath to steady her hand, the ranger slowly scratched block letters on the inside of the bark.
J—
Hole sealed. Guest of gnolls. Will escape. Don’t worry. Not hurt.
M.
Finished, the ranger looked at the message with the addled confidence of exhaustion. I can do this. All I need is Jazrac’s knife, she told herself as she carefully rolled the bark into a tube and tucked it away out of sight.
Disregarding the fleas and lice, Martine pulled the furs around her and lay back, waiting for sleep to overtake her. Overhead, the whistling blasts of the wind shook the wicker frame of the hut till the necklaces hanging from its spars began to vibrate softly, chattering their tales. Just as she was about to drift into sleep, she heard a hissing wail from somewhere in the frigid night It was a cold voice that scoured the sky with its fiendish rage, and Martine knew the thing on the glacier was hunting.
Comforting sleep never came.
Six
Martine was awake again when daylight seeped through the cracks around the hut’s doors. The woman felt none of the relief rest would normally bring, only a blurry haze of fear and confusion. She couldn’t even remember sleeping. Perhaps she had, only to suffer dreams no different from her waking fears.
With the magical healing and what little rest she might have stolen, the ranger did feel somewhat stronger, although not fully herself yet. Martine gingerly touched the still unclosed wounds on her shoulder. The imp’s slash marks were smaller, crusted over, and free of infection, but the skin was still stiff, and each move risked pulling the gashes open. Clearly the damage had been more than the gnoll’s single spell could mend.
No fighting for me yet, she decided, not for a few days at least. She smiled ruefully. It was unlikely there would be any need to, at any rate. Weaponless and opposed by an entire tribe, her chances of escaping seemed dim indeed.
The ranger’s thoughts were interrupted by the stiff rustling of the door curtain. Bright sunshine illuminated the hut as the gaunt Word-Maker stooped to pass through the doorway. The wind swirled ashes from the ebbing fire, adding to the thickness of the air.
The gnoll held the door flap open with one lanky ar
m, draining the scant heat from the small lodge. He was still dressed as the woman vaguely remembered him from last night. The bindings wound round his arms and legs were not bandages as she thought then, but wrappings made from scraps of cloth and leather layered over buckskin. Thongs bound the windings like cross-gartered hose, reminding Martine of an impoverished courtier she’d once met in Selgaunt. Bits of fur and fabric hung in loose bits beneath the straps. In the light, Martine could see that the straps were spiked where they crossed the backs of the gnoll’s hands and wound through his fingers. It was ornamentation heightened to barbaric fashion, for the nails, gleaming silver, seemed incredibly sharp. She remembered his bare chest from last night; today it was covered by a dyed leather shirt, printed in block patterns that duplicated the shining nailwork of his cross-belts. The bearskin cloak of last night hung loosely from one shoulder.
“Good. You are awake, human,” grunted the gnoll.
Martine was too dazed to do anything more than stare wildly at him.
“Get up. Hakk wants you.”
The command jolted her back to the present. “To kill me?” the Harper asked warily. In all her years on various frontiers, Martine had never heard of gnolls taking prisoners.
“No,” the gnoll answered sharply, glaring at her with his deep-sunken eyes. “I have questions. If you are dead, it is difficult to get answers.”
But not impossible, Martine mentally added upon noting the unmistakable threat in the shaman’s tone. Perhaps she couldn’t tell when a gnoll was happy or distrustful, but threats were clear enough.
“Now get up, human. Hakk awaits.”
“I have a name, gnoll. It’s Martine … Martine of Sembia.” The fact that the gnoll preferred her alive gave the ranger heart, at least enough to put on a show of pride.
“Margh-tin.” The gnoll mangled the foreign-sounding syllables of her name. “Easier to call you human. I am Krote … Krote Word-Maker. Do what I say and you may live.”
