by David Cook
It was clear from the cramped conditions that Martine and Vil could not stay there. The only space that seemed possible was in the crowded entry, with the Vani warriors. Returning there, the Harper, with much shifting and squeezing, cleared a space for herself and Vil. With her knees tucked up under her chin, she claimed a blanket and almost immediately dozed off.
The rattling of the door roused the Harper, and she opened her eyes just in time to see Vil and a few others slip inside the room. There was a brief flurry of movement as the next shift of guards stepped over everyone to get outside. The cold from outside caught them in its frigid embrace, as if welcoming the heat it would leech from their bodies. After the door was closed, trapping a fresh glitter of frost within, Martine could hear the cabin groan while the timbers redistributed their heat.
Vil settled next to Martine and huddled close so the small blanket could cover them both. The other gnomes wormed in among their companions—except for Jouka. Still wearing his spiked badger suit, he couldn’t very well squeeze into the tight spaces next to the others. His only choice was to join Krote in his cold corner near the outside door. The gnome glared up at his bound enemy, and Martine swore the gnoll bared his fangs.
“I do not like this, Master Vilheim. We should have more guards posted. How do you know the gnolls will not attack?” Jouka grumbled, all the time staring balefully at the prisoner next to him.
Vil sighed. “The gnolls won’t attack tonight. Think it through. Right now they’re probably looting your homes. With any luck, they’re getting drunk and maybe even fighting among themselves. Second, they’re not that desperate. They’ve got food and shelter, so I don’t think they see any need to hurry. Third, the moon’s just past full. The gnolls are too smart to rush this place on a bright, moonlit night. The only thing that could get them to change their minds is Vreesar, and he’s gone.” He shifted his long legs, trying to find a comfortable position. “I’ve fought plenty of gnolls over the years, so you’ll just have to trust me. What do you think, Martine?”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Why ask her? It was her mission, her plan that got us into this mess.” His black beard bristling, Jouka puffed up his chest, ready to argue. His fellow gnomes were silent, many watching him with interest. “This is all the fault of interfering humans,” he growled, glaring at Martine. “She came here and caused this trouble. If we had been left alone, none of this would have happened. Now she hides here with that.” The gnome pointed toward Krote, sitting beside him. The gnoll snapped at Jouka’s finger, but the gnome pulled it back quickly.
“And she brought Vreesar here, too, seeking her magical stone. First she risks all our lives by hiding it, and now we’re all in danger because she gave Vreesar the stone as part of some plan of hers.” Martine shifted uneasily. Jouka’s grumblings were starting to get nasty, and the other gnomes were listening to him.
“Such a good plan it was … now we no longer have a home,” he ended sarcastically. The other Vani said nothing, their expressions wrapped in thoughtful concentration. With no one else speaking in her favor, Martine prepared to defend herself. Just then Vil’s firm hand steadied the Harper.
“Let him rage,” the former paladin advised. “He’s lost a great deal.”
Martine bit her lip and nodded. Even though she knew Vil was right, it was difficult to accept the man’s wisdom this time. Seeing that she would not rise to the bait, the sullen gnome slowly let his accusations fade into a murmur of discontent. Someone poked up the fire and laid on more wood, stirring up a cloud of sparks. The weary Vani murmured among themselves, softly debating the wisdom of Jouka’s words.
“Is he right?” Martine whispered to Vil.
Vil leaned his face close to hers. “No.”
The answer came too quickly to satisfy Martine. “He could be. If I hadn’t come here, then Vreesar would never have come here either. The Vani would still be safe in their warren.”
“Or dead in the snow,” the man countered. “Vreesar would have crossed the rift whether you arrived or not.”
“But I came to help, and now look at everything.”
“So you think all this is your fault?”
“Damn it Vil, I’m a Harper. Helping is what I’m supposed to do.”
“Martine, you are only one person. What did you expect?” Martine felt the deep concern in the man’s voice. “What do you think would have happened if you hadn’t come?”
“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. With her dagger, the woman poked at the packed dirt just beyond the edge of the blanket.
