by David Cook
The slide of skis heralded Martine’s return. She said nothing about where she had been, believing it best that only she knew the stone’s hiding place. Vil was happy to get moving again and work out the chill that had seeped into his body. The dawn sun was breaking over the eastern mountains, but its rays only created bright glare and long shadows without providing any warmth.
“So where do we find Vreesar?” Vil asked as they skirted the snow-choked borders of a frozen pond, an extension of the low-banked river. A mountain fog, moisture freezing in the air, hung in the trees along the shore’s edge.
“We’ll try their camp first,” Martine answered. “I don’t think they’ve had time to move any closer to the warren. The gnomes didn’t see any signs of major activity—no smoke from campfires or anything. My best guess is that they’re still at the camp we raided.”
Krote spoke up. “They will not stay there.”
“Why not?” Martine demanded.
“Many died there. The ground is paavak—a place for evil spirits. Even Vreesar cannot get my people to stay.”
Martine trusted the shaman’s words because they made sense. Places of death, especially battlegrounds, were always dangerous, and not only because the dead might walk again. There was always the risk of being possessed by a vengeful spirit still haunting such areas. “All right. Then we’ll assume Vreesar’s somewhere between his old camp and the warren. With all those gnolls, the camp can’t be hard to find.”
Keeping alert for any tracks, Martine plunged into the woods, following a path that would form a loop around the warren’s east side. Sooner than she expected, they found the broken snow of a trail made by a number of creatures, all more or less following the same direction.
“Definitely gnolls,” the ranger whispered after a brief inspection of the tracks. “About twenty of them. See the snow in the prints? They can’t be more than a few hours old.”
“How about the elemental?” Vil asked.
Martine shook her head. “Not among these. Let’s go.” The woman didn’t like standing still. The gnolls could be anywhere. They might have looped back, or they could be stopped just over the next ridge. There was a thrill to the uncertainty of stalking that made her want to keep moving, especially when the prey was as cunning and dangerous as the gnolls were.
“Be ready, shaman,” she added. “In case we find them.”
The gnoll growled. Martine wasn’t sure what that signified. Word-Maker had assured her that he could get them a parley. She would rather have used a white flag, assuming such things were universal, but the gnolls, according to the shaman, didn’t understand the meaning of that gesture. Thus she found herself forced to rely on the shaman more than she liked. It made her all the happier to have Vil along, in case Krote decided to betray her trust.
The trail split around some tree trunks and branched off, with several lone tracks trailing off into the woods, but the main trail kept a steady course, angling toward a ridge that overlooked the east gate. The ridge was formed by a mountain spur that forced the river into a wide loop and formed the small bluff upon which the warren sat. The high end of the ridge, to the east, crested in a series of granite outcroppings that thrust through the snow like the exposed vertebrae of the mountain’s spine. A gnoll perched atop the rocks would have a clear view of the east and south gates of the Vani warren. Making a sensible guess, Martine figured the camp was somewhere just below the crest.
From ahead, there came a raven’s mournful protest. After that, it became completely silent. There were no sounds of forest animals foraging for their breakfasts, no bird calls of any type. Without speaking, Martine signaled caution. Vil drew his sword and held it close to the gnoll’s back, making sure the shaman saw his move. The Harper kept her weapons sheathed. She wanted to parley and could not afford any misunderstanding that might lead to battle.
Stealthily the ranger led them on, using all her woodland skill to avoid any noise. She winced with every crackle of Krote’s snowshoes. Soon they heard harsh voices through the trees, and then they saw their goal.
It was a new camp, as Martine had hoped. Though the ground was trampled with the tribe’s coming and going, only a few rude tents had been put up. The gnolls huddled in small groups, bundled in their furs, their weapons thrust in the snow beside them. A few were making an anemic effort to chop wood, but no fires smoked. It must have been a cold and hard night for the gnolls, she thought. They looked exhausted, which probably explained the lack of guards around the camp’s perimeter.
Martine beckoned Krote forward. “Remember, we’ve come to talk, not fight. You’ll die first if you betray us,” she whispered. The gnoll’s ears twitched, the only sign that he heard.
