by David Cook
“Ale?” squeaked a nasal voice.
The Harper shook her head and her vision cleared. Ojakangas leaned over her, his expression unamused by her blathering. “They’re coming, human. You’re needed on the line.”
The Harper lurched to her feet, suddenly clearheaded. Her side throbbed, her cuts and scratches burned, and her skin chafed, raw from days in armor, but the woman hardly felt these pains. Quickly buckling on her sword, she opened the door and stumbled into the glare of early morning, the sun’s reflection blinding off the snow.
Stilll in a semidazed condition from sleep, she heard Vil shout, “Get down, Martine!” in a tone that demanded immediate attention. An instant after she’d let her knees buckle in response to his order, she heard the whistle of an arrow just overhead. It ended in a solid thunk against the cabin wall, its head driving several inches into the solid pine.
“Be careful, for Torm’s sake! They’ve targeted the doorway!” Vil was crouched in the snow against the fallen trees, gnomes to either side of him. Black-feathered shafts jutted from the log barricade, testimony to the events of the dawn.
Fully awake now, the Harper scuttled across the snow to join Vil. “Anything happen?” she asked, dismissing the archery as unimportant Vil shook his head. “Not yet. I think they’re building up their courage for a charge. Their archers have us pinned down, so my guess is it shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Plan? Fight them.” Vil gestured toward the cabin. “Ojakangas has gathered the wounded who can still fight. They’re our reserves. Everybody else who can fight, about fifteen in all, is out here. Good plan, eh?”
A whooping cry came from the woods. Before the echoes had finished, a lone gnoll charged from between the mist-cloaked trees, running madly toward the barricade. The beast sprinted with its wicker shield held high and its sword low, covering the open ground at a startling pace.
“Stay down … wait!” Vil bellowed. A volley of gnoll arrows punctuated his warning.
With a last spring, the gnoll scrambled onto the barricade, trying to hack a gap through the tangled pine branches. “Stop him!” Vil shouted, and a small squad of gnomes hurried to the position. They jabbed their spears up between the trunks, but the gnoll furiously blocked the thrusts aside with his shield, meantime trying to poke his sword back at them through the gaps. The clatter and clang of the skirmish resounded through the clearing.
In the midst of that fight the woods erupted in a chorus of howls. The ravens gathered at the fringe of the woods squawked and took flight all at once.
“Jouka, Oja—here they come!” Vil warned.
A ragged line of gnolls, shrieking savagely, burst from the woods and sprinted madly across the gap. Martine guessed there were about twenty of them. The pack headed for a different section of the wall, one unprotected now that their pack mate had drawn off the defenders.
Moving in a crouching run along the line, Martine and Vil reached the new position just as the first of the gnolls scrambled onto the logs. Swords drawn, Martine and Vil madly slashed and thrust at the mass of Burnt Fur warriors. Fresh blood on her blade told the Harper at least one of her blows had been successful, but there was no time to pick targets. The barricade hampered the attackers, but even so, the pair could not hold off the massed assault. Arrows winged into the snow between the humans and the cabin as the gnoll archers tried to pick off the two defenders.
First one gnoll, then another, leaped over the top of the wall to land inside the compound. They wheeled madly to fend off the few gnome reinforcements rushing to the humans’ aid. Martine caught one in the back with the point her sword, cutting it about where its kidney should be, but even as the dog-man fell, another leaped over the wall to take its place. She watched in amazement as Jouka, a dagger in each hand, sprang from the top of the logs and landed spread-eagled on the chest of another gnoll, hugging the creature in his spiked embrace. The gnoll squealed as the nailed armor shredded through leather and fur to tear the flesh underneath. As the creature flailed, Jouka finished it off with a double thrust of his daggers to its throat.
Jouka untangled himself from the corpse, bits of cloth and fur clinging to his bloodstained spikes just as Martine and Vil were forced to give ground. “Ojakangas—now!” Vil yelled as he hacked the legs out from under a gnoll who attempted to break past.
