by David Cook
Vil clapped a hand to his forehead. “Sorry. I forgot. The gnomes are celebrating the safe return of the search party tonight.”
“And they invited us?” Martine asked dubiously. “We were the cause of all their trouble, after all. Besides, I thought they didn’t like outsiders.” She was still tired, and the thought of several hours of socializing with the gnomes was already giving her the beginnings of a headache.
“I told you they were good neighbors,” Vil said, grinning. “Besides, they like parties. They use whatever excuse they can to have one.”
Martine looked at the rough outdoor gear she was wearing. “I didn’t bring clothes for something like that”
“Everybody will understand, I’m sure,” Vil countered. “Besides, they brew a very tasty hard cider. You could probably use a few drinks after your ordeal.”
That, Martine had to admit, was a point she could not dispute, and so, feeling bemused by the unexpected invitation, the woman finally consented to go.
Two hours later, Martine found herself in the entrance hall of the warren, the sounds of revelry all about her. The whiny music of hardrangers, curious fiddles with extra strings that droned like bagpipes, and a hurdy-gurdy echoed from the smooth wooden walls. Gnomes laughed and giggled as they hurried to the council chamber, adapted as a dance hall. Their fat round faces seemed festive enough, but to the Harper, it seemed their merriment was forced.
The din reached its peak at the doorway to the council hall, which was already jammed. White-bearded musicians scraped and bowed from atop a rough table made from several hogsheads and boards. Bungs hammered into the barrels beneath them flowed freely with strong cider. Courting couples danced a furious reel across the floor while the uncommitted lasses giggled and whispered as they watched the young swains from the shadows of the arches. The quadricentenarians of the colony sat on the foremost benches, nodding numbly to the drone of the hardrangers’ strings, their liver-spotted fingers rippling to the runs of the tune. Married men sat clustered around the taps, the air over their heads thick with pipe smoke. Behind them, in the higher seats, their squat wives looked out on the dancers, dreaming of times when they once whirled on the floor.
Only the martial figures lurking near the back walls belied the cause of the celebration. Jouka was there, still stiff and grim, even off duty. Gathered around him were a few other members of the rescue party, young warriors who savored the heroic image of their elders. Martine noted that shy Turi had distanced himself from his brother. The quiet one sat in a corner, hands fidgeting with the hem of his robe.
Before she could move any farther into the chamber, the woman was whisked aside by a cluster of gnome maidens. The little damsels cooed and fussed around her, the festive spirit of the hall giving them the courage to overcome their innate bashfulness. Martine found herself subjected to a flurry of questions. Did all human women dress like her? Did they dance? Did they all carry swords and curse like farmhands? What were the men like? On and on it went, till the ranger felt positively dizzy.
The Harper was relieved to see Vil, holding a broad-mouthed mug in one hand, rising a good two feet above the throng of smoking Vani. Breaking through her inquisitors to make her way to Vil’s side, Martine ignored the glares of the Vani men as she intruded into their clique.
“Ah, there you are, Martine,” the man cheerfully commented. “Drink?”
“Absolutely,” Martine said with relief. “If I have to answer any more questions, I won’t have any secrets left.”
Vil held up his mug and grinned. “I saw you trapped over there.”
The old men around them scowled at the Harper, though they said nothing since she wasn’t used to their ways.
Martine noticed their reactions. After a quick sip, she raised her mug. “You Vani make a fine cider,” she said. “This is the best I’ve had anywhere.” The words weren’t far from the truth, for the cider was crisply sweet, yet just sour enough not to linger thickly in her mouth. Already she could feel the strong kick it carried.
The gnomes near her nodded in polite acknowledgment. Apparently placated by her compliment, they returned to the serious business of socializing. Martine listened in silence for several minutes, then gradually began to ask brief questions of her own. Seeing that she had gained acceptance among the circle of elders, Vil went out to circulate among the feasters.