Stepping from the background of the trees, Krote raised his hands high. Several faces glanced his way, and those that saw him spread the alarm, creating a flurry that swept through the camp.
“Brothers of the Burnt Fur!” Krote shouted, his voice harsh against the coldness of the morning.
Growled barks rippled through the small packs of warriors.
“Brothers of the Burnt Fur, I bring the humans with me. They come to speak with the chieftain of the Burnt Fur. I call the chieftain of the Burnt Fur to come forth and speak for his tribe.” Krote crossed his arms, looking as regal and proud as his thin, haggard body allowed.
The gnolls swayed with indecision. Some took several steps forward, only to falter hesitantly as the rest of the pack hung back. Their eyes scanned the wood on all sides, looking for a trap. Swords and spears were cautiously drawn from the snow. It was obvious they did not welcome the shaman, but no tribesman acted with enough boldness to tip the balance one way or the other. They were confused, since the two humans were not enough for an attack, but there was no sign of an ambush. Yet the concept of talking was foreign to them.
“Varka,” Krote demanded of a small gnoll near the center of the camp, “is your chieftain here? Where is the one called Vreesar?”
Eyes blazing, Varka pointed toward the far end of the camp. Krote noticed something stir near the farthest tent. Movement defined the camouflaged shape of the elemental, reclined against a mound of snow. “I am here, traitor,” it droned in a leaden buzz. “You are not welcome.”
“I bring humans to talk,” Krote shouted across the camp.
“Humanz … more than one? I see the female. Who iz the other?” The elemental pushed itself up from the snow and slowly came forward in its stiff-legged walk. The gnolls drew aside and then followed their chieftain, bolder and more belligerent behind the fiend.
“He does not matter,” Krote said.
Martine stepped ahead of the shaman. “I come to end this fighting, Vreesar.” The wind swept away the quaver in her voice.
“End fighting? Why?” The creature cocked its head, as if curious. “It iz fun. I will kill you all, and then I will get my brotherz.”
The Harper took a deep breath. “No, you won’t. You won’t have the stone.”
Vreesar moved closer. Behind Martine, Vil slipped out of his skis, getting ready for whatever might happen next. “When you are dead, I will take the stone. It iz simple.”
“If you kill me, you’ll never get it. I’ve hidden it.”
Vreesar stopped at her words, its iciclelike facial ridges flexing in thought. Then its pinched face seemed to brighten. “I will make you tell me where it iz.”
Martine had expected this. She hoped her voice sounded as firm as her conviction. “It won’t work.”
Once again the elemental’s face flexed as it considered her words. Its claws tapped together like frozen chimes. “Why did you come?” it purred.
Martine’s shoulders softened as every contracted muscle in her body relaxed. “To make a deal—peace in exchange for the stone.”
“Peace?”
“Leave the Vani alone and I’ll tell you where the stone is.”
“Why?”
This question was also expected, and it was crucial. The elemental had to believe
and accept her answer. Martine had already thought out several replies, but now it seemed that only the truth would do.
“Because I don’t want them to die. This is not their fight, and I shouldn’t gotten them involved.”
“You did not choose anything, human. I fight them because I want to,” Vreesar said with a sneer.
“Then there’s nothing to talk about. We’ll fight you, and you’ll never get the stone, creature.” The Harper turned to go. She signaled for Vil and Krote to follow. The gnoll looked at her dumbly, but Vil nodded and also turned to leave.
“Wait, human,” Vreesar barked before the pair had gone two steps. “Perhapz we can reach an agreement.”
Still facing away, Martine smiled. Her bluff had worked. “Like what?”
“My slavez will not attack the little people.” With its alien drone of a voice, Martine had no way to gauge the depth of the elemental’s sincerity.
“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked, turning back.
“I am Vreesar.” This time she could hear the creature’s shock that the ranger would doubt its word.
“So?” Martine caught Vil looking at her, as if to warn her not to push things too far.
“An oath to the prince of ice!” it spat, frustrated at her rejection.