The cabin door banged open, and a stream of little men poured out, screaming shrilly. Their charge hit the startled gnolls in the flank. Seeing the makings of a trap, Martine shifted to the far side, hacking her way past the opposition until she stood alongside Jouka and several other gnomes who had joined him.
Now the attackers were pressed on both sides. In addition, the cabin wall blocked the gnolls in front of them, while the barricade would severely hamper any retreat. The twang of a bowstring behind her told Martine that the Vani were returning fire on the gnoll archers, forcing them to concentrate on the bowmen.
With a wild cry, Jouka charged forward once more, and the gnolls instinctively retreated from the porcupine-like warrior. They backed into their pack mates trying to hold back Ojakangas’s crew on the other side. The resulting confusion was all that was needed. Believing they were being abandoned by their brothers, the front ranks started to clamber over the barricade and make for the trees.
The Harper was determined to keep the gnolls in full retreat and not to let them reorganize. “Rush them!” she ordered even as she charged forward. Screeching her best banshee yell, the woman whirled her sword in broad arcs, heedless of her own danger.
At the sight of a wild woman and a spiked midget fearlessly rushing them, the dog-men in the front rank broke and clawed at those behind them in a frantic bid to get away. The spark of panic fanned into a flame, and the retreat turned into a rout. The Vani fell upon the backs of the fleeing enemy as they tried to get over the barricade.
As the last of the Burnt Fur warriors finally broke free and fled for the woods, Martine and Vil moved quickly to restore order. Several Vani had to be restrained from scaling the logs and setting off in pursuit. A quick count of the bodies showed two gnomes dead, plus several with minor wounds. Not bad, Martine thought, noting the bodies of twelve dead gnolls. It was anyone’s guess how many of the dog-men had been injured, but the number was significant.
“That should hold them for a while,” Vil murmured as he and Martine sprawled against the logs to rest. The man’s relief was obvious.
“Can you be sure?” the woman asked.
“It would stop me. They’ll fall back out of bow range and then dig in, but I don’t think they’ll try another direct assault.”
With the fierce skirmish ended, a gnomish woman was cautiously making the rounds with bowls of hot porridge. The Harper had almost forgotten what hot food—any food—was like. Pulling off her mittens, she greedily scooped the warm gruel into her mouth with her fingers. She could feel her energy returning.
As the defenders sat in the snow eating, an echo of gnoll voices reached them. Nervous, the Vani put down their bowls and scurried to battle positions, awaiting another attack.
Nothing happened, however. In vain, they watched the tree line for the gnolls to rush into view. Even the sporadic rain of arrows stopped.
“Little people!” a voice barked suddenly from somewhere beyond the barricade. “You fight well today. You make worthy enemies.
“Listen, little people. Our chieftain is gone, and we do not want to kill any more of you. We leave now in peace. Do not try to follow us. We will know if you do. No more war between us, little people. Agreed?” The words faded, leaving only the silence of the trees creaking in the wind.
The Vani clung to their barricade in stunned disbelief. Then Ojakangas cut short any debate by standing up and shouting, “Go back to your valley, dog-men, and we will make peace!”
“We go. It is cold here, and your little tunnels are too small for us. We leave a guard to make sure you keep peace. Do not leave cabin, or we kill you all.
”
“It’s a trick,” Jouka said grimly.
“No trick, little one,” said Krote. The gnoll stood in the cabin doorway where he had listened to the exchange. The shaman looked at the bodies of the Burnt Fur, still sprawled over the barricade where they had been cut down. “You have killed many warriors,” the gnoll said with a touch of sadness. “There will be many females without mates.”
The Word-Maker went from body to body, turning each so he could see it. “Blind-Eye. Rakk. Broken-Tooth. Fat Belly.” Krote recited the roll of the dead. “That was Varka who spoke,” he said finally. “He must be new Word-Maker. If he says peace, there will be peace.”
Martine took a chance and stood up. No arrows flew. “That still leaves Vreesar. How are we going to get out of here without breaking this peace?”
“I don’t know about you, Martine, but I figured we’d use the back door,” Vil commented casually as he stood.
“Back door?”