Martine’s conversation was limited by the growing intensity of the fiddlers’ tunes. The musicians segued easily from waltzes to polkas, with a liberal sprinkling of schottisches, hornpipes, reels, and furious jigs. With each round, the pace quickened, till finally the floorboards trembled with the thundering capers of the dancers. Martine gave up trying to shout over the din and savored her cider, letting the warmth of the drink blank out the pains, concerns, and tensions of the day. Spotting Vil nursing his tankard, the Harper topped off her own mug from the free-flowing tap and rejoined him, reeling only slightly as she strode across the floor.
“Want to dance?” she asked.
“What?” Vil’s beard bounced as his jaw dropped in surprise.
“I said, do you want to dance?” Martine repeated, more loudly this time.
“Me?”
“Of course you! The others are a little short, even for me.” Feeling the exuberance of the drink, the Harper grinned and tugged the man to his feet.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” Vil protested lamely.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoilsport. I don’t care if you’re one of those one-legged fachans that haunt the forest. Drink up,” she ordered as she tossed back the last of her cider. The fiddlers launched into a reel.
“I’ll never keep up with this!”
She hauled him onto the floor, ignoring his pleas. The gnome dancers cheerfully opened a space for the giant couple. “Just watch them.”
Before he could begin to absorb her advice, she seized his hands and swirled them into the high-stepping reel. Gamely Vil struggled to keep pace, his face an agony of concentration as he watched her feet and tried to match the whirling steps. As a consequence, he was always at least a half a step late, and forever doing higgledy steps to regain the rhythm.
They spun and crashed into the small couples around them like a tavern skittle caroming from pin to pin. Martine’s obvious enjoyment and Vil’s flustered apologies only added to the entertainment of the other dancers.
The song ended, but for Martine, it had been too long since she had released herself to such simple pleasures. The fiddlers, perhaps sensing her mood, launched into a rousing polka that swept the pair around the dance floor once again. Despite himself, Vil was managing to gain enough confidence in his simple steps to look up from her feet and smile occasionally, although his head still counted out the musicians’ beat.
With heels flashing, they circled the floor dizzily, Martine leading Vil through the capering steps. With its under-size furnishings and people to match, the warren became a child’s dollhouse. They whirled past wizened toadstools posing as solemn ancients, past dames dressed like dried pippin dolls, past warriors lining the walls like martial puppets, past courting lovers who teased each other like children. For an instant, all Martine’s cares evaporated with the soaring music. The fiddle bows flew faster as she shed her mantle of formal reserve.
When the polka came to a sudden halt, the Harper collapsed, panting, against her partner. His chest rose and fell strongly, slightly winded by their turns. She let herself savor the sharp tang of his sweat and feel the rough muscles of his chest.
Atop his barrel, the lead fiddler uncricked his neck, then threw his long white beard over one shoulder and placed the fiddle in the crook of his arm. While the other fiddlers rested, the old gnome coaxed the first aching chords of a mournful air from his instrument. Gradually minuscule dancers—warrior husbands and their wives, hopeful lovers, and aping children—crowded into the center of the hall. Martine held Vil on the floor as the dance began, her head still pressed close against him. Gently the dancers swayed about the floor, the tw
o humans at the center like a living maypole at a spring festival. Unconsciously, Vil’s arms closed about her.
The fiddler’s tune seemed to draw out the community’s concerns, the droning strings of the hardranger ominously rumbling of some future fate. The drinkers on the benches fell silent as the musician’s bow sang with the voice of the winter wind and the moonless night.
The music lingered in the air even after the last note died, and everyone held his breath, savoring the memory of the mournful tune. Finally the other dancers slowly stopped, but still no one spoke for fear of breaking the spell. Vil and Martine remained in their embrace, unaware how closely they held each other. Only slowly did the life return to the party. Then, with clear reluctance, Martine slid out of Vil’s clasp and allowed herself to be led off the floor.
“Dancing certainly brings up a thirst.” Vil’s words were strained as he picked a path to the hogsheads.
“The little fiddler was very good,” Martine said with equal awkwardness while trying to straighten out her rumpled clothes.
