by David Cook
Wheeling away from the icy streak the bolt had carved across the snowfield, the elemental turned on Jazrac. The wizard snarled something unintelligible to Martine’s ringing ears, and another series of fiery sparks flew from his hand straight toward the fiend. The buzz of the creature’s laughter filled the forest as the dazzling sparks faded before they reached their target.
“Your magic iz uselez against me, human,” the elemental buzzed evilly.
It was as if the words were a signal, for out of the woods advanced a line of gnolls. Their clothes were ragged furs. Some wore conical caps with dangling earflaps; a fortunate few had helms. Jaws agape and panting steamy air, they closed in for the kill.
Martine heaved to her feet and drew her sword. She still felt weak and unsettled from the icy bolt she’d barely avoided. She knew she couldn’t afford to be struck by another one of those, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Jazrac needed her help. She stumbled toward him unsteadily.
Two gnolls closed on her, hoping to trap the Harper between them. Her attackers quickly discovered they had miscalculated. Even with her nerves still twitching, Martine easily evaded their unschooled blows, although she couldn’t prevent them from flanking her on two sides. Even then she managed to hold them off, alternating lightning-quick thrusts from one side to the other. A swift lunge sliced the arm of one, sending him reeling back. That break in tempo gave her a chance to cast a look back toward Jazrac. The stalking line of gnolls had begun to charge, leaping through snowy drifts with yipping cries. Vreesar held back, apparently preferring to let the gnolls do its fighting. The dog-men knew their prey and sought to close the distance so their swords would have the advantage over the mage’s spells.
“Jazrac, look out!” Martine screeched.
The wizard looked up and then jabbed a finger of warning off toward her left. Concerned about Jazrac, she’d ignored her own predicament. The unwounded gnoll was crashing through the knee-deep snow, axe swung back to the side like a bare-knuckle fighter about to throw a two-fisted roundhouse. The Harper dropped to one knee as the axehead whistled over her head, ruffling her hair. With a quick flip, she turned her sword and rammed it backhand into the gnoll’s gut. The blade drove in with virtually no resistance till it hit bone.
The gnoll shrieked and continued its charge, blind momentum carrying it forward. Martine leaned backward to avoid the blundering beast, fiercely clinging to the sword hilt as the creature tumbled forward. She wrenched the blade sideways and twisted until the dog-man had spun almost completely around. Rolling back into the snow, she then planted one foot up against the gnoll’s midsection, just below her blade, and kicked outward. The gutted gnoll tumbled backward, axe flailing, and her blade slid free, hot blood steaming in the frigid winter air. Her attacker writhed in the snow, yowling mindlessly.
Martine’s other attacker, clutching its bloodied arm, broke and fled as she rose to her feet, chosing not to face her again.
Somehow Jazrac seemed to be holding his own, but the gnolls were pressing him hard on three sides. Suddenly the wizard put his hands to his mouth and uttered a tremendous roar, inconceivably loud. All along a spreading line, ice in the trees shattered and fell through the branches. Two of the dog-men, injured by the magical blast, clutched at their bloodied ears and flopped helplessly to the ground, while another staggered back, dazed.
Neither Martine nor the wizard waited to assess the results. As she plowed forward to dispatch the gnoll Jazrac had staggered, the wizard abruptly took flight just in time to avoid Vreesar’s slashing claws.
To Martine’s relief, the wizard shot upward. With Jazrac out of danger, she could concentrate on her own battles. She was alone now, facing Vreesar and half a dozen of the enemy. One was dying, one had fled, and two were crippled, at least for the time being. That left the one staggering from the effects of the magical sound blast and another somewhere off to her left. The fiend was the greatest threat, but he seemed more obsessed with Jazrac than her.
Hovering in midair, the wizard’s hands flew as he worked another spell. This time flaming darts appeared in his hands, and he hurled these at the elemental. Unlike his earlier effort, these did not fade but struck the fiend solidly. The icy creature shrilled in pain as the fire burned into it, and the unfinished magic it had been forming crackled uselessly in the air.
