by David Cook
“I have been around for several hundred years, and you do not look like you’ve been here as long as I,” interrupted one of the oldest of the group before her. Those around him chortled and snickered while the old gnome thumped his cane at his own joke.
Martine flushed. “I mean the group has been around that long, not me. We try to keep peace.”
“You were sent here to rule us?” big-nosed Ojakangas asked, his voice filled with confusion.
“No … no, that’s not it at all.” The ranger threw up her hands as a gesture of her good intentions.
“You were sent to deal with the gnolls? Is that why you’ve come?” Jouka asked before she could continue.
“No, you misunderstand,” Martine said hurriedly as she turned to face Jouka. “As I explained, I was sent here to close the rift. I didn’t even know about the gnolls. The gnolls aren’t a threat to peace in the land.”
Once more Jouka stood from his seat, his face grim behind his black beard. “The gnolls attack us. Is that not a threat to peace?”
“Your peace, yes, but …” The ranger fidgeted, feeling miserably awkward before the council.
“Because your lands are not threatened, you mean, human,” Jouka said sarcastically.
Oh, gods, this isn’t going right, Martine moaned inwardly. Valiantly she tried once again to explain.
“It’s not your lands or my lands. It’s just that they’re, well, gnolls. Even if they were attacking the Dalelands, it wouldn’t be a Harper concern. People have to stand on their own. Harpers can’t do everything for everyone. There aren’t that many of us.” Martine felt exposed in the center of the floor, painfully conscious of her hands as she twisted the speaker’s rod. There was a reason she had chosen to be a ranger, born to the woods, and not an outgoing bard like many other Harpers.
Jouka wouldn’t relent. “So now that you have stirred up the gnolls, Harper, it’s not your problem,” he accused, his face almost sliding into a sneer. “We did not ask you come here, Harper. The Vani do not want to be pawns in your intrigues. We choose to live here to be far from big folk like you.”
A chorus of approval ran through the chamber. Jouka’s words had tapped a vein of outrage that ran through the younger Vani. Seizing the moment, he turned to face his fellows.
“The Harper says it is our problem! Very well, then I say we must fight the gnolls. We must drive them out of our valley!” the woodsman insisted. His eager audience, their unwrinkled faces gleaming with eagerness to prove themselves in battle, began to clap rhythmically in agreement.
The primitive swell threatened to overwhelm any possible debate. Finally Sumalo was forced to clamber from his high seat and reclaim the speaker’s rod from Martine.
“Silence! Silence, everyone!” Sumalo banged his ash rod on the wooden floor, his iron charms bouncing with each beat. Thump-jingle, thump-jingle. The beat repeated several times until the unruly younger gnomes in the upper tiers finally calmed down. “I hold the speaker’s wand, and we are still in the council chamber,” the priest chastised, his wrinkled face soured by the outburst.
“Vani, think of your wives, children, loved ones!” Sumalo boomed, his voice strong now. Rod in hand, he stalked a circuit round the council floor, his eyes fixed on the raucous upper tier. “War is not an easy thing. It is not like hunting a deer or even fighting a badger when it breaks into the warren. There are many gnolls, and they, too, are ready to fight. They will not run away simply because we kill a few.”
The elder paused, stroking his white beard while scanning the council chamber. He set the speaker’s rod before him like a staff, forestalling any interruptions. Finally he began again. “Our warren is strong and the winter is our friend. We should not give up our best strength. We can wait here. These dog-men will be weak and frozen before the spring comes. Let them freeze while we stay warm.” Older voices echoed their approval.
The logic was sound, Martine knew. The warren was the Vani’s best asset, an underground fortress the gnolls would find hard to break. Studying the faces of the council, however, it didn’t look as if the priest’s argument was carrying. Jouka’s call for glory and action was irresistible to many. Compared to it, Sumalo’s counsel of patience and cunning seemed weak and cowardly.