“That’s Reko, their bard,” the former paladin explained. “At three hundred and forty seven, he’s had a lot of time to practice.”
For a moment, Martine was taken aback, until she remembered that most gnomes lived well past three centuries or even more. The thought suddenly made her wonder how old the warren was. How long had the Vani laid claim to this valley?
Her questions were never asked, for at that moment, a pudgy youth stormed into the hall. In his rush, the gnome charged through the throng like a small boulder, startling one benchful of drinkers so that they almost spilled to the floor. The chatter in the hall suddenly ceased, though no one moved, fearing what they might hear.
“Father’s dead!” the gnomish youth blurted out, his eyes wide and voice breaking with tears. “Our farm was attacked by the gnolls. Hudni … Father … everybody’s dead!”
Ten
The revelers were struck silent. The clogging stomp of the dancers lurched to a halt, and the fading drones of the fiddle strings echoed down the wooden halls. Gossips hushed their prattle. Mugs ceased to clink. Ancients strained half-deaf ears to hear the next word, uncertain of what had already been said.
“Brother Buri, what has happened?” Elder Sumalo asked softly in his thin, wheezy voice. The old priest forced his way through the stunned gnomes to reach the trembling youth. Sumalo kept his voice calm and soothing to prevent the boy’s terror from spreading panic among the revelers.
“It was the gnolls,” Buri blurted, his fat cheeks quivering as he gasped for self-control. “Father and I were just finishing the chores—we were going to come to the dance—and I went inside, and then Father shouted that there were gnolls coming, and then he screamed, and then they broke down the front door, and I … I …” His words floundered as the young gnome’s voice broke, caught up in tears that trickled into his thin beard.
Sumalo gripped the youth’s shoulders, giving comfort in strength. “And?”
“I got away through the escape hole … but Father didn’t.”
By this time, the menfolk of the Vani had clustered close to hear the tale. Those of warrior age pressed closest and listened most intently. Martine, pressed back by the swarming small warriors, spotted Jouka, Turi, and Ojakangas in the forefront.
Jouka turned the youth away from Sumalo to face him. “Buri, how many of the dog-men were there?” Though Jouka spoke softly, there was no softness in his voice. His eyes were decisive and bright.
“I don’t know.”
“Think. Think carefully. We must know their numbers. Think of the warren here! How many were there?”
“Ten … maybe more. I’m not sure! There was a great white creature with them, though. It broke down the door.” The youth’s rotund body quivered as if it were going to melt in Jouka’s hands.
“Vreesar!” Martine choked back the name, but the warriors heard it anyway.
“Enough, Jouka,” Sumalo said firmly, rescuing the boy from the woodsman’s grasp. “Buri, you’ve had a hard time. Stay here with your cousins and sleep. Kara … Heikko … will you take the boy in?” The priest steered the youth toward a golden-bearded warrior and his stout wife. Their faces lined with concern, the couple wrapped their arms about the youth and led him away.
Satisfied the young gnome was cared for, Sumalo hurriedly turned to the Harper, his stocky body stiff with displeasure. “You know something of this?”
Martine nodded.
“Jouka, Turi … bring the others. We must have a council now. Mistress Martine, you will attend.” Elder Sumalo’s decision was quick and precise, and nobody, not even Martine, thought to question his authority as the white-bearded old priest began to march to the council chamber. “Reko, play something soothing,” he advised the bard in passing. The old fiddler nodded and set his bow to the strings. As Martine left Vil in the dance hall, she heard the strains of a gentle lullaby swell behind her.
The raucous dissonance of debate began even before the knot of gnomes who preceded Martine had clambered onto the tiers in the council hall. Worming through the spectators jammed around the door, the human woman reached the edge of the tiers at the council floor. All eyes were on her, curious and wary, but the debaters never paused to acknowledge her presence.
Over the buzz of excited voices, Sumalo finally made his voice heard, pounding the floorboards with the speaker’s rod.
“Speak in the common tongue!” the priest bellowed hoarsely to a knot of elders who spoke in a dialect so ancient Martine could barely understand it. “The outsider must understand our words!” A grumbled sigh ran through the Vani, but they complied with his command.