“Vreesar would have come through unchallenged, bringing more and more of his kind with him,” Vil speculated as he shifted into a more comfortable position. “Sooner or later a whole army of them would have moved south, probably with the gnolls. The Vani wouldn’t have stood a chance then. You’ve already made a difference. At least there’s only one of Vreesar’s kind. The gnomes have a chance to fight.”
Vil’s words didn’t exactly console Martine. “It was supposed to be an easy mission. I tried so hard to impress the other Harpers, and now look at the mess everything is in. A fine Harper I make. I don’t know what to do, and then when I do something, everything goes wrong.” She stabbed at the dirt. The gnome next to her shifted his feet uneasily.
Vil sighed. “Do you think if the job was easy they’d have sent a Harper?”
Martine studied the man’s face in the gloomy firelight. The stubble on his chin was becoming a full-fledged beard, streaked through with gray. Lines of sweat and dirt clung in the creases of his weather-beaten skin. “I don’t know. Jazrac said it was like a test.”
Vil shook his head. “If nothing else, Jazrac was cautious. He wouldn’t have sent you if he didn’t think you could do the job. Quit worrying about what others think and do what’s right.”
“That’s not the way Jouka sees things.” Martine had managed to gouge a small hole in the dirt floor by now.
“Martine, Jouka seeks only to blame.” Vil paused, trying to find a way to make his point clear. “There’s an old story. A fox catches a mouse out gathering acorns. ‘Cursed be the oak,’ moans the mouse beneath the fox’s paw. The fox says, ‘Foolish mouse, why do you curse the tree? It didn’t hurt you.’ And the mouse answers, ‘If the oak hadn’t dropped the acorns, I wouldn’t have been gathering them, and you would never have caught me.’ Hearing the little mouse complain, the fox laughs and laughs so much that he lets his paw slip, and the mouse pulls his tail free. Off runs the mouse, only to be caught in the jaws of a snake. ‘Oh, cursed be the fox,’ moans the mouse, ‘for letting me go, else I would not have been caught.’ ”
“So what happened to the mouse?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the snake ate him.”
Martine leaned wearily against the former paladin’s shoulder. “So if Jouka’s the mouse, what am I? The fox or the snake?”
“Well, I sort of thought of you as another mouse,” Vil said with a dry chuckle.
Martine snorted. “Are you sure you’re not still a paladin? You always seem to be worried about others.”
Vil tried to shrug the question off. “I don’t know.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve been feeling more … paladinish lately. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe I should seek Torm’s forgiveness.” Vil shifted again, still trying to find a comfortable position for his lanky legs.
“What about the freedom you have now … you know, like you told me?”
Vil smirked. “An illusion. I have all this freedom, and what do I do? I hide up here in the north, doing nothing but chopping wood. I’ve been hiding up here, hiding from everything I lost—the people I knew, the things I did. Maybe I thought they’d all forget who I once was, and then I could go home. What kind of freedom is that?” He turned to look at her. “I didn’t realize it until all this happened. I’ve just been moldering up here. Now I feel as if there’s a purpose again.”
Just in time to die in a senseless war, Martin
e thought to herself. She couldn’t think of a quick, understanding reply to Vil’s sudden confession. “You’re tired. Get some sleep,” she said instead.
Realizing that perhaps he’d said too much, Vil nodded and settled back against the wall. Within minutes, his snores joined those of the gnomes around her while the cold wind whistling between the boards provided a mournful accompaniment.
Martine lay awake, cradled in the man’s arms. She was tired, but her mind was churning as she thought about what Vil had said, about Jazrac’s death, about Jouka, about the threat of Vreesar. Slowly thoughts formed as she forced herself to think like a Harper and not some hesitant apprentice. A new plan was forming in her mind, bold and dangerous. It held no guarantee of success, but it was, she thought, a plan worthy of a Harper.