The debate continued, and Martine resisted every urge to leap forward with her advice even when the most outlandish claims were made. It was clear to her that the Vani were not a warrior people. Many of them, particularly the younger ones, had no concept of what a full-scale war against the gnolls would be like. Comparing the two camps, Vani and Burnt Fur, the ranger could tell the gnomes were outmatched in savagery, let alone sheer numbers. However, having already been dismissed by Jouka’s faction, Martine knew her words would carry little weight.
At last the speaker’s rod passed to Jouka. With its authority in his hands, the council fell silent, waiting to hear what he would say. Seated, with his head bowed, the young warrior spoke in a calm, slightly nasal voice. He framed his words with surprising coolness, not delivering the tirade Martine expected. “Elder Sumalo, you have spoken with the conviction of your age. You have said such a war would be dangerous, and I am sure it will be. But it is more dangerous to do nothing. The dog-men have killed one of our people. It is our right to seek revenge. I say no more debate. It is time to vote.”
Once again the council chamber echoed to the clapping of Jouka’s faction. This time, though, Jouka held the rod and would not relinquish it, so there was no silencing the outburst.
At last the old gnome reluctantly nodded, stung by the chorus of support Jouka received from the back of the hall. “Show the human out,” he instructed Turi. Slowly and stiffly, Elder Sumalo returned to his seat.
“As you wish, elder,” the rotund gnome replied as he slipped off the bench with a downcast look. “Bad business, this is,” he mumbled while hiking up his robes and heading for the door.
Martine was almost relieved to be escorted out of the chamber, feeling as helpless as she did during the debate. She didn’t need to stay to know how the vote would turn out. Jouka’s supporters were fired with the passion of war. Their voices would overwhelm the wiser arguments of those who knew better.
In the hall where the dance had been held, Martine found Vil at the center of a swarm of gnome children, still here while their mothers waited for the menfolk to end their business. With strong hands, the former paladin playfully scooped up a young gnome and hoisted him to the ceiling, an immense height for one so small. The child’s squeals of delight momentarily dispelled the pall of fear that hung over the hall as others clamored for a turn. Besieged, Vil greeted Martine’s return with a grin of relief.
“How about a hand with these children, Martine? Make yourself useful.”
“I’ve been trying to, blast it!” the ranger blurted in frustration. “But it looks like your friend Jouka—”
“Quiet!” the man warned softly as he hoisted another squealing child high overhead. “Not here.”
Looking about, Martine realized how frightened the gnome women looked. She had forgotten that they were wives and mothers, not warriors like her. Suddenly she felt like a mercenary who had been so long at war that she had forgotten the ways of a normal home.
Feeling as self-conscious as she had felt before the council, the huntress found a gnome-sized stool and perched upon it awkwardly. “How about a story, children?” A few came closer, but most hovered back, shy of this newcomer. Martine motioned for the women to bring their children closer.
She had just reached the point in her story where the heroine, not altogether unlike Martine, was facing off against the captain of a pirate ship when a flurry at the council doors heralded the end of the meeting. The women gathered their children against their starched skirts and waited breathlessly to hear the council’s decision.
The council filed out of the chamber in solemn order. Elder Sumalo was first, followed by the older members of the assembly. After them came the younger gnomes. Martine noticed very
little mingling between the cautious whitebeards and the quick-tempered younger members of the council.
Reko’s fiddle music stopped, and the few remaining dancers cleared the floor as the priest entered the hall. Sumalo’s face was set like stone; his color was pale, and his shoulders sagged. Finally he stood in the center of the hall and motioned the crowd to silence.
Thump, thump, thump. The priest banged his iron speaker’s rod for attention. The pounding was hardly necessary, but it punctuated the solemnity of the moment “Brother Vani, as leader of your council and voice of the Great Crafter, hear the decision of the council. By the laws of the last high king, there will be war.”
A collective gasp escaped from the throats of the women in the room. Mothers clung tightly to their children. A few crooned lullabies to soothe their infants, who sensed something was wrong in spite of their tender years. Wives sought out their husbands, and when they met, they spoke not a word. The younger women paled as they thought of their swains. Martine could see fear for their loved ones in their eyes. Old Reko brushed back his beard and struck up a mournful tune.