Elder Sumalo continued quickly before the pandemonium could begin anew. “The question before the council is what to do now about the gnolls outside. This human, Mistress Martine, has recently been their prisoner. I ask her now to tell us what she saw.”
His iron charms jingled as the priest waddled forward to present Martine with the speaker’s rod. Respectful of their traditions, she kissed the smooth wood before beginning her tale.
The hall was packed tight with gnomes, with the whitebeards in the lowest tiers, while the farmers and woodsmen filled the upper benches. Martine faced them, acutely nervous to be speaking before them.
Where do I begin? she thought, her mind reeling. Should I tell them about the rift? It was a Harper mission, and after all, Harpers and their jobs were supposed to be secret. It was a time-honored principle that the less said, the better.
The ranger decided to avoid any mention of the details of her assignment. The recounting began with the events of her capture. Martine’s audience craned forward, engrossed in the details. The Harper did her best to assess the number and skill of the gnolls. She stressed the actions of the Word-Maker, pointing out that Krote’s absence deprived the tribe of their medicine man.
Heads waggled when she reminded them of the prisoner. Voices thick with accents murmured darkly, but none rose to interrupt her. Sumalo listened impassively, his head nodding, while Jouka fidgeted and fingered his sword nervously. Turi, his ear cocked to catch every word, leaned forward attentively on his wooden bench.
The calm broke into storm when she described the arrival of Vreesar. Leaping to his feet, Jouka Tunkelo seized on her revelation. “A fiend—a thing of the elements? Where did this come from, human? What have you failed to tell us?” A chorus of murmuring, even from the white-bearded front tiers, supported his question.
Martine was on the spot. In situations like this, the ranger knew she had little skill to concoct a convincing lie. Holding the speaker’s rod aloft in a vain attempt to maintain silence, she explained, “He came from a rift in the glacier.”
“A rift? What does this mean?” queried a gap-toothed ancient in the front row.
Martine could feel the veil of secrecy slipping from her grasp. “It’s a hole between the worlds—between this world and the realm of ice.”
The explanation triggered debate as to
whether the council had heard her correctly. The discussions flew in heated whispers as the gnomes huddled in small knots, each trying to have his say without raising his voice too loud. Only Sumalo in the center chair nodded with understanding.
“Realm of ice? How do you know this?” Jouka demanded.
Martine hoped a little more of the truth would satisfy the gnomes’ curiosity. “Because that’s what I was told. I was sent to close it.”
“Sent?” The word rolled through her audience as they seized on its import
“Mistress Martine, you said you were sent. Who sent you?” Now even Sumalo, quiet up to now, joined the questioning. The priest’s leathery old face was wrinkled with concern.
Martine resigned herself to tell the whole truth. “The Harpers sent me. I’m a Harper.”
In the few previous times when she had revealed her affiliation, people had reacted in one of two ways. The most common was one of subdued awe. Harpers were the stuff of legends, most of which painted the agents as mysterious and powerful. Martine suspected the bards of the Harpers, of which there were quite a few, spread such stories intentionally, since a good reputation was an effective tool. The other reaction, not as common, was fear—the fear of the villain. Those same tales made clear the fate of Harper foes.
The gnomes were neither awed nor afraid. Instead, the room became completely silent. The old gnomes cocked their heads quizzically, wondering if they had missed something important. Some of the younger gnomes nodded their heads dumbly in a pretense of worldliness.
“And what are Harpers, Mistress Martine?” Sumalo asked for the benefit of the entire council.
Now it was Martine’s turn to be dumbfounded. It had never occurred to her that the Vani didn’t know about the Harpers. In her world, everybody had at least some inkling of the Harpers and their code. A peasant might have a false impression, but at least he had heard of them. These gnomes hadn’t a clue.
Martine wondered how to explain without making it sound sinister or arrogant. She had little time to ponder her answer. Taking a deep breath, she gave it her best try. “We—I mean, the Harpers—have been around for several hundred years—”
