by David Cook
Martine limped through the dim halls, wary because of the chance the gnolls might break through the defenders. The distant noise of battle mingled with fainter sounds—a baby crying, a confused murmur of voices. The normally warm warren was cold, the warmth lost to the night air through shattered doors.
At last she reached Krote’s pen, and she gave small thanks to Tymora. She had secretly feared that one of the Vani—Jouka, perhaps—might have taken it upon himself to rid the valley of one more gnoll, but that apparently had not happened.
“Word-Maker!” she called into the pen. “Come out here.”
The mound of matted straw at the back stirred, and a pair of feral eyes glinted in the dim light. “My brothers come. Is true, human?”
The woman undid the lock and quickly stepped back, her sword held ready. The lanky gnoll eased slowly from the pen, stiffly unworking his cramped joints, even though the ceiling was too low for the seven-foot tall shaman to stand straight.
Martine motioned him to start down the passage. “I don’t want to kill you, Word-Maker, but I will if I you force me to. Do I have your word you won’t attack?” The question was almost a demand.
Krote stopped his canine stretching to look at the Harper and then ask with silken cynicism, “Why should I believe your words? You said you would free me.”
“I will.”
“Why?”
Martine tossed back her stringy, short hair. “Because you’re the Word-Maker and you believe in your words—don’t you?”
Krote stood silent, ears twitching to the echoes that rolled down the corridor. “I give you my word, human. I will not attack. My people will kill me anyway.”
“Good enough. Now go—quickly.”
They hurried down the corridor, gradually increasing their speed to an easy lope. They moved through the dark passages toward the nervous din of the Vani. The hallways were deserted, not surprising considering the battle that raged through the underground halls, but it felt strange nonetheless.
Finally they reached the granary Jouka had chosen. The last of the refugees were just arriving. The way quickly became jammed with cloaked older Vani women, young wives cradling their newborns in swaddling, and children clinging to their mothers’ skirts. The council elders, too old to fight but carrying canes and swords, were directing the last preparations for escape, urging families to hurry as they finished bundling packs of food and blankets. Hostile eyes followed the gnoll, an enemy in their midst.
“Martine!” a deep bass rumbled from the hallway. It was Vil, with the last of the rear guard, sprinting down the hall. The gnomes of his command slipped into the room and immediately struggled to slip into the few remaining supply packs already prepared, all the while keeping an eye on the corridor.
“Now what?” Vil asked.
“We hope Jazrac can cast the spells needed to get us out of here.”
“You don’t know?” Vil’s face suddenly creased with concern. “I thought you had this planned.”
“Almost We just need a little luck.” With that, the Harper pushed her way through the crowd, peering over their heads for Jazrac’s tall form. At last she found him, looking somewhat confused.
Martine was shocked to see the normally resplendent wizard, a man who valued immaculate grooming as much as his spells, looking so haggard. His lean face sagged; his eyes made hollow depressions underscored by gray bags. Even the carefully groomed goatee that Jazrac could almost use like another finger jutted soullessly downward.
“Jazrac, over here!” She raised her hand high above the milling crowd. The wizard stumbled over to where she stood near the outside wall. He’d clearly slept no more than she had, though he lacked the energy the surge of battle had renewed in her.
“What are we doing here? Shouldn’t we be doing something?” the wizard asked in confusion.
“We are. I have an important question to ask you. When you sneaked back into our room after the raid, you used a spell, right?”
Pain crossed the wizard’s face. “Yes … a passwall spell.”
“Can you cast it right here and now?” The Harper pointed toward the nearby outside wall.
“As a matter of fact, I have memorized it again. But why—”
“Just do it! We don’t have time to talk,” Martine blurted with relief. “Just open a passage to the outside and get these people out of here!”
The wizard’s worn expression brightened slightly. “I am, as you have reminded me, a senior Harper.”
“Jazrac, you don’t have to playact for me.”
“Perhaps I can atone, if only in part, for past sins.… Please stand back, everyone.”