Martine leaned over and whispered to Vil, “I think I’d best see Krote.” She didn’t feel welcome enough to intrude on the Vani at the moment. The families needed time together, and she would only be in the way. She was aware, too, of neglecting the Word-Maker ever since her arrival. Against all logic, she felt she owed a good deal to Krote.
“Good idea,” Vil agreed. “I’ll go with you.” The pair rose and, after quickly stopping to bow to Sumalo, took their leave.
Outside the council room, the halls were chilly, since all the warren’s heat was kept sealed in closed chambers.
Why should I care about a gnoll? Martine asked herself as they made their way down a long hallway. She hadn’t told Vil her concern about leaving Krote in the care of the Vani. A few of the young gnomes on the council had looked hot-tempered enough to decide on a lynching. With passions running high in the warren, it wouldn’t take much to sway other gnomes into a dangerous mob.
If that happens, she thought, I don’t know what I could do to stop it. All the same, I have to be there.
Vil guided her through passages, down staircases, and around turns, gradually leading her into the colder regions of the warren. In these distant corners were the animal pens, root cellars, and storerooms, tucked far away from the brightly lit halls of the central warren.
At last they reached the sties. The tunnels here were old and unplanked, with ceilings of dirt supported by thick beams. The air had the stagnant smell of a stable, though a chill breeze provided some ventilation. The hallway echoed with the clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of a goat. A single magical taper, jammed into the earthen wall, gleamed steadily. The pens and their occupants cast unnaturally stark shadows, which fell away in a circle from the single pool of light.
“Word-Maker?” Martine called.
A guttural snarl came from the darkness. Removing the wooden taper, the Harper illuminated a small pen of bare earth covered with straw. Thick wooden planks made the bars of the cage, dividing her view into vertical slats of darkness.
“Word-Maker?” she called again.
“I am here, woman.” Martine heard a rustle in the darkness in the depths of the cage, and then a black shape crawled forward into the thin orange light of the magical taper. Krote emerged from the gloom, stooped nearly double since the ceiling was too low for him to stand. The gnoll flashed his long canines upon seeing the Harper, but Martine couldn’t guess if this was a show of rage or relief.
“You promised me safety, human,” the shaman snarled. He was bare-chested, his crossed belts and arm wrappings gone. The gnomes had taken his charms, necklaces, and all the signs of his god to prevent the shaman from calling upon Gorellik. The only symbols of the shaman’s office that remained were the thick-scarred tatoos around his eye.
“You’re alive.”
“This is an animal pen!”
“Word-Maker, I didn’t promise you comfort. I don’t remember you worrying about me back in your village.”
Krote settled into a squat. “I healed you and saved you from Hakk’s hunger.”
Martine jabbed the light stick into the ground. “By marrying me to him!”
Her outburst caused Vil to perk up his head. Until now, he’d been listening with only mild interest, unconcerned with the complaints of a gnoll. “Married?” he asked in the trade tongue.
“I did this so Elk-Slayer would not kill the female.”
Martine couldn’t see the grin on Vil’s face, but she clearly heard him speak. “By Torm, Madam Elk-Slayer—ooof!”
A quick elbow to his ribs put an end to his playful mood. “That will be enough from you!” she cautioned.
“Why you come here?” Krote asked.
“To close the rift. You know that,” the Harper answered as she shifted her weight and tried to guess what the shaman’s point was.
Krote shook his mangy head. “No, human. Why you stay here? You guarding me?”
“I came to see if you were all right I owe you that much.”
“Owe me? Why?”
It was obvious to Martine. “Because you saved my—”
“I know what I did,” the shaman growled in perplexity. “How do you owe?”