Martine was like the cold reaper collecting its due. A quick slash at the hamstrings of the staggering foe removed him from the fight. Moving past one of those the wizard had bloodied, Martine delivered a swift kick to its jaw, rocking its head with a satisfying snap, even as she faced off against the remaining uninjured foe. “Jazrac!” she bellowed, her hearing finally starting to return to normal. “How are you doing?”
“Holding my own!” The wizard twirled in midair, his arm raised to cast a spell even as Vreesar finished forming another of its potent ice spheres.
“Jazrac, look out!”
The icy sphere shot toward its target with a whoosh and struck the hovering wizard full in the chest. Without an anchor to hold him, Jazrac hurtled backward, encased in a blue, crackling aura, trailing frostlike sparks until he slammed into a thick pine with a sickening thud. Even as he ricocheted limply from the trunk, another sphere rocketed forth, grazing the wizard and throwing him into a tumble before tearing away half of the thick tree trunk. Wood and ice splinters showered into the snow, stinging Martine as they hit.
The wizard crashed to earth with an inert flop, gouging the icy ground in a smear of black ash and red blood.
“Jazrac!”
Heedless of the gnolls, heedless of falling shards, heedless of Vreesar, even heedless of the teetering pine tree wavering dangerously on its half-shattered trunk, Martine crashed through the drifts to the fallen wizard’s side. The Harper lay in a broken tangle, his back twisted in a way that was totally unnatural. His clothes were white and frost-coated, his finery brittle. The air smelled of blood and death. Martine didn’t bother checking further. She knew there was no point.
“Son of a bitch!” she screamed in the direction of the elemental. Her view of the fiend was blocked by the trees, but that had probably saved her up to this point. Martine quickly scanned the distance to where she thought she saw Vreesar, trying to guess the best route to close on the monster.
Crack! Crack! Crack! All thoughts of attack were cut short by a rapid series of splintering sounds overhead as the cold-blasted pine sheared loose. The shattered trunk swung outward, ripping away other branches as it fell. Another tree cracked and groaned as its shallow roots gave way, unable to support the weight of the fallen giant. The forest rang with the echoes of splintering wood. A mass of dark green and snowy white descended into the gap between the two adversaries, driving Martine back from Jazrac’s corpse. The two trees crashed to earth in flumes of pine needles and snow. The grit of broken bark stung her eyes.
“Woman!” Vreesar’s voice buzzed over the fading roar. “Thank you for the stone! I leave you now to get my brotherz!” From far off, she heard Vreesar’s buzzing laughter as the elemental faded into the night. “Tell the little onez I will be back!”
Seventeen
Everything’s gone wrong, Martine thought miserably. Jazrac’s dead, Vreesar has the key, and I can’t do anything about it. I should never have come. I’m not cut out to be a Harper, and now I’ve killed them all. The gnomes, Jazrac, Vil, me—we’re all either dead or as good as dead. Martine sat in the snow next to her mentor’s corpse in silent despair. The pain in her side, the arctic chill, the days without sleep—all added to her feeling of utter hopelessness. All she had to do was sit here among the drifts and slowly let herself sink into death. It would be so easy.
It was the yipping calls of the gnolls that roused her. She and Jazrac had beaten back one wave of them, but already another was forming. Soon they would sweep through, following the trail of the refugees.
This isn’t right, a voice within her said. This isn’t the way Jazrac died. He died fighting for his beliefs
. Get up, woman. Die fighting, like Jazrac. Die like a Harper’s supposed to die, the voice urged.
Blindly, automatically, the Harper lurched to her feet. Her hands felt as if they belonged to some other creature, and her side tingled with the cold. Feeling it was her duty, she futilely tried to drag the wizard’s body with her, but his chest was wedged beneath a fallen branch. The body wouldn’t budge. In her daze, the ranger managed to remember the ring, the one Jazrac had planned to teleport with, but even that was buried beyond her reach. Cold hands scrabbled at the snow, trying to reach the wizard’s lifeless hand, but it was to no avail. The gnoll calls were coming closer; Martine couldn’t wait any longer.