Gingerly Martine slid free of Vil’s arms. The man snorted and stirred, and Martine thought he might wake, but he only rolled over to fill the space she’d abandoned. The woman picked her way across the small room to where Krote huddled, his rags pulled tight round his furry body, trying to keep in every bit of warmth.
The glint of the gnoll’s eyes greeted her. Knowing he could see her, Martine signaled him to keep silent and knelt in front of him, light glinting off the knife she carried. She looked at Jouka carefully to make absolutely sure the gnome was asleep. His spiked breastplate rose and fell in the slow rhythm of slumber.
“Word-Maker, listen to me,” she barely breathed, turning her attention back to the shaman. The gnoll shifted uneasily when he saw the knife. “Hold out your hands.” Suspiciously Krote raised his bound wrists, and she set to sawing the ropes apart “I’m letting you go.”
“Why?” the gnoll demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“I want you to help me kill Vreesar.” There was no point in trying to be clever.
The gnoll’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What did you say, human?”
“You’re free. I’m letting you go—and I’m asking you to stay,” Martine said as she continued to saw at the ropes. “I need your help to kill Vreesar. If you don’t choose to give it, you can go out the door right now. I’ll make sure the gnomes don’t hurt you.”
As the ropes fell away, the gnoll flexed his clawed fingers, which were purple and numb under his brown fur. “You trust me?” His voice was an incredulous snarling hiss.
“Yes.” Martine did trust the gnoll, but for no reason that she could name. “You live for your honor, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the shaman rumbled. “Why should I help you?”
The Harper turned her attention to the ropes around his ankles. “I’m guessing you don’t have much choice. As long as Vreesar lives, you can’t go home.”
The gnoll’s lips parted in a wolfish grin. “Mahr-tin, you not like little ones. You think like gnolls. You are right. I help.”
Martine nodded as she undid the coils around his feet It was the closest thing to a compliment she’d likely ever get from the shaman.
Helping Krote to his feet, Martine cleared her throat loudly until the noise roused the slumbering gnomes. As they stared up in astonishment at the unbound gnoll towering over them, Martine made her pronouncement. “I’m going to kill Vreesar and put an end to this. Who wants to come with me?”
Eighteen
An array of startled large-nosed faces stared up at her. Fiery Jouka, his hand clutching the severed ropes, jumped to his feet.
“Are you mad, woman? You’ve cut this beast free!” the gnome raged, his face florid in the dim light.
“I’ve set him free,” the Harper announced, staring down at the irate gnome. “He’s chosen to help me.”
A gasp of astonishment rose from the little men. Jouka sputtered. “That beast? How can it help?”
Martine laid a restraining hand on the gnoll. “For one thing, he’s going to get me to the glacier. I have a plan.”
“Another of your plans! Will this one work any better than your other ones?” The gnome sneered.
“I don’t know,” Martine snapped. Disgusted, she turned to the others. “I don’t absolutely need your help, but I’m asking anyway. If this works, Vreesar’s dead and you can go home. If it fails—well, then I’m dead, but at least you’re no worse off than you are now.”
Vil pushed his way to his feet “I’ll go. What’s the plan?”
Martine looked down at her audience. “Vreesar’s gone back to the glacier to open the gate. We’ll ambush it when it gets there.”
Jouka kicked a bucket in disgust. “An excellent plan! And how will you get there—fly? It takes a full day and night of hard skiing to reach the glacier, and this fiend has a full night’s head start on you.”
“We’ll teleport.”
“What?”
“We’ll teleport there,” she repeated firmly. “Jazrac had a ring. I can’t use it, and you can’t use it,” Martine explained, pointing to Jouka, “but I’m betting that Krote can. He uses magic like Jazrac did, so the ring should work for him.”
“If you give him the ring, he’ll just run away.”
The woman stepped aside, giving Krote a clear route to the door. “He could leave now if he wanted to.”
The shaman seemed to relish being the subject of their argument. He smiled broadly. “Maybe I not help. Maybe I let little people all die.”
