Soldiers of Ice

by David Cook

  Suddenly the woods rang with Vreesar’s buzzing rage, echoed by a chorus of howls from the gnolls.

  Martine waited for the man’s signal, and when it came, she launched herself into a blind sprint. “Quick—this way!” Vil ordered, shoving her farther into the woods almost as soon as she hurtled over the log. Blindly obedient, she sprinted on to fling herself down beside a frozen stream.

  “Ready!” she panted.

  The bow came sailing across the gap. Catching it before it crashed into the brush on the far side, the ranger moved down the bank a bit till she was behind their original position. She saw moving shapes, and without waiting to find out just what they were, she fired off a series of quick shots. A chorus of yelps and confused shouts came from the general direction of the movement. Then the shadows scattered once more into the woods.

  Working from cover to cover, the pair finally managed to put some distance between themselves and their pursuers. There was no doubt the gnolls were still on the trail—the sound of their savage voices was evidence enough of that—but the creatures no longer could risk open movement, thanks to the stinging warnings from Vil and Martine.

  Both humans were breathing hard and soaked with sweat, while their coats were sticky with pine resin from clinging to the cover of the tree trunks. However, neither was conscious of fatigue, being far too occupied with the chase.

  It was Martine’s turn to leapfrog. She darted across a half-shaded clearing, moving from shadow to shadow in an effort to remain unseen. Her efforts almost came to naught when a tall figure moved out from the shadow of a tree trunk directly ahead of her. It was a gnoll, his attention focused just slightly off to her side. Martine froze in the shadow of a rock ledge like a rabbit caught in the open.

  The creature moved slowly, its canine head hung low as its body hunched over with the unmistakable poise of a hunter. In one paw, it held a cleaverlike sword; in the other, a small shield poised half at the ready.

  Outflanked! The ranger instantly reassessed the situation, and indeed a quick scan of what she could see nearby told the Harper the beast was not alone. Dim, hulking shapes crept through the snow-draped woods to either side, barely visible yet close enough to respond to an alarm. Easing farther back into the shadow of the rock, she signaled Vil to stay down. They couldn’t risk a missed shot or a howl of pain that might alert the other gnolls. The dog-man before her would have to be taken out by hand. Martine silently drew her sword and waited for the stalker.

  The woman breathed only slightly faster than the gnoll stalked, waiting for him to close the gap between them. Not only did she watch him, but she also kept a wary eye on his brothers. When at last he had moved close enough to be jumped in a single sprint, the Harper raised her sword, only to hold back from the final lunge that would close the gap. She wasn’t concerned about losing her advantage over him, only whether she could drop him before an alarm was raised. She had to wait until the moment was right, a moment when the beast could die unnoticed by his companions.

  The opportunity came when the gnoll passed on one side of a drift formed from a fence of tall, dried grass. With the drift on one side and a rock outcropping on the other, there was no better opportunity. Holding her breath, Martine waited until the gnoll had angled past her and then sprinted the last few steps between them to spring on the gnoll’s back. With a single motion, she rammed the sword into its lower back, thrusting the blade under the ribs and up toward the creature’s heart, while at the same time seizing the front of its helm. Her fingers closed on the metal, and she savagely wrenched the armor downward. Stooped forward for the hunt, the stalker crashed headlong into the snow even as its snout was jammed into its chest. The pair plunged through the frozen crust, where the gnoll’s howl of alarm was muffled in the thick powder. Martine threw her weight onto the beast’s back, jamming its face into the snow while she thrust again and again with her sword. The creature kicked and squirmed, choking on mouthfuls of snow when it tried to scream, but she clung on, pressing herself close till she breathed the gnoll’s animal stench.

  At last the creature writhed no more, though the Harper gave one last stab to be certain. Remaining in a crouched position, she watched for signs of any rescuers, flicking her head from side to side like a cornered mountain lion, but nothing appeared. The drift had screened her from sight of the others. Creeping forward, she reached the point where the snowy mound tapered down. There she could see the stalkers fade in and out of sight, still intent on their goal ahead. She had broken the line without their knowing. By hand signals, she let Vil know what she had done and then, ignoring the cold, wriggled on her belly through the gap. Vil followed suit, taking care not to be seen.

