by David Cook
“I know. I just don’t know what to do.”
In silence, each sought an answer. Finally Martine held out her hand. “Do you still have the stone? Give it to me.”
His eyes furrowed in puzzled suspicion, Jazrac hesitated. Then, pulling a leather sack from under the bed, he produced the keystone and laid it in her hand. The rock appeared no different from before. It was still pitted and veined with its own internal fires.
The woman went to the door. “Stay here till I come for you.”
Outside, the ranger hurried down the halls, hoping she could remember the way. At last she arrived in the cold, dirt-floored section that contained the animal pens. As she knelt beside a cage, she noticed Hakk’s doll, still lying in the dirt where’d she thrown it Carefully she brushed it off and pushed it back through the bars.
“Word-Maker?”
“I hear you, human,” echoed the shaman’s hollow voice from the other side.
“Do your people want war with the Vani?” she asked.
“Ask the new chieftain of the Burnt Fur,” Krote replied bitterly.
“The pit fiends take Vreesar! I mean your tribe … would they make peace?”
“The pack has no quarrel with the little people.” Martine heard a scuffling in the straw, and then the dog-man slid into the light
“If I give you the chance, can you convince your people—your pack—to make peace?” Martine squatted down to look Krote in the eyes.
“What do you want, female?” the gnoll growled.
“Will you?”
“The price is my freedom,” the shaman insisted.
“Only if they agree,” Martine countered. “Well?”
Krote licked his chops. “I will try. They may not listen to me.”
“Good enough. Now slide to the back again.” Despite the gnoll’s promise, the Harper didn’t trust him completely. As Krote crouched at the pen’s far wall, Martine cut the ropes that bound the door shut. Once the door opened, she signaled him out and then followed the stooped gnoll through the halls.
The pair retraced her path through the windowless corridors to the room where Jazrac waited. Krote bared his fangs at the gnomish women they passed along the way, taking delight in the way they shrank in terror against the passage walls.
“Jazrac, I need you,” Martine called from outside the door. “Now,” she added when the wizard did not respond immediately.
The door clattered open and the Harper wizard came out, tidying his disheveled clothing in a weak attempt to regain some smattering of his dignity. He paused, hands hovering over his doublet, when he saw Krote. “What’s he doing here?”
“I’ve got an idea,” was all Martine said. She was still angry with the wizard, uncomfortable even talking to him. Most of all, though, she couldn’t abide the thought that he might criticize what she intended to do. “You said Harpers should fix things. Well, I’m going to fix something.” She motioned Krote and Jazrac down the hall.
“Where are we going?” Jazrac asked as he fell in beside her.
“To the council chamber. I’m guessing that’s where Sumalo and the others are—making plans.”
When they approached the council hall, the somber tone of voices inside confirmed Martine’s guess. On entering the outer chamber, where the dance had been held, the three passed through a silent crowd. Wives of council members and some older gnomish children were clustered near the council doors, trying to catch every word of what was said inside. Around them orbited the smaller children, who didn’t really understand what had happened but sensed its importance from the reaction of their elders.
Now the Harper herself could hear the grim litany that echoed from inside.
“Buri?”
“He’s hurt but he made it back.”
“And Heikko?”
“I think he fell at the gnolls’ camp.”
“That makes seventeen.”
“Ojakangas?”
“He’s helping to guard the south gate.”
Martine pushed into the edge of the crowd blocking the door, with Krote and Jazrac following. A ripple of alarm spread through the crowd, and the gnomes parted like water before them. The women eyed Krote with fear, but their expressions changed to hostile scowls when they saw Jazrac. Stories of his role in the massacre were no doubt among the whispers that they passed from ear to ear.
The commotion at the door alerted those inside of their arrival. The hall, always before well filled with elders, was half empty, particularly the upper tiers. Those who were present sat near Sumalo’s chair, where the priest was carefully making notes on a birchbark scroll. All work stopped the instant Martine guided Krote into the hall.
