by David Cook
“Yes … Word-Maker. The name means you’re a …” The Harper searched for the right word. Her grasp of the harsh gnoll tongue was rusty and far from fluent.
“The speaker for Gorellik,” Krote completed impatiently. In case the human didn’t understand, he plucked an amulet from the latticework and dangled it in front of Martine. It was a crudely carved animal head, similar to a hyena the ranger had once seen on the plains south of the Innersea. Fetishes of feather and bone dangled from it, leaving no doubt Gorellik was a gnoll god.
“Now, go,” the gnoll demanded as he tucked the icon way.
Martine lurched to her feet, wrapping the fur robe she’d slept in tight around her shredded parka. The thin winter sunlight did little to warm the air, and she had no desire to expose her healing wounds to frostbite once more.
The shaman moved aside warily as Martine stepped outside. Blinking against the ice-reflected sunlight, she surveyed the gnoll village. It was a meager collection of vulgar huts spaced in a wide circle around the edge of a roughly circular clearing. There were five huts all told. The nearest was typical of them all, built from old, stiff skins and strips of papery white bark lashed to a simple curved frame. Snow was mounded against the long sides in an attempt to provide some insulation. Smoke curled from a hole in the roof. By some trick of the air, the smoke rose into the sparse branches of the birches and massed there, a greasy pall that transformed the gleaming blue of the sky into a flat haze.
Yipping cries drew Martine’s gaze away from the lodge. A small figure darted around the edge of another hut and then stopped short at seeing her. Immediately on its heels came another. The second sprang upon the first from behind, and they fell tumbling across the churned snow. They were young gnolls—Martine wasn’t sure whether to call them kits or cubs—and were playing like children everywhere, though much rougher. Furry muzzles bit at each other in mock battle; then the one on the bottom grabbed a chunk of ice and smashed it against the snapping jowl of its playmate. The gnoll cub flopped back with a whimpering yowl, clutching its face, and the other lunged on top of it, pinning its prey with knees clamped against its chest. The victor barked and growled in triumph and then bounded away.
It reminded Martine of the way her brothers used to wrestle, though maybe without the biting. The thought came so naturally to mind that the Harper had to force herself to remember that they were not the same. These were her captors, and not even human.
Krote pushed her toward the largest of the lodges. The chief’s lodge looked no different from the others, only slightly higher and longer. The main distinctive feature was an arch of painted skulls that hung over the entrance. Invisible by night, the gaudily striped and spotted faces stared down at Martine now. They comprised all manner of creatures. Some, like the elk, bear, and griffon, she could identify. Others were mysteries, although the ranger guessed that at least two small skulls were those of gnomes.
Inside, the lodge was lit by the fire pit, whose dull glow made the hanging bones flicker and dance. The massed gnolls that had filled the hall the night before were gone, no doubt at the day’s work. Krote pushed Martine across the cool earthen floor until she stood once more before the chieftain’s platform.
Meticulously laid out on the far side of the fire in the brief space between the rock-ringed pit and the wooden dais was Martine’s gear. Her long sword, leather backpack, and a few sausages from Shadowdale were testimony to what little she had been able to salvage from the glacier. Ignoring the chieftain, who glared at her from his crude throne, the ranger eagerly scanned the gear until she spotted the ivory gleam of Jazrac’s dagger. Right next to it rested the dull black rock that was the seal’s keystone. The Harper’s spirits leapt with both relief and dread. The sudden panic that she might have lost the keystone was replaced by the realization that it was now part of Hakk’s booty.
“Wife, is this all your kaamak?” Hakk’s lips curled in a snarl as he spoke. There was no affection in his words.
“Kaamak?” It was a term the ranger had never heard.
“Kaamak!” Hakk repeated loudly as he jabbed a sharp finger at her goods before him.
Gear? Magic? Possessions? Martine thought desperately as she tried to fathom the gnoll’s words. She warily shook her head in incomprehension, trying not to provoke another outburst.
Krote interceded, his voice rasping softly behind her. “Kaamak … wife’s payment … gifts to the mate.”
“Dowry?” Martine blurted in Sembian, startled at the suggestion the marriage had anything to do with her wishes.