  The pair burrowed like field mice for several minutes till they were sure there were no stragglers who might discover them. With a gasp of relief, the Harper sat up, the dying light of day shining on her as if she had surfaced from some deep, dark world.

  Momentarily free of their hunters, the pair made the most of the opportunity, running through the snow as fast as they could. They crashed down slopes, bounding half out of control, and skidded across frozen patches between the trees.

  “Where’d Jouka go?” Martine panted as they finally slowed their pace along the banks of a stream.

  Vil bent double, his shoulders heaving. “Probably … made for … the river,” he gasped between huge breaths. “The going should be easier there.”

  “Which way?” Martine asked, staggering so she didn’t fall. She kept her arms wrapped round her sides so they wouldn’t burst from the pain.

  “That way.” Vil didn’t point but set off in a stumbling jog. Sucking in a lungful of raw air, Martine followed after him.

  Vil’s guess proved right, and it didn’t take long for the two groups to join up at the frozen grass hummocks that marked the edge of the river meadows.

  Martine noted that no more than twelve gnomes were with Jouka … twelve out of forty who had started the day. There were probably a few stragglers in the woods, but there was no doubt that many of the Vani had fallen at the gnoll camp. Twelve gnomes, tired and dispirited, stood among the hummocks with the same dejected blankness beggars develop when they have lost all hope.

  “Is Turi with you? Or that wizard?” were Jouka’s first questions, the first asked eagerly, the second dark with the edge of threat.

  Both humans shook their heads. To his credit, the gnome took the news well, displaying none of the anger or fear he must certainly have felt. The other news was quickly shared, and word of the gnolls’ pursuit gave new life to the weary band of Vani. They laid into their skis in a desperate race for the warren.

  At every brief break, the gnomes strained their ears as they listened for sounds of pursuit Their efforts were not unrewarded. From the wooded ridge along the river came the barking exchanges of gnoll trackers as they picked up the trail. The intention of the marauders was clear to all in the group. That knowledge gave further strength to the little homesteaders, a strength Martine could not match.

  The Harper toiled to keep up, ignoring the fire in her sides as she slogged along in the flat-pressed tracks of their skis. Her fingers and toes were numb from cold, a cold that was steadily sapping her drive. Only Vil’s strong arm, which sometimes pulled her up the steep grades, at other times guided her across half-frozen streams, enabled her to keep up with the pack.

  By dusk, the race was in its final lap as the survivors neared the east gate. The snarling howls that rang through the eerily still woods told them the gnolls, fired by the lust of the hunt, were close at hand. Shrill barks were punctuated by the thick chop of metal against wood and the clang of beaten shields. Through the woods, the Harper caught glimpses of dark moving figures, awkwardly loping through the drifts. At staggered intervals, the creatures turned their muzzles up to bay at the fading sun.

  The panting group finally crashed through the last of the brush, all pretense of caution and silence forgotten, and plunged toward the hillside that held the gate. Huma
n and gnome floundered across the familiar ground, each drawing reserves from deep inside. At the front of the exhausted and dispirited party, Jouka hailed those inside with a gasping cry, his voice rattling with breathlessness.

  The Vani ahead of Martine shrieked in pain and abruptly sank to the snow. A feathered shaft jutted from his shoulder. Martine heard the hiss of another arrow passing close by her ear. A quick glance back revealed a tall, ragged bowman, its wolfish ears perked up with excitement, clumsily nocking another arrow with its mittened hands.

  “Archers!” the woman squawked in hoarse warning. It was hardly necessary; another arrow dug into the snow close beside the bobbing line of retreating gnomes.

  Ahead, the door cracked open cautiously as the gnomes inside peered out fearfully, alarmed by the cries and howls descending on them. Jouka’s barked commands urged them to greater speed, his voice harsh and coarse.