“What are they doing here?” Jouka demanded of Sumalo, as if the priest had something to do with Martine’s arrival.
The priest set his quill aside. “Harpers, you were not summoned here,” he said sternly, “and you are not welcome. It’s because of you and your plots that I must add these names to the record of the dead.” The whitebeards around the priest loudly grumbled their agreement.
“It’s because of him!” Jouka cried accusingly, spying Jazrac. The gnome hopped down from the bench and stood with hands on hips. “Where were you during the battle, wizard? Where was your magic? My brother and friends died because of—”
“Elder Sumalo, I ask permission to speak,” Martine asked, trying to prevent the meeting from becoming a shouting match.
“—because of you, you craven—”
“Elder Sumalo, please!” Martine persisted.
Thump! The speaker’s rod banged on the hollow bench. “Jouka Tunkelo! Hold for a moment!” The force of Sumalo’s words silenced the gnome, though he remained rooted to the spot, glaring at Jazrac.
“Martine of Sembia, what do you have to say to us?”
Martine prodded Krote, and the gnoll moved stiffly to one side. The shaman’s lips curled with a slight trace of a fanged smile as he listened to the squabbling among his enemies.
“I have a plan to stop the fighting and get Vreesar out of the valley,” the woman began as she stepped into the center of the hall.
“What is it, human?” Jouka sneered. “Are you and the brave wizard there going to kill this fiend yourselves?”
Martine turned stiffly to face the belligerent gnome. “No … I’m going to give him this.” From her pocket, she pulled out Jazrac’s stone and held it up for the gnomes to see. “This is the stone Vreesar wanted.”
“Martine, you can’t!” Jazrac blurted in alarm as he stepped forward to try and reclaim the stone.
The ranger snatched her hand back. “I can and will, Jazrac. Harpers have a duty to solve problems, not let others do it for them.”
“But that thing will reopen the gate! What happens to these people then?”
Sumalo and the others shifted uneasily when they heard this news.
“I said I have a plan. Jazrac, do you have a spell that can get you back to Shadowdale quickly?” Martine pressed. She could see that the council was wavering, and she needed to make her point quickly.
“I can teleport with this,” the wizard said, meaningfully tapping the ring on his finger.
The woman breathed an inward sigh of relief, for her idea hinged on the wizard’s magical abilities. “Then my plan is this,” she pronounced, turning back to the council. “Vreesar wants the stone. Once the creature gets it, it’ll head back to the glacier. The elemental isn’t interested in you Vani or your warren. I’ll give him the stone and then he’ll leave.”
Jouka snorted. “What about the gnolls?”
“And the rift?” Jazrac added.
Martine had her answer ready. “That’s why I brought Word-Maker with me. He says he’ll get the gnolls to make peace—”
“I will try, human,” Krote growled, “in exchange for my freedom.”
Martine winced at the gnoll’s correction. Her plan was risky enough; she didn’t need to have the shaman make it sound any worse.
Elder Sumalo
stirred on his chair, his iron charms clinking. “As the wizard said, this creature called Vreesar will reopen this gate, and then there will be even more of them.”
Martine hesitated. The time had come when she finally had to give up her pride. Pointing to the wizard, she explained, “That’s where he comes in. Jazrac uses his ring to get more help from the Harpers because the job’s too big for me. We take the chance that reinforcements come in time.”
“Him? The coward?” Jouka scoffed. He turned his back and clambered back onto his bench in disgust.
“Yes, him.” Martine had no choice but to leap to Jazrac’s defense. “He simply goes home and gets help. You won’t have to rely on him to fight. And he doesn’t even have to come back.” Martine knew the words must have stung Jazrac, but when she looked at him, his face showed no sign of any reaction.
The elders stroked their white beards thoughtfully.
“And if Vreesar kills you and takes this—this thing?” Jouka demanded, still seeking fault with her plan.
The ranger was ready for this question, too. “I plan to hide it before we meet. That way he can’t just kill me and get the stone.”