“Yes, dow-ry,” Krote responded with satisfaction, once more having difficulty with the foreign shapes of the Sembian tongue.
Martine goggled at him, too amazed to attempt any reply. The chieftain was acting as if she had agreed to this wedding, as if she weren’t a prisoner! I hope he doesn’t expect me to have any goats, she thought.
“Is this your kaamak?” Hakk bellowed, now infuriated with her impudence.
“Answer, female,” Krote hissed. “Be respectful to your mate.”
“Yes, those are my things,” she answered dazedly.
Hakk smiled with satisfaction and ignored her. He picked up the long sword she’d won from a captain of the Pirate Isles and jabbed it into the ground to test its blade. “The sword is good. I will keep it.”
Martine bristled. Winning that sword had cost her an ugly scar across her back. Perhaps noticing her reaction, Krote gave her a cautionary jab to remain silent.
Flourishing the sword, Hakk bit into one of Jhaele’s sausages, only to immediately spit it into the fire with a retching growl. “This meat is spoiled!” he pronounced, kicking the rest of the links into the fire. The coals hissed and spattered as the grease oozed from the casings.
“Those were good sausages, smoked and spiced, you fly-specked idiot,” Martine muttered under her breath, unable to repress her anger. This time the jab from Krote was considerably harder.
“Krote, I give you the dagger,” Hakk offered expansively after examining Jazrac’s knife. With an easy flip, the chieftain tossed it across the fire to land point-first in the dirt
“Elk-Slayer is generous,” Word-Maker said. “I will speak of your generosity to Gorellik.”
While Krote was busy with formalities, the ranger eyed the dagger eagerly without trying to show too much interest The dagger was her primary hope. If she could only place it with her scrawled plea for help, then Jazrac might learn of her plight through his crystal ball. True, he might be scrying the dagger right now, but if he didn’t find a letter from her, the wizard would probably give up.
“What is this?” Hakk demanded in brutal tones. In his clenched fingers, he held the pitted keystone of the rift’s magical seal.
“It’s—it’s nothing. Just a rock.” Preoccupied with the knife, Martine was caught off guard. She flinched inwardly at her halting reply, which sounded unconvincing even to her. She could only hope gnolls were no better at judging her emotions than she was at judging theirs.
Toss it aside, she mentally urged the gnoll. Just forget about it.
Hakk glared with curled lips at the simple rock, and for a moment, Martine held hopes she was right.
“Krote, why does the human come here to gather rocks?”
The shaman behind her sucked the air in between his fangs, clearly without an answer. Finally, he said, “Maybe she is like the little ones, the dwarves. They put much value on stones dug out of the earth.”
“Since the human came here to get this rock, what you say must be true. I will keep it.” With those words Hakk tossed the stone among the furs of his dais.
Martine winced. Krote had clearly guessed wrong, but too well nonetheless.
“It’s just a—a souvenir,” Martine stumbled over the term and at last resorted to Sembian. “I mean, something to remember things by, Chieftain Elk-Slayer. The rock is worthless. I mean, do I look like a miner?” Stepping forward with mock helplessness, the ranger hoped, perhaps futilely, that she mi
ght persuade the chieftain by playing up her own ignorance. In the dogman’s eyes, after all, she was only a human—and a female at that.
Hakk had let one ear loll as he cocked his head to listen. Before the gnoll could say a word, however, Krote spoke in suspicious tones.
“Brokka said the human had great magical powers, Hakk … that she shattered the tall ice.”
Across the fire pit, the chieftain grunted understanding as he eyed Martine sharply. “I keep this rock.”
Crestfallen, Martine realized she’d overplayed her hand and underestimated the gnolls, Krote in particular. The gaunt shaman didn’t know why the Harper wanted the stone, but he had correctly read her desire to keep it. Don’t show disappointment, she chided herself. Don’t let on they’re right.
“My power has no need for stones, Word-Maker.” Her words were a softly spoken boast, but one which she voiced with confidence, for it was the truth. All she really needed was her sword, and then Krote and Hakk would discover just how fierce an opponent she was.