Sword in hand, the Harper crashed through the thicket, alternately ignoring the thorns that scratched her face, then cursing them when they caught her clothing and slowed her down. Smaller than even Martine, the gnomes had chosen paths that were nearly impossible for her to follow. More than once she dropped to her hands and knees to crawl through a gap in the thick thorns. Her only consolation was that the route would be even more difficult for the gnolls who followed.
When she was finally out of the brambled ravine, it still took the Harper almost an hour to reach Vil’s cabin. Snow borne on a stiff night wind helped to cover her tracks, but the same wind froze her blood-dampened clothes stiff.
“Martine! Jazrac!” a voice cried ahead of her and slightly off to the left.
“Over here!” the ranger tried to shout back, but the words choked in her cold-parched throat. Even speaking hurt through her chapped wind-cracked lips.
They must have heard her, however, for within moments, tall Vilheim, accompanied by a pair of diminutive gnomes, stormed into sight, weapons held ready for battle. Spotting the Harper wading through the snow, the man rushed to her side while the gnomes fanned out in both directions.
“What happened?” he demanded, his voice a mixture of relief and concern. “Where’s the wizard?”
“Jazrac’s dead,” she mumbled. “What are you doing here?”
“Scouting.”
A wolflike cry echoed through the woods.
One of the two gnomes skied to a stop alongside the humans. “They’re coming, Master Vilheim.” Fear filled his voice.
“Lean on me, Martine.” The warrior pulled the woman’s arm over his shoulder, holding it in place with one hand while he wrapped his other arm around her waist. He was still on his skis, and she was surprised he could remain balanced, the way her weight tipped him off center. Nonetheless, Vil managed to half drag her along with him.
When the cabin came into view, a dim glimmer of light in the darkness of the woods, Martine was relieved to see the gnolls had not yet discovered the place. Heads bobbed back in forth in the flicker of torchlight. The woman thought the clearing around the building seemed slightly larger than before, but she couldn’t decipher why. As they neared, Martine saw a good deal of activity outside and then realized what had changed. A crude barricade filled the center of the clearing, surrounding the cabin. It was constructed of thin-trunked trees chopped from the clearing’s edge and heaved into place. In spots at the edge of the clearing, the concealing underbrush was cut or trampled for several yards into the woods. The gnomes had been industrious in the short time since their arrival.
Panting, the group reached the solid logs of the barricade and began scrambling over it. The howls of pursuit were clear now, and the Harper could catch glimpses of movement through the trees. Outlined by the glow from the cabin windows and the torches, she knew they were easy targets. The hiss and thunk of an arrow into one of the logs confirmed her fears. Two, then three more whistled out of the night. One of the Vani screamed as an arrow struck him squarely in the shoulder. The little man toppled into the compound.
“Get him!” the Harper croaked to the gnomes guarding the perimeter, pointing to the injured gnome, who sat dazed in the snow at the base of the barricade. “Vil, are there any archers?”
“Not enough.” Noticing that the Harper did not carry her bow, the man thrust his wooden longbow into her hands. “Take mine. You’re probably a better shot.”
The wood was cool and smooth under her fingers. Instinctively Martine field-checked it, sliding the bowstring between her fingers, checking the mounts at top and bottom. The bow was supple, the string a little overstretched, but it would do. Vil stepped behind her and gripped her shoulders in his gnarled hands, guiding her sight toward the trees. “See those shadows over by the bent pine?” he whispered, as if the gnolls would hear. His scratchy cheek pressed against her neck as he sighted down her temple.
Focusing her attention on the area Vil had indicated, Martine finally saw a shadowy shape, tall and feral, then two, then three move out from under the sheltering trees and into the moonlight, stalking. Martine judged the distance and the light.
“I see them.”
“Then send them this present. If we kill a few, that should encourage the others to stay out of range.” The warrior pressed a slim shaft into her hand. With experienced precision, the ranger nocked the arrow and drew back without looking. As she brought the bowstring to her cheek, she noticed that the leaf-headed tip glowed a silvery blue, radiating its own light. She paused; the tip wavered.
“Yes, it’s magical,” Vil assured her, reading her thoughts. “I’ve been saving these, but I think now’s the time to put them to use.”