As Martine helped to clear a space around the wizard, Jazrac straightened his clothing. Then, his hands stroking the wall, the wizard uttered a series of garbled phrases. As he spoke, the wooden wall seemed to evaporate like water. Then the dirt, and finally a layer of snow, all faded into nothing. A hallway, broad by gnome standards, had been cut straight through the hillside. The howl of wind and a blast of cold air proved it was not an illusion.
“It won’t stay open for long,” the wizard said urgently.
“Jouka! Vil!” Martine shouted. “Guide everyone to the cabin.”
With a calmness bred by fear, the gnomes formed into lines and hurriedly filed through the magical passage toward the storm that raged outside.
Sixteen
The granary was empty except for Martine, Jazrac, and a handful of Vani who had volunteered to cover the retreat. They’d already barred the door with barrels of supplies and bags of flour. Martine knew the barrier couldn’t hold up to Vreesar’s icy blasts, but she had no doubt it would slow down the Burnt Fur. At their backs, snow blew into the room through Jazrac’s magical passageway.
“Get going, Jazrac. Use your ring to go and get more help,” Martine said once she was satisfied that everyone else was gone. “We’ll cover you.”
“I’m staying with you.”
Martine grimaced. “Look, this could get bloody. I don’t need any fake heroics now. Besides, we need you to go back to Shadowdale and get help dealing with Vreesar.”
“That can wait. Vreesar is here right now, and I don’t think he’ll leave until he’s done with us all. Like you, my dear, I choose my troubles,” Jazrac said with his old confidence. “I’m not running away this time. You need me.” He pushed her up the magical passage. “If we don’t get moving now, we’ll all be trapped.”
Martine threw her hands up in despair. “Fine. Play hero then.” She turned to face the Vani. “It’s time to leave, everybody!” The gnomes quickly scurried up the hall Jazrac had parted through the hillside.
As the wizard followed the little warriors, Martine said, “I appreciate your offer, Jazrac, but do me a favor. Be careful out there.”
Jazrac struck an attitude of mock pride, with one hand pressed to his chest. “Me? I shall be in no danger, my dear. I am still quite capable of taking on a few ignorant gnolls.”
Martine had to smile at the wizard’s display of confidence. “Just don’t get carried away—for old friendship’s sake, okay?”
“For … old friendship’s sake.” The wizard savored the words like a Chessentian wine merchant before giving his grandest bow and departing. Martine wistfully watched him go up the passage. She was surprised to realize she still felt some respect for the man. After one last check of the storeroom, she, too, hurried up the passage.
Jazrac’s spell had opened a route cleanly through to the outside, where the storm still raged, its fury unabated. The trampled path of the refugees was already half drifted over. Martine paused.
“Do we follow the others?” shouted Ojakangas, her second-in-command, pointing to the trail.
Martine shook her head. “Not yet. There’s a rope in my pack. Get it out.” She stooped to allow Ojakangas to reach inside and draw out the looped coils. Taking the rope, the ranger passed the length along to each warrior. “Hang on to it,” she said, “so you don’t get lost.” With that
, she drew her sword, ready for the fight she knew would come.
“I’ll go ahead. When you feel a pull, follow me and stay close!” Without wasting any more precious seconds, she plunged into storm, feeding out line as she went.
Without skis, the Harper blundered through the snow, stumbling in the footprints made by those who had passed through previously. At last she reached the end of the rope and tugged to signal the others forward. After several minutes, the rest of the rear guard had all joined her. “Any sign of the gnolls?” she asked Ojakangas.
“None.”
“The gods must still like us a little bit,” the Harper said with a frozen grin.
“Indeed. Thanks be to the Great Crafter,” answered the black-bearded Vani.
Three times the group repeated the procedure. Each time, Ojakangas reported no sign of pursuit. Then the storm stopped with eerie suddenness. At first Martine thought she had finally reached the blizzard’s edge, but that wasn’t it. The storm had simply stopped.
“Our escape has been discovered!” Martine called to those behind her. “Come here and find cover!” The gnomes lumbered through the snow to join her. As each arrived, she silently pointed out a position to keep watch. Jazrac she kept close at hand. If the wizard didn’t break again, his spells were her best asset.