  Martine thrust a hand under the arm of the fallen gnome. “Help me, Vil!” The big man grabbed the other arm, and the pair heaved the gnome upright. The bearded warrior choked off a scream as the protruding arrow twisted in his shoulder. The two humans dragged the gnome across the last few yards. Vil’s shield arm, held high as a screen to protect them from the gnoll archer, jumped when a deadly shaft pierced its wooden face and jutted out the back side.

  The door gaped just wide enough for the trio to tumble through, slipping as they hit the polished wooden floor. Craning her head around, Martine saw a line of perhaps twenty gnolls already spread along the edge of the woods. The sudden thunk of arrows against the wooden gates testified to the presence of more than one archer.

  Martine tugged her ice-encrusted mittens free with her teeth while a throng of Vani threw their shoulders against the doors. The sight of the gate shuddering shut and their chances slipping away caused the gnolls to charge with savage abandon. The doors met just as the first of the huge beasts thudded against the heavy wood. A frustrated chorus of animal howls rose from beyond the gate, and then the pressure grew, while inside the Vani grunted and heaved against the surge.

  Slowly the Vani gave ground to the greater strength of the gnolls outside.

  “Look out!” Vil shouted as metal scraped against wood and a sword thrust through the gap. The former paladin sprang to the portal and hurled his mass against the parting gates. “Martine—the bar! Help them!” he shouted, rolling his head in the direction of a trio of old Vani who were struggling to raise a heavy wooden crossbeam over their heads and slam it home to lock the gate. The Harper sized up the situation quickly and bent to the task. With a heave, she got a shoulder under the bar. Small Vani hands groped behind her, scraping the beam over her injured shoulder till it felt like gravelly fire. With a loud bang, the bolt dropped into the metal brackets.

  The door shook and shuddered at the gnolls’ assaults but held firm. Everyone inside seemed to wilt with relief. Beside Martine, Vil sagged back against the gate in his wet clothes, his beard streaming with melting ice and perspiration. Her own her black hair was soaked with sweat. Her hands shook when she tried to steady them, and her breath came in uneven pants. At her back, the gates continued to shake as the gnolls futilely tried to batter them down.

  Throughout the hall, the Vani, numb with relief, made their way through the tangle of discarded skis and swords to collapse in the quiet, dark corners of the hall. Sumalo hunched over the injured, his hands bloody from healing the worst of the wounded. A pair of spinsters in black dresses dictated the work of a team of womenfolk, who scurried after Sumalo with buckets of steaming water and linen bandages. Hot water and blood slopped across the shining floor, running in pink streams through the cracks between the boards.

  “Vil,” Martine said urgently, “we can’t afford to rest yet.” Refusing to surrender to exhaustion, the Harper got her wobbly legs under her and strode among the spent gnomes, shaking them to action “Get up! Come on, don’t just lie there! You’re not safe yet. Pick up your weapons.” Grumbling, the gnomes rose and tottered about, gathering their gear. Vil heaved to his feet and put those who were able to the task of bracing the door. Runners went in search of beams, hammers, and pegs to reinforce it.

  “Where’s your damned wizard friend, woman?” Jouka shouted as he pulled at Martine’s sleeve. “He killed my brother!”

  Infuriated by the gnome’s tone, Martine wrenched herself free from his grasp, almost impaling her arm on the gnome’s spiked breastplate. “Let go of me! I haven’t seen Jazrac, and he didn’t kill your brother!”

  “Fiend’s fires he didn’t,” Jouka swore, his prominent nose flaming red, his eyes wild with passion. “Turi’s not back yet. Nobody even saw him make it to the woods. Your friend should have warned us Vreesar was coming. He was in the rear.”

  “I haven’t seen him, you—you stupid little midget!” the Harper exploded. The fear and exhaustion of the day stoked her irritation with the gnome into fury until she had to lash out.

  “Martine, Jouka! Now is not the time for this!” Vil thundered as he pushed himself between the two. “Master Jouka, direct your people. They’ll listen to you better than they will to me.” Separated from the Harper by the former paladin, the gnome growled angrily and bustled off.

  “As for you, Martine, back off,” Vil said, grabbing her shoulders and steering her toward the inner doors. She quivered fiercely against his grasp. “Turi’s still out there. Jouka cares a lot for him.”