The faces of the gnomes seemed to change color magically at his words. Some grew pale, while others turned red with indignation. The shaman’s words triggered a wave of discussion among the gnomes. In the heat of argument, the Vani all but forgot the presence of the humans or the gnoll. It was as if they were back in their council chambers at the warren. Only Jouka, indignant and inflexible, remained silent. He stood in his corner, spiked arms carefully folded over his spiked chest.
After some time, Ojakangas, the broad-chested carpenter, finally rose pretentiously and, in his best imitation of Elder Sumalo, pronounced the decision.
“You propose a great risk, Harper,” Ojakangas announced, stroking his trim black beard. The gnome’s voice was high and nasal, and if the situation had not been so serious, Martine would have found it comical.
“But if you are willing to take this risk, we will allow it,” the gnome continued. Martine wasn’t aware the gnomes had any real say in the matter, but she kept her opinions to herself. “There are conditions, however.”
The woman set her hands on her hips. This was her plan, and she didn’t care for the idea of the gnomes imposing any conditions. “Like what?”
“The gnolls may still attack. If they do, we think it will be at dawn. We ask you to wait until after the sun has risen before leaving. Your enemy will still be far from the glacier then.”
Martine pondered Okajangas’s words, wondering if there was any trick. “Agreed,” she finally said.
“Second, one of our people will go with you, to be sure that someone”—Ojakangas looked meaningfully at Krote—“does not betray you.”
“I welcome the aid, but who will it be?” Martine suspected the answer, but she couldn’t refuse the gnomes on this.
“Jouka Tunkelo.”
The Harper winced. Jouka looked up in furious surprise. “Me?”
“That is right, Brother Jouka,” Ojakangas said sternly. “The council has decided.”
The black-armored warrior fumed but couldn’t very well challenge the authority of his fellow gnomes. Instead, he snatched his thorny helm and stormed out of the cabin into the frozen compound.
With Jouka’s departure, the gnomes began to chatter excitedly, warily circling their new ally. Krote stood stock still, his rag-wrapped arms folded over his chest, the sardonic smile still on his lips.
Martine pushed through the confusion of gnomes to Vil. “Why did they choose him? He hates the whole plan.” The gnome logic was completely lost on her.
“Martine,” Vil said with a chuckle, almost as amused as Krote by the outcome, “what other choice did they have? Think a minute. It allows Jouka to save face, and it gives you the best warrior they’ve got. Still,
the look on Jouka’s face …”
“Wonderful … just wonderful,” Martine snapped, far from happy. “Excuse me, but we have some preparing to do. Come on.” She led the way into the heart of Vil’s cabin.
Inside, the pair picked their way through the carpet of gnomes, gathering supplies. Occasionally babies bawled and whimpered, only to be quickly hushed by their mothers, and here and there widows wept softly in the arms of a comforting relative or friend, but in general the room remained grimly silent. Silence settled over the two humans as they worked, contemplating the task that lay before them. Clearing a little floor space, they assembled their gear. The warrior produced two wicker packs and a mound of blankets from the small planked loft overhead, followed by sausages, hardtack, bundles of sugar, dried fruits, wax, whetstones, and a host of minor but necessary items. Vil fussed over the preparations, paying careful attention to each item selected. Only when he was satisfied did he finally pause to warm himself by the fire. “That should be enough,” he said as he rubbed his chilled hands together. “We don’t want to overload the packs.”
Shouldering their gear, they carried the loads outside. Martine was startled to see a faint trace of dawn limning the mountain ridges. The whole night had passed by unnoticed. When was the last time she had slept more than a catnap? Two days ago? Three? She couldn’t even remember.
“We sleep now,” the man advised, noticing her grogginess as she stumbled over the frozen ground. “The gnomes will wake us if anything happens.”
Martine nodded and let him steer her back inside for what she hoped would not be another futile attempt at rest
A firm shake roused the Harper from a world of warmth and comfort. Martine tried to tell the landlady to let her sleep by the fire for an hour more, but the shaking was insistent until finally the woman opened her groggy eyes. “No more ale, Jhaele,” she mumbled, trying to focus her eyes.