Krote’s hard stare told her the gnoll had heard and understood her words. She noticed he kept one paw close to the dagger at his belt. She smiled slightly, just enough to show her pleasure at unnerving him.
“Take my mate out, Word-Maker. She has no more kaamak. Take her back to your lodge and learn her secrets,” Hakk grunted from across the fire pit where he had remained oblivious to the exchange. Stifling a bored yawn, the chieftain scratched at the fleas that infested his golden-furred hide and clambered lazily back onto his platform.
Prodding her in the back, Krote hustled Martine back into the cold daylight. A pair of female gnolls butchering a rabbit in the bloodstained snow eyed Martine eagerly, their knives flashing too suggestively for her taste.
“What is the significance of the stone?” the shaman demanded as he pushed the woman past the smoldering remains of a fire.
“It’s just a souvenir.” Martine gamely tried to stick to her story. The shaman wanted answers, and she wasn’t about to supply them. So long as that remained true, he would keep her alive, Martine figured.
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s my good-luck charm,” she said with cheerful defiance.
“Another lie,” the shaman shot back in a tone that showed no glimmer of humor.
“True enough,” she countered wearily. “If it had been lucky, I wouldn’t be here.”
“What is the rock?” This time the question was more a snarl, and Martine knew she’d better sound convincing. The only problem was she was too tired and afraid to think of something clever.
“I don’t know,” she lied again. “I was paid to deliver it.”
Krote furrowed his bony brow as he considered her claim. “Still another lie,” he finally said accusingly. “The Burnt Fur are the only people around here. You did not come to trade with us. The rock and Brokka’s story about lights on the tall ice—these two are connected.”
Martine didn’t bother trying to deny his conclusion. From the way the Word-Maker had countered every tale, it was clear she was too shaken by exhaustion to lie convincingly. In desperation, the ranger chose to remain silent and let herself be led across the clearing.
Krote asked no more questions, and for a moment, Martine hoped that he had relented. Then, just as they reached the small lodge that was her cell, the shaman stopped abruptly. With a swift move, he wrapped his rough fingers around Martine’s neck. She floundered in his strong grasp, suddenly choking.
“Human woman,” the gnoll snarled in methodically grim words, “if you do not speak the truth by tonight, I will stake you outside naked. Then you will talk—or freeze.”
Twisting in his grasp, the ranger finally sucked in a breath of frigid air. “You would heal me, then kill me?” she challenged. “No, Krote. You want me alive. I’m no good to you dead.”
Krote dropped his hand with a laugh. “I like you, human. You have much—umm—anger, strong feeling, for a female. That is good. In our tribe, females must be ready to fight to claim mates. The kits you bear Hakk will be strong and clever.” Laughter mingled with wheezing chuckles accompanied his claim. The tall shaman stooped to pull open the lodge’s door curtain.
Martine paled. Unschooled in gnoll ways, she still couldn’t miss the irony in Krote’s thin voice. The thought of bearing the spawn of a monster like Hakk shook her body to the core.
Still chuckling, Krote shoved her through the doorway of the lodge. Stumbling into the darkness, she let herself collapse weakly on the furs. Faintly she could hear the birch scroll, her letter to Jazrac, crackle beneath the layers of her fur bed and remembered the knife Hakk had given to Krote. Rolling over, she saw the gleam of the ivory handle jutting from the edge of Krote’s crossbelts.
Desperate plans raced through her mind. The thin shaman was clearly not a fighter, but right now the ranger doubted she had the strength to best a kitten. Guile was her only chance, if she could just think clearly.
“Who are you?” Krote demanded, interrupting her thoughts.
“I told you—Martine of Sembia.”
The shaman thrust a stick into the fire’s coals, just enough to make the end smolder, and Martine sensed the interrogation was about to begin in earnest.
“Why are you here?” The gnoll jabbed at the coals.
The truth, to a point, seemed her best response. “I crashed nearby.”
Krote raised one ear, though whether in interest or skepticism, Martine did not know. “Tell Krote about it.”
“A storm brought down my hippogriff.” Once again she had to resort to Sembian, not knowing the gnoll term for hippogriff.
“The storm on the tall ice?”
Martine guessed he meant the rift’s geyser, which from the base of the glacier must have looked like a roiling thunderhead. She nodded.