  “Damn him!” the woman spat out, still not completely under control. “I mean, damn it all. He’s right. Where was Jazrac when we needed him?” The question hung without an answer.

  “You need rest,” Vil said. “Things seem under control here. Go get some sleep. I’ll alert you if anything happens.”

  “I’ll stay here.”

  “Go!” This time Vil’s words were not a suggestion. “Staying here will only provoke Jouka. Give him time to cool down. Get out of his sight.”

  “What about Jazrac?”

  “If you mean looking for him, forget it. We can’t risk losing anyone else. He’s on his own, just like Turi.” Vil didn’t wait for her to agree but walked the woman a short way down the hall, heading in the direction of their room.

  Eventually Martine found herself standing alone outside the small guest room. Although it wasn’t her choice, sleep was a good idea right now. Opening the door, she ducked her head and stepped over the threshold. Inside, the magical tapers had been covered and only the faintest light leaked through the hoods.

  “Hello, Martine,” said Jazrac, his melancholy voice whispering softly from the gloom.

  Martine slammed the door in shock. “Jazrac, where in Cyric’s hells have you been? What are you doing here?” Martine clenched the door handle, furious to see the wizard huddled on the bed before her.

  Jazrac looked at her. His once imperious gaze was lost in the gray hollows of his eyes. The regally manicured goatee and perfect coiffure were in disarray; bits of pine needles clung to his graying hair and beard. Streaks of sweat and pine resin covered his face. With clothes stained and only half-laced, Jazrac looked more like a drunkard than the proud Harper she knew.

  “Does anybody know you’re here?” the woman hissed, her back against the door.

  “No. I used a spell to get in,” the mage mumbled.

  Martine slowly crossed the room, still moving like a huntress. “Jouka wants your hide. I’m not sure I blame him,” she said. “What happened out there? The gnolls came right up behind us—right where you were supposed to be.”

  With a pained expression, the wizard leaned back and looked at the ceiling, avoiding Martine’s unforgiving gaze. “I … panicked.”

  “What do you mean, you panicked?” she shouted in disbelief. There had to be a better reason, she knew. Jazrac was a powerful Harper, a wizard. He didn’t panic.

  “I mean I panicked, that’s all! I ran!” Jazrac bellowed back, unleashing all his self-loathing on Martine. “When I saw them coming, I couldn’t do anything! I was afraid … afraid of Vreesar an
d dying and all that, so I forgot everything and ran. Do you understand now? Is that clear enough for you? Didn’t anybody ever run in your world—or did they all die gloriously?”

  “You ran? How could you? You’re a Harper—”

  “I didn’t want to die!”

  “—and Harpers don’t run!”

  “They just never tell anyone!”

  Jazrac’s last statement stunned Martine into silence. The pair glared at each other across the room. Each shivered with passion, struggling to control the rage within.

  Finally Jazrac spoke, his voice a pleading whisper. “Martine, I could have been here in a day with my spells. Why do you think I sent you here?”

  She shook her head furiously, as if to deny him any understanding.

  “I’m not a warrior,” the man continued with a touch of sorrow in his voice. “I’m not even a war wizard. I’ve spent my years reading scrolls and making magical artifacts, like the stones you used. I don’t fight. So when something needs doing, I make whatever device is called for and then I send someone like you to take the risk.”

  “You … you do that, and then you have the nerve to come up here and lecture me about what a true Harper should do?” Impulsively Martine stepped forward and slapped Jazrac hard across the face. Even as she did it, she cringed in horror at the realization of what she’d done. “Oh, gods,” she breathed. Lingering respect mingled with the knowledge the wizard could still break her career.

  A little of the imperious fire returned to the wizard as he sat up straight on the edge of the bed. “And I was right, too. You know it.” His pride faded as the energy to hold it drained from him. He was no longer Jazrac, her mentor, or Jazrac, the Harper, but just Jazrac, drained and flawed. Inside, Martine’s anger cooled along with her old fearful respect.

  “As I said before, Jouka wants your hide.” The ranger’s voice was no longer angry but cold and flat. “A lot of gnomes died in that ambush.”