“When this is over, you get yourself back to Shadowdale. Understand?” It was simply too much risk having the wizard out here fighting. They needed him to bring reinforcements.
Jazrac held up his hands. “Don’t worry. I have no desire to do this more than once.”
Hiss … thunk! An arrow tore at the sleeve of Martine’s parka, spiraling madly into the thick trunk behind her. There it hummed angrily as the shaft quivered in the wood.
“Down!” she shouted, throwing her shoulder into her companion’s side. She acted instinctively, with no thought of the man’s dignity. The pair flopped ludicrously into the snow.
“What in the hells—”
Hiss! Hiss! Several more shafts whipped overhead, right where they had been standing. One struck the same tree with a solid thwack, while the others clattered off into the branches beyond. A gout of snow kicked up as another arrow tunneled into the snowbank beside them.
In a twinkling, Martine tumbled off to one side. She saw Jazrac roll the other way, not a moment before the icy ground was churned by a fusillade of arrows. No more than twenty yards distant knelt three lanky gnolls, already drawing a bead on her.
Eschewing caution, the warrior woman sprang to her feet and charged the doglike archers, high-stepping through the snow as she screamed a war cry. With one hand, she whirled her sword over her head; in the other, her knife flashed in the dusky light. She heard the harsh music of a bowstring being released, but the shot went wide. The second and third fired, and Martine gave a start when an arrow hit her gut just below her sternum. The metal armor she wore saved her, glancing the rough-forged arrowhead off to the side.
Her seeming invulnerability was enough to shatter the resolve of the gnolls. The lead archer threw down its bow and ran, bolting an instant before her sword swiped through the air where it had stood. The other two broke rank with barking yips of terror as the wildly howling woman descended upon them. The tip of her blade carved a long slash through the ragged cloak of one, but the creatures managed to escape. Her battle lust departed with them, leaving her feeling drained and bewildered.
There was a huffing behind her, and Martine nearly thrust her blade into Jazrac’s stomach before she realized who it was. “Hold!” the man cried. “Save it for the gnolls!” Pushing her aside, the wizard traced a figure in the air, and from his fingers leapt a series of sparkling motes of light. They rocketed toward the knolls, sizzling the air as they went. Two struck the nearest dog-man in the back, spewing out gouts of blood as if it had been struck by arrows. Two more struck the second, reeling it around in a circle, but the creature staggered on. The last dodged and darted through a stand of saplings to strike the third full in the face just as it turned to fire another shot. The beast howled and dropped its bow, fingers clutching blindly at its shattered muzzle.
“Jazrac, get back!” Martine blurted, her battle instincts alerted by the sound of sprinting footsteps through snow. In a single move, she spun to face a charging gnoll, little more than a shadow against the snow. With one arm, she thrust out in a long lunge while her body ducked low beneath the creature’s high swing. Thwack! The dog-man’s blade hewed into wood, hacking splinters from the tree trunk beside the wizard’s head. The Harper’s sword drove into the beast’s chest, and the gnoll’s momentum almost toppled her before the blade slithered through its ribs.
The gnoll’s muzzle dropped open to show a fanged maw. There was a gurgling hiss as the flopping body slid down the length of her blade. Even impaled clear through, the creature wasn’t finished. One scabrous arm, reeking like sewage, swung out awkwardly for her, clipping the woman in the side of her helmet. Thick claws gouged futilely at the metal.
With a quick flip of her other hand, the ranger slashed out with a dagger. She aimed high, just under the dog-man’s muzzle, and was rewarded when warmth soaked her sleeve and the gnoll’s head lolled stupidly. Twisting, she let the creature fall. With one foot on its chest, she tried to pull her sword free, but the blade was stuck fast for the moment.