“So you swear?”
“Yez,” it answered venomously. “Now, human, there iz one thing I want.”
“What?”
The elemental pointed at the Word-Maker. “Leave me the traitor.”
Martine had no ready answer for this unexpected turn of events. A quick look at the shaman told her his opinion; the gnoll’s ears were flattened back in the fighting response. Beyond him, Vil shook his head almost imperceptibly from side to side.
“He’s a living creature,” the former paladin hissed. “You can’t barter his life.”
The Harper steeled herself to face the elemental squarely, her eyes focusing on its ice-veiled face. The thing’s tiny mouth rasped eagerly as it waited for her reply. Slowly she shook her head. “Krote is my prisoner. He’s not part of my bargain. He stays with me.” She still needed the shaman to forge a peace with the gnolls once this was all done.
“He iz mine! He iz one of the Burnt Fur, and I am hiz chieftain!” Vreesar shrilled. It started to lunge forward, claws outstretched.…
“The stone! Not if you want the stone!” Martine shouted even as Krote leaped backward to avoid the elemental’s icy grasp.
Vreesar stopped suddenly, held by her words.
“Harm him and the deal’s off,” Martine announced. Her sword was in her hand as if it sprang magically from its sheath.
Vil stepped forward to flank Martine, with Krote between them. Behind Vreesar, the gathered gnolls bristled, awaiting their chieftain’s word. The clearing was cloudy with their steaming breath.
Vreesar looked hungrily at the three before him. Its clawed hands flexed slowly. Finally it eased its body back until it was no longer in a hunter’s crouch. “You can have him, human. He iz worthlez.” The elemental stepped back and twisted its gleaming head around to address the rest of the tribe. “Let them leave thiz time, but if you see the traitor again, kill him.”
Several eager yowls of bloodlust rose from the pack, but most kept silent, as if judging the worth of their chieftain against that of their shaman.
Vreesar turned back to Martine and under its gaze, she suddenly felt cold. “Now, human, where iz the stone?”
The Harper was trembling so hard she wasn’t sure she could remain standing. “On the big island in the river. You’ll find a blazed trail that will lead you to it.” All three of them stopped breathing, waiting to see if Vreesar would kill them now.
The tiny mouth cracked in the slightest of smiles, as if sensing their fears. “Leave, humanz,” the elemental hummed. It pointed to a packed trail across the camp. “Take the short trail. No one will harm you.”
Martine didn’t wait for a second offer, but neither did she let her fears make her bolt. Warily she trudged through the camp, her gaze constantly moving from enemy to enemy. As they passed, each gnoll stepped aside slightly, although none were submissive. Neck hairs bristled, ears flattened, and growls rumbled in the throats of the dog-men. At first Martine thought they were directed at her, but then she realized most of their attention was directed at Krote, who was immediately behind her. The shaman walked stiff and tall, never once even glancing at those who threatened him. He seemed almost icy calm in the midst of their animalistic hatred.
As soon as the three entered the forest, they buckled on their skis and snowshoes. The only one who spoke was Krote. “I come with you until Vreesar leaves my people,” he growled, “but I am free.”
Martine shook her head. “That wasn’t the agreement. You’re free when you make peace with your tribe.”
Krote spat. “When I try, you said! I cannot try now. They will kill me.”
Martine shook her head. “Find a way if you want your freedom.” Her voice was firm. Vil, with his sword drawn, pressed it gently against the gnoll’s back.
The measured march through the camp became a hurried flight now that they were out of sight. The trail was well used, but coarsely broken. The skiers bumped and skidded over the trampled footprints of their enemies. In the packed snow, Krote had little difficulty keeping up as they hurried through the tightly packed trees of the slope.
The caws of ravens alerted them that something was up. Before the skiers could slow their pace, a coven of black forms swirled up, screeching, from a line of posts in the trail just ahead of them. A few of the brave birds stayed behind, unwilling to surrender their meaty prizes. The ravens pecked at a row of bloodless heads, jammed onto the ends of crudely sharpened stakes. They were small heads, smaller than a human’s.