The former paladin flashed a smile. “Only a fool makes a stand without a means to escape. I built another way out”
“Where is it?” she asked quickly.
“Under my bath. All we have to do is knock a hole in the bottom of my tub and crawl out the tunnel. It comes out at the edge of the woods.” Vil grinned impishly.
The Harper impulsively stood on tiptoe and kissed the warrior firmly on the lips. Vil was too startled to do anything. His face colored under his graying beard. Martine quickly pulled away.
She looked at her companions’ faces, surprised, amused, weary. “Jouka, Krote, Vil … are you ready to go?”
Vil hefted an axe and purposefully strode into the cabin, looking taller and even more gaunt than usual.
Nineteen
Martine, Vil, Krote, and Jouka crowded into Vil’s already cramped bathroom. As soon as the wounded Vani were moved carefully aside, Jouka jumped into the bottom of the big wooden tub Vil had set into the floor. Taking a hand axe, the gnome set to work. As he watched the destruction of his craftsmanship, Vil winced each time the axe descended. Outside the room, the gnomes pressed around the door of the chamber and watched curiously.
When the axe finally broke through, Jouka lost his balance and nearly dropped it down the gaping hole beneath. The musky smell of damp earth filled the small room. Jouka moved several feet to one side, then began to chop at the other end of the broken board.
“No more hot baths,” Vil moaned. “I’ll miss them.”
More wood splintered, and the gnome passed a three-foot section of board out. The group passed it down the line as if it were something to treasure.
“It took me weeks to build this,” Vil lamented mournfully.
A barking cough of a gnoll echoed faintly from outside. It sounded as if it came from near the front of the house. Martine stiffened, her hand reaching instictively for an arrow from her quiver.
“Do not end our peace, humans,” Krote Word-Maker cautioned as he saw her move.
Several more planks were passed out of the tub before Jouka clambered out. “It’s done,” he announced, slipping his axe back into the sheath he wore.
Martine stepped forward and gazed downward. The jagged hole in the bottom of the tub yawned into blackness. “Does everyone understand what to do?”
The group nodded.
“All right l’ll go first.”
From the way Vil had explained it, the tunnel dropped about four feet and then wormed around toward the rear of the cabin. Vil had described it as a “tight fit,” but Martine figured she’d be able to wriggle through without difficulty. She slid carefully past the jagged edges, and her feet touched bottom.
“Candle.”
Vil passed a taper down. Guided by the small flame, she lowered herself to lie on her belly. The dim light did not carry far, blocked by a thick mass of cobwebs across the tunnel. With her sword, she brushed the webbing aside, but it still hung in dusty tendrils from the top of the passage.
The Harper wriggled across the cold ground into the darkness. There was barely space to raise her head up to look ahead. Vil hadn’t been kidding when he said it was cramped. The ceiling rubbed at her back in places. Tiny shapes scurried away frantically as she roused a den of field mice.
It wasn’t long before she began to feel the dark tunnel was endless. Pushing the candle ahead of her, the Harper crept along slowly. At last she saw a faint glow that marked the end of the tunnel. Beyond another curtain of cobwebs, the shaft was lit by opaque light.
“Made it,” the woman called back to the others.
Struggling with her sword in the tight space, she carefully jabbed at the icy crust that sealed the opening. It was thicker than she guessed, and by the time the blade had broken through it, Jouka was bumping up against her feet. At last she succeeded in clearing a hole in the ice large enough to wriggle through. Halfway out, she paused, watching for anything suspicious.
By daylight, the woods at the back of the cabin appeared unwatched, but the morning fog concealed everything beyond the first row of trees. Martine waited cautiously for any sign of the enemy. “Hurry up,” the gnome behind her hissed impatiently. Finally, still uncertain it was clear, the black-haired woman scrambled through the gap, signaled for Jouka to hand out her gear, and then sprinted into the nearby woods. Gulping the fresh air and pleased to be in daylight once more, the woman flopped onto an icy snowbank and strung Vil’s bow.