Krote pulled the stick from the fire and blew on the ember at its end until it glowed orange-red. “You are a spy for the little ones, right?”
“Little ones?” Martine slid back, trying to keep as much distance between herself and the gnoll as possible.
Krote smiled, his black lips pulled back to show yellow, cracked fangs and pinkish gums. “The little people in the south valley. They sent you here to spy on us.”
“No,” she said, emphasizing it with a shake of her head. “I didn’t even know you lived here!”
With a snort, the gnoll thrust the stick back into the fire, making Martine wonder just how sincere his threat had been. “My people have lived here since Arka, the chieftain before Hakk Elk-Slayer. Now the little people steal our hunting grounds.”
The shaman’s claim made no sense. Judging by what she’d seen of the Vani warren, the gnomes had been there a century or more, building and tending to their home. No gnoll chieftain, she guessed, could have that kind of lifespan.
“What do you mean, they stole your hunting grounds? Surely they were there first.” The Harper part of her, the part that always hungered for information, was speaking now.
“It is our right because we need it,” was the shaman’s sharp answer.
“Because you need it, the valley belongs to you?”
Krote’s long tongue licked his lips. “It is right of—rrachk-kiah.”
“Rrachk-kiah?”
The gnoll groped for an explanation as he unexpectedly warmed to her interest. It seemed as if he wanted to explain, to justify the ways of his tribe. Perhaps she had triggered a passion within him, part of what earned him the title Word-Maker.
“What is seen is owned,” the shaman continued. “The gods gave my people everything in the world. Everything we can see belongs to the gnolls. So the little ones steal our hunting grounds.”
“That’s … quite a claim.” Martine picked her words carefully, trying not to let any sarcasm creep in, despite the arrogant egotism of the gnoll’s beliefs.
“It is right. Why else would the gods make the world?” Word-Maker proclaimed.
A series of shouts from outside interrupted any need to reply. K
rote’s ears twitched as he stepped to the door flap and peered outside. The woman braced herself to spring at him while he was distracted, but before she could act, the shaman whipped out a knife. Involuntarily a savage growl welled up in his throat.
The chorus of barking yelps from outside intensified. The dog-man suddenly whirled, pointed the knife in her direction, and barked, “Stay!” before disappearing through the door flap. It wasn’t the ranger but something outside that had triggered Krote’s reaction.
Martine sat dumbfounded for a moment, but only for a moment. Scrambling to her feet, she hastily gathered whatever she could find that might be of use in her escape—furs, a pouch, a sharp stick, even a few trinkets from the walls. Wrapping them into a tight bundle, she paused at the lodge’s flap to listen before venturing outside.
Whatever was happening, it was important, judging by the noise. From the mingled chorus of barking shouts, Martine imagined the entire tribe had turned out. The words were unclear, but the excitement was obvious.
This is my chance, the Harper thought as she crouched low by the entrance. With luck I can make it into the forest unnoticed.
Pulling back the door flap slightly, Martine was greeted with a view of an assembled throng, their backs facing her. The massed gnolls, some robed, others bare-skinned in the cold, were gathered in the center of the clearing, their attention transfixed by something the Harper could not see. The gathering piqued her curiosity, but not nearly as much as the chance of escape. Grabbing her bundle, she slipped through the opening and edged her way along the front of the lodge, moving quietly in hope of avoiding attention. Her breath steamed out in tense bursts, and each crunching footstep made her wince even though there was little chance of being heard over the racket made by the gnolls, which sounded like battle cries and war alarms. Had Vilheim returned with the gnomes? Or was it Jazrac? Martine paused, hope rising that someone might be coming to rescue her.
Even as she stood eagerly waiting, the fierce war cries of the gnolls gave way to howls of panic, and the tightly knit mass of bodies abruptly exploded as the gnolls turned and bolted, those at the back thrust aside by others from the front lines. Females scooped up their kits and ran for the shelter of the lodges. Latecomers scrambled for weapons stacked near the lodge doors. Through a brief gap in the crowd, Martine saw Elk-Slayer, muscular and nearly naked, berating his warriors to form a wavering arc of spears against whatever approached.
