by David Cook
“Warm, then,” Vreesar calculated, its icy brows tinkling as they knitted. “And they helped the human?”
“Perhaps.” Without better knowledge, the Word-Maker wasn’t going to commit himself one way or the other.
Martine didn’t like the sound of these questions and cursed herself for being helpless.
“Are these gnomes powerful?”
Krote shrugged in puzzlement at Vreesar’s question. “I do not know. They are little people and do not raid our land. Some think they are grass-growers and do not know how to hunt”
“Then they are weak.”
Krote shook his head firmly. “The stories of the Burnt Fur say the little people are strong in magic. If the stories are true, then they are powerful.”
Vreesar cackled, its laugh like shattering icicles. “I am magic. I am powerful. The little snow people are nothing, like mephitz, like Icy-White. If that iz all they have, they will be easy to destroy. We will attack them.” The fiend glared at the gnolls huddled near the fire pit, waiting for any to speak out against the plan. The frigid creature’s gaze was a fierce challenge none of the dog-men dared accept, and their silence signaled their acceptance.
It’s only a boast, Martine hoped as she heard Vreesar’s proclamation. It was bad to have let the fiend escape the rift. The attack on the Vani would be yet another black mark against her in the eyes of the Harpers. If a single one of these creatures could create such chaos, Martine knew she could never allow hordes of Vreesar’s kin to enter into the world. While the fiend ranted its threats and schemes, the Harper slid stealthily across the floor, moving in tiny increments toward Jazrac’s precious stone.
Krote’s ears flared at Vreesar’s declaration, his eyes suddenly darkening. Standing up to his full height until he almost looked the fiend eye-to-eye, the shaman alone rose to the challenge of Vreesar’s words. “Chieftain, we are one tribe. If we fight the people of the snow, many of our warriors will die, even with you to lead us. The little people have strong homes, dug into the dirt like the dens of foxex. The old songs called them fierce like the badger.”
“What iz badger?” The shaman’s point was lost on the otherworldly creature.
“A demon of the forest,” Krote explained. “The badger is small but fears no one, not even bears. The gnomes to the south are said to have badger blood in their veins.”
“No creature fightz more fiercely than Vreesar,” the fiend hissed.
Krote still wasn’t ready to relent. “And if Brokka is killed, who will take his mates and find game for his kits? Or Varka? Or Split-Ear? Attack the little people and many mates will howl for their dead warriors.”
“That iz the way of femalez,” the fiend droned unconcernedly.
Martine froze as the elemental turned to resume its place on the dais. She could only silently pray that it hadn’t noticed that she had crept halfway to the wall, or if it did, that it thought nothing of it.
“Great chieftain, it will take our warriors much time to attack the people of the snow,” Word-Maker hastily pressed as he tried yet another tack to dissuade the fiend from its plan. Martine almost believed the gnoll was trying to distract the fiend’s attention. If that was so, he was succeeding admirably, for the elemental wheeled about, its icy joints clicking as it moved.
Krote stepped forward to face the fiend. Though the gnoll was gaunt and tall, the fiend was even taller and thinner. The bones and antlers that hung from the arches tangled with the hairlike barbs on its head.
“The winter is hard,” Krote insisted. “There is little food in the lodges. Our warriors must hunt to feed our kits, or they will starve. We must wait for the snows to melt.”
Vreesar turned upon the shaman and hissed, “Wait? No … the ice makez the warriorz strong. They will attack now.”
“But what about the females?”
“They will fight, too, or starve. Femalez fight! Young onez fight. All of them!” the fiend buzzed furiously through clenched, needlelike teeth. “Give the femalez swordz and the young onez knivez. Everybody fightz. All of the Burnt Fur must fight!”
A murmur rippled through the assembled gnolls. Voices raised in both eagerness and fear. Though loath to concede it, Martine was impressed that the shaman stood his ground, refusing to give in to the fiend. They were still distracted, and she inched forward.
“You will kill the tribe,” Krote predicted. He clutched the icon that hung from his neck. “This is not the will—”
Krote’s words ended in the snap of his jaw as the elemental swung one lanky arm in a lashing backhand. The shaman’s head whiplashed to the side as he reeled backward for three steps before his legs half-buckled and he dropped to one knee.
The creature didn’t press its attack but stood watching the gnoll. “I am the chieftain and not an imp of the godz, like you, shaman. Do you challenge me?”
Krote’s lips rolled back to bare his fighting fangs, and the shaman tensed for the attack. Like all the others in the lodge, Martine was certain bloodshed was imminent. Word-Maker’s’s flattened ears twitched eagerly. A low growl rumbled in his throat as the hackles on his neck rose.
The lodge came alive with an undulating buzz. “Attack me,” the fiend taunted in soft whispers. Even as it spoke, the creature gouged long furrows in the dirt floor.
Then the moment passed, and Krote slowly lowered his head in submission.
“Good,” Vreesar breathed, making no effort to conceal its disappointment. “No more challengez.” It turned away from the gnoll and stood over the sprawled Harper. “No escaping either,” it said, noting her movements, then kicked her in the side to emphasize the point. Her body collapsed into the dirt, leaving Martine clutching at her ribs while her breath came in sharp bursts.
“Hot Breath, you have friendz in thiz valley of little people? Family? Are you ready to see them die?” The fiend squatted beside her, tilting its head owlishly to meet her tear-filled gaze.
“I know no one there,” Martine gasped.
The fiend grinned brittlely as it knelt close to her. “Perhapz you lie again. Tell me where the key iz, or I will lead my people there and kill them all.”
“There is no key.”
“There iz alwayz a key. Every door haz a key,” the fiend insisted, “and you know where it iz. Tell me. Think of your friendz, the gnomes. I will kill them unless you tell me.”
“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 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, Word-Maker 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 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 birch-bark. “Teach 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 Word-Maker demanded.
“It’s called writing,” Martine explained. In nearly any other circumstances, Martine 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.
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 Word-Maker 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. “These are all different letters you can practice later. Just do them in this order when you do.”
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, Word-Maker,” she assured him as the gnoll left the hut.
Martine flopped back onto the flea-infested furs as all the tension drained out of her body. “Tymora be praised!” she sighed. She’d done it. She’d tricked the Word-Maker 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.
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 clear 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 birch-bark 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. 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 gnoll’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 Word-Maker 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 Word-Maker spoke with the absolute certainty of tradition. His words silenced the gathered warriors as they expectantly awaited the outcome.
Vreesar 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. “That 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. “What 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.”