One by one, as Martine kept watch with nocked arrow, the others wriggled out and melted into the forest. First came Jouka, followed by a long pause before Krote appeared. The gnoll had to tear at the ice with his claws to widen the hole before he could squirm his broad shoulders through.
Just as Vil was emerging from the hole, gnoll voices rang from the front of the house.
“My brothers come after their dead,” Krote said.
“Will they notice we’re gone?” Martine worried aloud.
“How can they know, human?” Krote asked.
“Whatever,” Vil added. “Let’s not linger here. Martine, you know where Jazrac’s body is. We’ll need his ring to catch Vreesar in time. You lead.”
Without benefit of skis, the group’s progress through the snow was difficult. The birds were all silent, whether as a reaction to the chaos of battle or their presence, Martine did not know. They slipped through the sepulchral woods, hip-deep in white snow. The low fog, somewhere between ice and mist, swallowed the noise of their exertions, distorting calls and echoes till it was impossible for Martine to gauge the distance of any sound.
The fog provided traitorous comfort, for it came and went unexpectedly, one minute concealing, the next leaving them horribly exposed. “Cyric’s damnation!” Martine swore each time the fog lifted and revealed their position. There was already too much risk of being discovered without the tricks of winter conspiring to make things worse.
As the four neared the conquered warren, progress became slower and slower as mistrust and caution played on their fears. Martine could only pray she was right about Krote; she had no reason to trust him other than an irrational instinct about the gnoll. Some might have called it woman’s intuition, but it wasn’t that. She had long ago learned to dismiss such reactions. No, her faith was grounded on the vague kinship between warriors, the bond between men, women, even brutes who lived according to the dictates of the sword. It was this bond that allowed her to work with the unruly, the mercenary, or the detestable, whose motives and goals she could not conscionably abide anywhere else. It was this fraternity that made her trust Krote. Even though he was a shaman, the gnoll understood the life of the sword.
Would Krote betray her? No more, she felt, than the gnome at her side. Both were fierce in their beliefs, adamant in their pride and honor.
At last Martine guided them to the edge of the ravine. She remembered the stand of massed birch that flourished in a sunlit break between the trees. She remembered it being at her back. Using that to orient herself, the Harper quickly found the wind-drifted tracks of the night befo
re. From there, it was a simple matter to backtrack to the battle site.
In bright daylight, the place looked different. What seemed ominous by dusk was clear and peaceful this morning. Not innocent, though, Martine thought. Few forests were innocent, but their daytime secrets were less sinister than those that lurked in the depths of the night.
Broken trees, frozen bodies, and pink snow was evidence they had found the site. The gnolls had made no effort to collect their dead, although the bodies had evidently been quickly stripped of everything useful. The naked corpses were frozen hard, their skin ice blue beneath the tawny fur. Vil and Jouka examined the battlefield with the curiosity of warriors, quietly impressed by the woman’s handiwork. Krote moved from body to body, commending each by name to his fierce god Gorellik.
Seeing signs of the looting, Martine realized her plan would come to naught if the gnolls had stripped Jazrac clean. Not wanting to look, she had to force herself to examine the site. It was with sick relief that she saw a booted foot jutting out from beneath a tangle of branches. A quick cry summoned the others.
The two humans and the gnome dug away the drifted snow. Krote stood back, his arms wrapped around himself for warmth, refusing to assist. “It is not clean,” he insisted adamantly. “I will not touch it.” Martine wondered if his conviction were true or if it was just an excuse.
Gradually the snow was cleared from the corpse. Jazrac’s skin was an awful bloodless white with traces of frozen blue veins under the skin. Martine forced herself to think of the corpse as a thing. Remembering it as Jazrac salted too many wounds in her memory, and she couldn’t afford to break down now.
“The ring was on his left hand, I think. There, under … that tree trunk.” The Harper pointed deep into the tangle of wood.
Vil surveyed the deadfall and shook his head. “We’ll never be able to move this. Jouka, can you get in there?”
The gnome wormed his way through the branches until he reached the heart of the tangle. After a moment, he swore bitterly. “The ring won’t come off. The finger’s swollen.”