“Oh, gods!” Martine swore. She couldn’t stand to look.
“Claim stakes. We Burnt Fur mark our territory with the heads of our enemies.” Krote’s voice echoed with fierce pride.
“We? You’re our prisoner now, Word-Maker,” Martine snapped.
As they sparred, Vil knelt to examine the gruesome display. He paused before one in the middle. “This is Turi,” Vil said softly.
Martine forced herself to look. The birds had done thorough work. The eye sockets of the head were empty, and most of the face was gone, except for a few frozen bits of flesh and the bloody strings of a beard, “How can you tell?” she asked quickly, trying to hold in her rage.
The man spoke with pain. He gently touched the beads woven into the beard of the little face. “Turi’s braids,” he explained.
“The little people will remember not to attack the Burnt Fur,” Krote predicted as they set out once more.
Fifteen
Aghast at what she had seen, Martine shoved the shaman back onto the trail. Krote snarled a warning as she shouldered past to resume lead. “Be careful, human. Someday I will not be your prisoner.” The Harper drew her sword quickly and, twisting about, let the blade flash in the sunlight. She said nothing but sheathed the weapon and laid into her skis, setting a brutal pace. After a mile of winding through the wood, even Vil, a better skier than Martine, was panting hard.
Just ahead, the trail broke out of the woods and plunged and plunged down a steep slope to the clear meadows of a marshy stream. Just as Martine was about launch over the edge, Vil pulled up short. “Let’s rest here a minute,” he insisted. Fiercely determined to match the Harper’s pace, Krote breathed shuddering clouds of steam from the exertion.
Martine stood poised on the brink of the descent, upset at the delay. The longer she stood, the less irritated she became as she finally felt the effects of her pace. The sweat of exertion quickly cooled in the bitter wind that swept up the slope, drawing the heat from her flushed skin.
Calm down, she urged herself. You can’t exhaust yourself here. There’s still too much to be done.
As she stood gathering her strength, Vil sheltered his eyes to scan the slope for the best route down. “That’s odd,�
�� he murmured suddenly. “What do you make of that?”
The warrior pointed a mittened hand toward a thick gray-white cloud that settled over the warren less than a mile ahead. Coiling arms of snow rose upward on spirals of wind, only to fall back to earth. It was like a storm blown down fresh from the mountains, but everywhere else the sky was clear. As the pair watched, the gray mass swirled and spread to swallow the adjacent trees within its white depths.
“It seems to be spreading in a circle,” the Harper noted with a sense of dread.
“Does your friend have any weather magic in his gear?”
The question caught the woman off guard. “Jazrac? I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s definitely not natural.”
Krote snorted. “Storms are things of cold.”
“Vreesar! You don’t suppose …?”
Vil nodded, his lips pursed tight beneath his ice-encrusted mustache. “Vreesar’s an elemental. He just might be able to stir up a storm like that.”
“Come on!” Martine launched herself down the steep slope. Rocks and trees sped past as she plowed through the icy snow. The Harper skied blindly, barely managing to stay erect. Suddenly the slope ended and the Harper hit the flat meadow, still on her feet. Skidding to a stop, she barely evaded Vil as the man shot past. Right behind the man came Krote, Martine quickly drew her sword and advanced toward the shaman.
“I must come with you or freeze,” the dog-man snarled as he struggled to stand at the bottom. “If you kill me now, there is no peace with the Burnt Fur.”
The Harper barely heard his threat. Seizing his arm, she shoved him toward Vil and then started across the frozen bog. Cursing, the gnoll delayed until Vil goaded him into a shuffling sprint, the fastest pace the gnoll could maintain.
The forest ahead of them abruptly changed. A billowing gray-white wall swallowed the forest one tree at a time. The swirling vortex seemed to reach out cloudlike arms and embrace each tree before dragging its victim into its dark depths.
They pulled to a stop, uncertain whether they should plunge into the whirling mass. The line between sunlight and storm was clearly demarcated. “What do you think’s happening inside?” Vil asked.