Sumalo turned to Jouka and said, “If the woman is killed, her plan can still go forward. She is not needed after that”
Martine had not considered that. Thinking about it now was hardly comforting. She noticed that Jouka was smiling grimly.
Now it was Jouka’s turn to stroke at his beard as he leaned back on his bench and considered. The others on the council waited expectantly for him to announce his decision. Clearly, as one of the Vani’s few warriors, Jouka’s word carried great weight.
Finally the gnome leaned forward, placing his small hands on his small knees. “Since the woman wants to take the risk, I say we let her. Let the Harpers fix their problems. We risk nothing.”
Except a hundred more creatures like Vreesar if we fail, Martine thought grimly.
Fourteen
Back in their tiny quarters after several more hours of planning with the gnomes, Martine finished going over the particulars with Jazrac. The woman was overflowing with details—the likeliest places to find the gnolls, where to hide the stone, even what gate she’d use to leave. Vil listened with interest, saying nothing all the while she outlined the plan. He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his armor, his hair stiff with dried sweat. Streaks of brown-red blood soiled his tabard.
“Could I see it?” the ex-paladin asked, pointing to the stone.
Martine shrugged and passed it to him.
“This is what he wants, eh?”
She nodded.
Vil held it up to the light, turning it like a jeweler looking for a flaw in a diamond. “It seems awfully small to have cost so many lives.” He carefully handed it back to the Harper. “But then it always does.”
“With that stone, Vreesar and its kind could overrun the north,” Jazrac said ominously.
“I’m coming along with you,” the warrior announced. He rose and buckled on his hanger as if the matter was already decided.
“No,” Martine protested. “This is my plan, Vil. I can’t have you taking such a risk.”
“But you need me.” His voice was filled with self-confidence.
Martine did a slow burn. She’d already admitted she would need help to defeat Vreesar, but it wasn’t as if she couldn’t handle the meeting. “I can handle myself, thank you, Vilheim Baltson.”
“I know you can, but you shouldn’t be alone. You’ll need someone to watch the gnoll while you talk, just in case he tries something.” Vil adjusted the straps on his helm.
“The man makes sense, Martine,” Jazrac observed, even though Martine couldn’t help considering the wizard’s counsel suspect in such matters.
“You’re going to insist on this, aren’t you?” Sensing there was no winning, the ranger rose awkwardly from the floor, the weight of her armor making the move difficult.
Vil nodded in the affirmative as he tipped his chin back to finish buckling the helmet’s straps. “Call it my old paladin self. You need help and I’m duty bound to give it.” The words sounded a little choked as he fussed with the strap.
“Are you sure you’re not still a paladin?” she asked with mock suspicion.
Vil rocked the helmet on his head, testing the soundness of the buckles. “I can’t help it if I still think like one.”
“All right. It’s your choice. But I’m not responsible for you,” Martine relented as she strung her bow.
“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
Inwardly, Martine was relieved at the chance to have his company. None of the Vani could be spared to come along, so it would be just she and Vil.
Armored and outfitted, the pair took their leave of the wizard. Jazrac remained behind in the room, too mortified to face the gnomes alone. “Jazrac, don’t leave before I get back,” Martine said as they started through the door.
“I know—just to make sure everything has gone as planned,” the wizard concluded wearily as he closed the door.
It felt uncomfortable giving the mage orders like a child, but Martine was keenly aware that this was her responsibility. Uncomfortable or not, she couldn’t allow any mistakes.
Bound and guarded, Krote was waiting for them in the hall. The gnomes had produced his ragged arm wrappings from somewhere. Seeing how filthy they were, Martine was amazed the gnomes hadn’t burned them. Even the studded crossed belts had been returned.
“Untie him,” the woman ordered as one of the guards handed over the shaman’s charms.
“You can do that outside,” the gnome replied.
It wasn’t important, so Martine let it drop. The gnomes led the way. The warren’s hallways were empty and quiet, somehow missing the normal bustle of everyday life.