Martine focused on the target. Behind her, Vil slid away to direct the shooting of the others, like a master of archers guiding his unit through a drill.
The bowstring released with a twang, and a silvery streak shot through the darkness. The Harper didn’t wait to follow its flight, but busily nocked another arrow.
A spitting howl was proof of her aim. Sighting in again, the Harper spotted her target, twisting and staggering, one clawed hand clutching at a shoulder. Twang! A second shot sped through the air. She had another arrow nocked and drawn before the creature screamed a second time. The third shaft hissed away at another target before Martine paused to check her work. The first gnoll clutched spasmodically at the moon, its torso heaving. The third arrow struck its target just above the clavicle and below the throat. As the second gnoll reeled and tried to stumble away, moonlight flashed off the arrowhead projecting from the back of its neck. The beast took a jerky step and then sagged against its milling companions. The dying gnoll slid facedown into the snow. Another gnoll jumped, struck by another arrow, and then the area around them erupted in little fountains of snow as the few Vani archers released a fusillade. The gnolls broke for the shelter of the deeper woods, leaving behind their wounded companions.
“Hold fire! They’re retreating!” Martine shouted triumphantly.
A clatter of arrows hailed the shelter of their barricade. The Harper ducked for the cover of the fallen trees. A thick gnomish curse sounded near her as an arrow grazed one of the defenders. The gnome clamped back the pain, determined to stay at his post at all costs.
“Good work!” Vil praised. “That’ll hold them for now. Put the torches out, keep watch through the logs, and don’t stick your heads up.” The warrior commanded the Vani with easy confidence. This was clearly not his first big battle. The fires hissed in the snow as the gnomes put his commands into action.
Vil crawled to where Martine sat, cradling the bow in her arms. “What happened out there?”
Martine looked at him dully, for a moment not comprehending the question. “Jazrac’s dead,” she said finally. “Vreesar killed him.”
“What about Vreesar?”
“It’s gone—off to get the stone. Jaz hurt it, badly I think, before he died.”
“Praise Torm for small favors,” Vil breathed. “At least we won’t be fighting Vreesar tonight.”
“It’s coming back, Vil, with more creatures like it! I’ve got to stop him. It’s my duty,” she mumbled.
Vil put a firm hand on her shoulder and pulled her gently toward the cabin door. “Right now you need some rest. Get yourself inside and find
a place to bed down if you can. It’s pretty crowded. I’ll get some shifts set up out here and join you in a little while.”
The cabin was more than a little crowded, Martine saw immediately. There was barely sufficient space for all the refugees from the warren. The storeroom entryway was filled with the handful of Vani men who remained. Despite their small numbers, they were packed into the tiny area so tightly that there was only space to sleep sitting up leaning against each other. Most either slept or sat round a smoky pine fire built in the center of the floor. Wives came to sit with their husbands before returning to the task of comforting the new widows. Others tended to the walking injured among them, bandaging their wounds with embroidered scarves and once-precious lacework. Krote sat in the coldest corner, bound hand and foot. He watched Martine with yellow eyes as she stepped through the crowded group.
The main room of the cabin was filled to bursting, with mothers, their babies and other children, and older Vani. Nearly all of Vil’s scant furniture had been piled outside onto the barricade. Only the bed remained, and it was loaded with infants. The rest of the floor was covered with makeshift beds of blankets and mats. There was barely space to step across the room. Steam from the tightly packed bodies condensed in the doorway when the outer door was opened.
Vil’s treasured bath was no better. Peeking inside, Martine saw that the small space was filled with about eight wounded Vani, being tended by the womenfolk. The ranger noted with relief that most of the injured didn’t seem to be seriously hurt. If necessary, they could be put back on the line. Most of their wounds were cuts or gashes from splinters of wood and ice received in the initial assault on the warren. The bad news was that one of the few who were hurt was Elder Sumalo. The old priest was sleeping fitfully on a hard wooden pallet, a blood-encrusted bandage wrapped round his bare chest. Without him, without the gifts of the Great Crafter, there was no healing for the others.