Even as Martine dispatched her foe, the others were embroiled in battle. Though she held only a knife, Martine unhesitatingly threw herself at the nearest creature, a big brute who had cornered Jazrac. The wizard didn’t stand a chance in close combat and had only managed to survive by dodging behind a tree trunk. Preoccupied with Jazrac, the dog-man was blindsided by Martine’s rush. With a pushing stroke, she drew her blade across the beast’s belly, slicing through layers of fur to the flesh beneath it. The startled gnoll tipped back its wolfish head and howled in astonished pain, leaving itself wide open to attack. Before Martine could strike again, Jazrac lashed out with his dagger. His grip was awkward, and the wizard left himself wide open to a counterstrike, but it didn’t matter. The blade dug into the gnoll’s chest, and the creature sank to its knees, gasping for life. Martine seized its helm and twisted its head back to deliver a quick coup de grace.
Swallowing, Martine stood a moment until her heart stopped pounding. Breaths of raw air burned her throat, but until the panic of the moment passed, gasping gulps of air were all she could manage.
Almost as quickly as it began, the battle was over. By the time the two humans were able to join the gnomes, the Vani’s skirmishes were ended. A quick assessment revealed three wounded, two minor and one serious one. He was a youth named Yannis, who had been hit in the gut by two arrows. That was bad enough, but worse still by Martine’s estimation was the fact that at least one gnoll had gotten away. Already the baying of the hunters was closing through the wood.
“We’re not going to make it,” a little bearded warrior grunted. “Not with Yannis wounded. You and the others make for the mustikka.” He pointed toward a thicket of blueberry bushes off to the left.
“And you?”
“I will delay them.”
“No, not you. Me.” Jazrac stepped forward.
“You, human?” Ojakangas said. He spat into the snow. “You ran from battle.”
“I’m not running this time, and I have a better chance than you. My spells can take out more gnolls than your sword can.”
“Ojakangas,” Martine said impulsively, “take Yannis and the others to the cabin. “I’ll stay here. The wizard goes with you.”
“No, Martine—”
“I’m going to get you back alive, Jazrac,” Martine promised as she wiped her blade clean. “We still need you to get help. Ojakangas, Jazrac … get going.”
Jazrac didn’t move. “No. You go. I’m staying here.”
Martine was about to protest, then hesitated. It was Jazrac’s choice and the noblest thing he had done so far. For all his faults, the man was still her superior, and she couldn’t deny him this chance to regai
n his own self-esteem.
The Vani had already completed a makeshift drag for the wounded Yannis.
“Get going,” she ordered.
“Good luck, wizard,” Ojakangas called back as he started off.
“Remember, I need you alive, Jazrac,” the junior Harper said simply. “That was the plan.”
“Plans change. A Harper has to be flexible. Now go.”
The gnomes had barely entered the edge of the thicket when the baying started up, close at hand. At the rear of the group, Martine lingered at the edge of the clearing, knowing she should stay with Jazrac. She saw the wizard turn, and for an instant, the ranger thought he was going to change his mind, but instead Jazrac turned toward the sounds of baying in the woods beyond and raised his arms. Twisted words flew from his lips, and a small flaming sphere formed between his fingers, then rocketed between the trees. Jazrac didn’t wait to see it hit but ducked low. Deep in the woods, the sphere burst into a fiery globe. The woods rattled with the crackling hiss of fire, and the air was permeated with the scent of burnt pine needles.
The searing flames roiled outward, catching several gnolls in its fiery wash. Fur and cloth, heated to the flash point, erupted in fire, and the screaming creatures flailed helplessly about like macabre torches. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the fire faded, leaving only a round melted scorch in the earth.
Even as the wizard was preparing to cast another spell, Martine caught a glimpse of silvery white movement through the trees off to the left. Madly she abandoned the gnomes and charged across the snow, trying to angle between Jazrac and the icy white form she knew was Vreesar.
“Jazrac! Look out!”
Martine barely had time to see the elemental raise its hands before a blue-white sparkle flashed from its fingers straight for her. The Harper dodged to the right without thinking, and the air cracked loudly as a beam of bitter frost crackled across the gap between them. Intense cold coursed like galvanizing fire along her limbs and lanced at her joints till her body curled and spasmed. A violent shock wave and a deafening thunderclap followed immediately, the air shattered by the precipitous drop in temperature. The Harper crashed into the snow, her body paralyzed, her ears screaming from the reverberations of the blast.