A great yawn swept over the ranger.
“When did you last sleep?” Vil asked.
“I don’t really know. Is it day or night?” Cut off from the cycles of light and dark inside the windowless burrow, the ranger had lost all track of time. Was it quiet because it was nighttime? Did the gnomes even care?
“It’s almost dawn,” their guide offered. The gnome led them to a section of the warren Martine had never seen before. How big is this den? she wondered. She’d heard of immense underground complexes in the wild regions of the Heartlands, but those were almost always inhabited by fell orcs and the like. Could it be that the gnomes were even greater tunnelers than she ever suspected?
Their arrival at a small doorway at the end of a long passage ended these considerations. There was a small alcove carved at the very end, and here two gnomes guarded the portal. The pair sprang to their feet guiltily, shoving the draughts board out of sight and clenching their stubby spears tightly. They eyed the party nervously.
“The cliffside entrance,” explained the guide with a nod toward the small door. The gate couldn’t have been more than four feet high and half as wide and was constructed of heavy beams bound by iron. A set of double bars lay firmly in heavy brackets at the top and bottom. Everything at this end of the hall was black and polished smooth by the touch of the years.
Their skis hung beside the door on pegs. The gnome quickly passed them to Martine and Vil. There were no skis for the gnoll, but the Harper had already arranged for a pair of snowshoes. The hall was too cramped for them to don their gear, so Martine motioned for the door to be opened while Vil’s lips moved in a silent prayer.
He’s still a paladin at heart, Martine realized suddenly.
The three gnomes set their shoulders to the top bar, and the scarred black beam grated as it slid aside. Next they dragged the lower beam from its brackets. When they worked the iron latch, the gate swung inward with a leaden thunk to open onto a small square of predawn light held in a frame of thick snow, a short tunnel-like passage to the surface.
“It must not be used much,” Martine noted as she peered at the patch of light at the end. The gnomes noted her words, but offered no comment.
> “It’s a bolt hole … an escape route. We’ll strap on our skis outside,” Vil said.
Bent almost double, the three of them half-walked, half-crawled up the four steps and onto the surface. Cliffside was aptly named, for the gate deposited them on a small ledge of a bluff overlooking the river. In the predawn gloom, Martine could see that the slope dropped away quickly and was thick with young birches that had gained a purchase on its steep sides. Below and beyond the dim light, she heard the creak and groan of river ice, while behind them, the gate thudded shut, followed by the rumble of the bars as they were slid back in place.
Drawing her bone-handled knife, Martine cut the shaman’s bonds. The gnoll eagerly flexed his wrists and rubbed them to get circulation back into his hands. With his superior night vision, the gnoll flicked his yellow eyes over the woods while his black nose crinkled, searching for scents the humans could never discern.
“Wear these,” the ranger ordered, thrusting the snowshoes into Krote’s hands. Vil held his sword ready while Martine strapped her skis on; then she did the same for him. Ice crackled softly under their feet as the party broke a path along the trail. The skis hissed through the powder, grinding on the hard chunks of ice that roiled up like waves on a frozen sea.
The trail wound along the river bluff, hairpinning several times before it finally reached level ground well away from the warren.
Upon reaching the flat, Martine signaled the silent group to a stop. “Wait here,” she whispered as if there were gnolls all about. “I’ve got to hide the stone.” She slid away into the frost-filled gloom of the forest.
“Take off your snowshoes and sit,” the former paladin ordered, motioning to the gnoll with his sword. As the shaman obeyed, Vil settled down for a long wait.
The pair spent what seemed like an hour in silence, listening to the hunting calls of the owls along the river, the last before their coming daytime silence. Once they heard a barking cough that alerted them both, but then the yellow gleam of eyes showed it to be a lynx irritated with their presence. The gnoll growled and bared his teeth at the wildcat to send it scampering into the woods. It was as close to talking as the man and gnoll got.