“Kindness for kindness,” Martine answered, equally perplexed that the shaman didn’t understand this simple concept. “You—”
Further explanation was cut off by a clamor that echoed down the hall. “I’ll go see what’s going on,” Vil volunteered. As Martine laid a hand on his arm, the former paladin added, “Don’t worry. I’ll try talk them out of anything rash, if that’s what they’re up to.” He hurried down the hall, stooping under the low beams as he went.
“What is happening, human? Have the little ones come for me?”
“No, not that.” Martine hoped that was the truth, but her voice, like her heart, lacked the strength of conviction.
“You think the little ones come to kill me.”
“No,” the woman lied badly.
Krote rocked with a barking, staccato cough. “I am your enemy, human, but you fear the little people, too, eh?” The shaman pressed close to the slats. He leered wolfishly so that his long canine teeth glowed dully in the unflickering light. “Let me go, human, or give me a sword to fight them.”
Martine moved away from the cage, shocked by the suggestion. “No!”
The shaman’s fingers wrapped around the thick slats. “Why? You have honor. You know the Burnt Fur are better, more honorable, than the little people.”
“Better? That’s not true!”
“I would kill for freedom; little ones kill for blood. Now who is better?”
“They’re not like you! They don’t threaten to eat you or marry you to impress the tribe. The Vani are afraid and angry. Your people attacked them today and killed a farmer. He hadn’t done anything to harm your people.” The Harper found herself leaping to the defense of the gnomes, of whom only moments ago she had feared the worst.
“I just don’t want them to do anything foolish,” the Harper added. With one finger, she nervously scratched patterns in the dirt. “I gave my word you’d be safe.”
A dry chuckle purred in the gnoll’s throat. “My people, your people—all alike,” Krote whispered as he slid into the darkness. After only a moment, he returned from the shadows and tossed something through the pen’s slats. Martine started and scooted backward. Krote broke into a dry laugh once more. “Look at it. It does not bite. Hakk was making it.”
Martine gingerly picked up the small object, which curiously felt both smooth and raspy to her touch. In the light, it flashed wheat-gold. She saw it was made from bundles of straw twisted and woven into a crude doll.
“Hakk make it for his cubs.” The gnoll’s voice was a gravelly whisper. “My people, your people, who is different?”
The doll was cunningly fashioned from scraps of leather and cloth. The head was decorated with two
specks of color for eyes, while two tufts of fur gave it wolflike ears. The hair was a thin daub of mud. Martine could imagine Hakk carefully mixing spittle and dirt until the texture was just the right consistency. In one knotted hand, the doll held a stone flake that looked almost like a sword. A braid of straw formed a belt; another scrap of fur made a loincloth.
Looking at the crude toy, Martine remembered the dolls her own father had made for her birthday, lovingly carved from a block of wood and then dressed in little gowns sewn by her mother. In her mind, she saw the image of Hakk, writhing beneath Vreesar’s blood-soaked jaws. A lump choked in her throat, and tears blurred her vision. Furious with her lack of control over her own emotions, she flung the doll away into the darkness. “No! Cyric’s damnation on you! You’re not the same! You’re not like the gnomes, and they’re not like you!”
As if to prove her words, Martine sprang to her feet, and as she hurried down the hall, she heard Krote chuckle grimly as he crawled once more into the darkness.
It took Martine little time to make her way back to the main hall, her natural sense of direction holding her in good stead. The other gnomes were gone and the hall was almost dark, but Vil remained, squatting on the floor in serious conversation with Sumalo. The pair rose as she approached and had said their good-nights before she even joined them.
“This way,” Vil said as he guided her down the hall to a door. “Sumalo’s arranged for us to stay the night. I accepted for both of us. It wouldn’t be a good idea to go back to the cabin tonight if the gnolls are about.” He pushed the door open and waited for her to duck through the short portal before following her inside.
The room was narrow and windowless, a claustrophobic little chamber. It was furnished with a bed, table, and chairs, all gnome-sized, but these were all pushed against the back wall and stacked on each other to clear as much floor space as possible. The floor was covered with two neat mounds of thick bedding.
