by David Cook
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 Word-Maker 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 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 Word-Maker’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, “Wrists hurt. I could have killed you in the cave.”
Martine drew the bone-handled knife and absentmindedly 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.”
“That 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 Word-Maker’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!” Martine 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 Vil stepped through the center of the Vani line. Seeing her, he stopped abruptly. “By Torm, what happened?”
“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 Word-Maker?” 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, remembering to warn them about her pursuers.
Vil 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 gnolls 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 Word-Maker staggered a bit as he followed, but held himself stiff. His pride was fierce and far from broken.
“Treat him well, Vani,” Martine croaked fiercely as the gnome and prisoner passed by. “He saved my life.”
The gnome started to glare at the human disdainfully, but the passion in her eyes put him off. Chastised, he motioned the gnoll forward and the pair passed out of sight.
Shortly after that, Martine felt the drag lurch from the ground, towed by Vil and a pair of gnomes. Bundled and lashed in, she could only let herself be jounced along as the party began the journey home.
At some other time, the trip would have been too rough and uncomfortable to sleep, but now was not such a time. The rhythmic swish of skis over snow, the chill in her limbs, and the monotonous parade of green pine branches overhead lulled the Harper to sleep. She had memories of waking several times, though each was barely enough to lift the veil that lay over her consciousness. There was little notable about these brief moments of lucidity—the rattle of a woodpecker as it drilled into a pine, the burn of painful sunlight as they crossed a frozen meadow. There was a brief moment of interest as they passed a Vani farmstead. In her present state, Martine would never have even noticed it had not a pair of their party taken their leave here. The farm was a miniature warren, hidden in a hillock. Its only outward sign was a small door into the mound, hidden within a clump of birches. After brief good-byes and a round of drinks, the trek began once more.
Only a final jolting stop broke her dreamless haze after that. Groggily she became aware of the barely familiar surroundings of Vil’s cabin—the hewn log walls, the scent of woodsmoke, and the outline of a tree that arched over the cabin’s roof. Bound into the drag, the Harper could only wait impatiently as Vil undid the lacings. Krote was still with them, bound but unhurt, and although the gnoll’s pride was certainly wounded, Martine doubted the gnoll had expected any more.
“Vil, is there someplace he can be kept?” Martine wasn’t sure it was necessary to treat the shaman as a prisoner, but she also wasn’t quite ready to take the chance. Last night in the snow cave had been a matter of survival; now the situation was slightly different.
The former paladin scowled as he undid the last lacing, thinking. “Someplace, yes, but not in my house. The Vani will have to take him.”
Now it was Martine’s turn to scowl as she considered the wisdom in handing her prisoner over to the gnomes. “How do you know he’ll be safe?” she asked softly.
“They’re not beasts, woman,” Vil rumbled. “If he doesn’t provoke them, the Vani won’t harm him. You’ll have to trust them on this.”
The Harper wasn’t quite so sure about the gnomes, but she knew she was in no condition to be responsible for a prisoner. “All right, it’ll have to do,” she said with a nod before turning to the others. “Master Ojakangas, will your people take this prisoner and guard him? You can see that I am in no shape to do so.”
The broad gnome nodded. “This was expected,” came his taciturn reply.
“You said I would be treated well, human,” Krote hissed, furious at being turned over to his enemies. Ojakangas jerked the rope around Krote’s wrists, warning him to be silent
“I said you wouldn’t be harmed. You’re still my prisoner, Word-Maker.” The Harper was too tired to argue the point. Krote would just have to accept whatever happened. “Thank you, Master Ojakangas. Guard him well.”
Prevented from killing their enemy, the gnomes, Jouka in particular, set to the task of binding Krote with such relish that Martine worried about their intentions. Still, there seemed to be no effort to seriously mistreat the prisoner, and she said nothing more as she watched the gnomes leave.
Once the Vani were gone, Martine turned and went into the cabin. Her body throbbed; her fingers and face burned as the warmth of the cabin penetrated her frost-kissed skin. Her feet felt leaden and numb, sure signs of encroaching frostbite. Barely four steps inside the cabin, she collapsed in front of the fire and ungracefully fumbled at her boots. When they were both finally off, she thrust her feet as close to the banked coals as she dared. Heels propped up, she shed her improvised cape and pawed at the remains of her parka, peeling away the sweat-stiffened clothes.
“Thank gods we’re back!” the ranger said as Vil stomped through the door.
“Thank Torm indeed,” Vil wearily agreed. He selected tinder for the coals and quickly had a small, welcome blaze coaxed from the embers. When the fire was lit, he sat on the sooty stone hearth, where he carefully eased off his boots.
“Heat … I never thought I’d feel it again,” Martine moaned as she lay with icy feet almost in the fire. Tiny curls of steam began to rise from her damp woolen socks. Already her soles were starting to itch and burn as the frostbite was slowly driven out of her toes. Even that pain couldn’t keep her awake, though.
An untold time later, the woman surfaced from oblivion surrounded by the startling warmth of a thick comforter. After the comforter, the glimmer of firelight and the gnawing pain of hunger were the things she was most keenly aware of.
I’m dreaming, she thought, staring at the scarred rafters over the bed. It took several minutes to realize she was once more lying in Vil’s bed, buried deep in blankets and a faded goose-down comforter. Her host sat at his rickety table whittling curls from a block of wood. “Oh, gods,” she gasped as the dull ache of consciousness moved through every muscle in her body. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“All night and the better part of a day,” the big man said as he set down his work.
Martine sank back into the featherbed.
“Hungry?”
“Yes!” she blurted. She was famished.
Vil fetched a big bowl of broth and set it carefully in her lap, then remained hovering over her to see if she needed some help eating. Although the spoon was unsteady in her hand, Martine slowly and deliberately scooped up a few drops of the broth and greedily slurped it down, determined not to be fed like a child. The soup was fatty and over-salted but rich nonetheless with the pervading taste of smoked venison. Chunks of meat and fat and bits of ash swirled through the murky liquid, and it all tasted wonderful.
Only later, after she’d bathed and changed, did Martine finally start to feel human again. The gear she’d stored at Vil’s cabin provided clean clothes, and after a quick inspection of her ragged parka, she decided the best course was to burn it. The tears in the leather were impossible to patch, and she saw black specks moving in the fur trim—fleas, no doubt. The former paladin rummaged up a coat to replace hers. It was more than a little large, but serviceabl
e with some alterations.
With a sheet of foolscap and her writing kit, the Harper sat at the table. Finally, after so many days, she could compose a proper letter to Jazrac. So much had happened and there was so much to explain that the woman didn’t know where to begin—nor did she know just what she should say. The crash … the elemental … her capture by the gnolls … For what was supposed to be a simple job, I certainly made a hash of it, she thought ruefully.
Martine decided to use discretion.
Jazrac:
Your seals worked fine, and I have the keystone. The rift is closed.
I had a run-in with some gnolls, and I’m sad to report that Astriphie is dead. If you received any of my earlier messages, please don’t worry, because now I am safe. I’m in the valley of Samek. There’s a woodsman here who has taken me in. I will be back in Shadowdale as soon as the passes are clear.
Again, do not worry about me. I’m fine. Looking forward to seeing you again. Tell Jhaele I miss her ale.
Martine
That should do it, the ranger thought as she gently blew the ink dry. Taking the bone-handled knife, she set it upon a corner of the page. She wasn’t quite sure how long to leave the letter sitting out—at least a day, she guessed. “Is it all right to leave this out on the table?” she asked her host.
The big man shrugged. “That’s fine. We won’t be around anyway.”
“What?”
