Soldiers of Ice h-7

by David Cook

  Without pausing, the gnoll explained. "You are from the warm lands, where humans live, and know many things about them. You must not die before teaching me these things. Remain still." Krote didn't wait for her-to respond, but began chanting the words to his spell, the same one he had used before on her wounded shoulder. Once again a warmth pervaded her from his hands, flowing into her

  body. Deep inside, her body twitched in response. Suddenly intense pain shot through her ribs. She writhed in agony, but the gnoll fiercely pressed her down. Martine bit her lip, determined not to scream.

  Almost as swiftly as it came upon her, the pain washed away, leaving her feeling stronger and more vigorous than before. The exhaustion that had afflicted her had disappeared, as if she'd had a full day or more of rest

  Krote carefully hung the icon back around his neck. "Now teach me, human," he insisted as he sat crosslegged on the opposite side of the hut.

  "Teach you what?" Martine sat up, wary of the gnoll and perplexed at the same time.

  From a leather pouch, the gnoll dug out a roll of birchbark. "Teach me the symbols," he demanded as he tossed the scroll over to her. "You made it What does it mean?"

  Martine recognized what it was as soon as Krote produced it. It was the letter she'd written in desperation to Jazrac. There could be no doubt now that it had gone unread.

  "What is it?" the Word-Maker demanded.

  "It's called writing," Martine explained. In nearly any other circumstances, Martine would have been incredulous to discover someone completely ignorant of writing. Many folks throughout the Realms couldn't read, but at least they were aware of letters and words. The shaman apparently didn't even comprehend what they were.

  "It's like speaking on paper," she continued. Her explanation couldn't compromise her mission, nor could she believe that teaching the gnoll writing would threaten anyone, either herself or the gnomes of Samek But it could gain her an ally in the tribe an ally who might prove useful later. Furthermore, she saw an opportunity that she might be able to get a message off to Jazrac after all. All she needed to do was trick Krote into using the bone-handled knife.

  Unrolling the brittle sheet of bark, she began the lesson. Slowly and carefully she played the role of tutor, a part she wasn't particularly suited for. It took more verbal skill and patience than she had to explain the mysteries of writing.

  Fortunately for her, the title Word-Maker was no misnomer for Krote. She was impressed by the gnoll's quick mind and prodigious memory. He could watch her make the strokes of a letter with a piece of charcoal and repeat them perfectly.

  Martine decided to take a chance. Pushing a smooth split log in front of the gnoll, she said, "Carve what I show you. Then you can practice on your own."

  Martine knew it was a gamble and tried not to show her eagerness: Her heart leaped as Krote drew Jazrac's knife and held it ready to carve.

  "All right. Copy this," Martine instructed as she smoothed out a piece of leather. Carefully she drew the symbols in a neat row for Krote to copy. These are all different letters you can practice later. Just do them in this order when you do."

  With a generous smile, she slid the leather to Krote. In neat block letters, it said, "CAPTURED BY GNOLS. M." "You must teach me more," the shaman insisted, not ready to stop.

  Martine shook her head. "You must practice-like a young cub learning to shoot a bow. Then I will teach you more." The whole success of her plan hinged on the shaman carving the message for her. And while he was doing that, she could plan her escape.

  "I will practice," the shaman said with reluctance as he rolled up the leather. "Remember, you must not die when our new chieftain questions you." Martine was sure she heard a note of distaste in the shaman's words when he said "new chieftain."

  "I have no intention of dying, Word-Maker," she assured

  him as the gnoll left the hut.

  Martine flopped back onto the flea-infested furs as all the tension drained out of her body. "Tymora be praised!" she sighed. She'd done it. She'd tricked the Word-Maker into sending her message. It hadn't been easy. Now she could only hope that Jazrac looked into his crystal ball at the right time and understood what he saw. Too much still hinged on luck for her to feel secure.

  I have to escape soon or I'll be dead, she thought frankly.

  Eight

  Martine was grateful for the wakefulness Krote's spell provided. It was the first time her head had felt clear since the one called Brokka had brought her down from the glacier. She needed a clear head if she was going to escape.Carefully the ranger peered through a crack in the door curtain and looked out onto the white clearing beyond. Immediately alongside the entrance was the thick-furred leg. of a guard. The leg was at an odd angle, and the ranger guessed the gnoll was bored and leaning on his spear. She slid away from the entrance, trying not to reveal that she'd been spying. The guard would be a problem, though the fact that he was probably bored might help.

  The first thing is to get together a survival kit… anything that can help me stay alive once I get away, she thought. Unless I can survive in the snow, there's no point in even trying to escape. Whatever I can scrape together in this lodge will have to do.

  The Harper fell to searching the birch-bark hut as quietly as she could. She set aside anything potentially useful, whenever possible hiding it under the furs of her mattress. There was precious little, but it was still better than nothing at all. By the time she was done, her hoard consisted of several sharp pieces of bone, a long fire-hardened stick that she could sharpen to a point, a leather pouch stuffed with tinder, a gourd dipper she could rig up as a firepot, and the flea-infested but warm furs she was sitting on. Working carefully so as not to bring the lodge down upon her, the ranger undid some of the bindings that lashed the frame of the hut together. The cords were made of strong sinew. Stretched between her hands, it would make a crude but effective garrote.

  Martine meticulously rolled and tied the items into a bundle, pleased with her luck. Her finds provided more than she expected crude weapons, fire, and shelter. What remained were food and a better weapon, but as a prisoner, the woman doubted she'd be able to get her hands on these.

  There was still the matter of the guard outside, and once she was past him, the rest of the tribe. If she had a knife, she reasoned, then she could cut her way out the back of the lodge, but a few experiments showed the wall was too firmly built for her to cut through with her crude bone tools. If she was going to get out, it would have to be through the front door.

  With her sharp stick in hand and escape kit within reach, there was nothing for Martine to do but huddle by the door and wait. She waited as her fire, lacking more wood, died away to a ruddy bed of coals that warmed the hut but provided little light. She waited as the sun traveled across the sky till it slowly gave way to the mountain shadows that preceded night. She waited as the magical vigor faded from her nerves and her stomach started to knot with hunger.

  Finally she allowed herself to doze, trusting her senses to wake her should any opportunity arise.

  Perhaps her instincts failed her, or perhaps nothing happened, for the next thing she knew, the thin light of morning was seeping through the gap around the curtain. She heard voices shouting outside. Her legs were knotted from sitting all night, she discovered when she unwound herself to peer through the crack.

  Across the clearing, the main lodge was the heart of pandemonium. Gnolls tumbled from the longhouse, shouldering each other aside in a savage rush to escape from something inside. Their shouts, barks, and howls quickly alerted the rest of the village. From every hut, close and distant, warriors snatched up spears and sprinted toward the commotion. The guard outside her hut wavered, torn between the conflicting courses of duty as guard and warrior. The beast's hesitant steps toward the fray gave Martine hope, and she quietly tucked her bundle under her arm in preparation to make a dash for freedom.

  Before the guard could reach a decision, a furry figure hurtled through the great lodge's doo
rway and crashed against the backs of the slowest sprinters. Thundering after it came Vreesar, barely able to squeeze through the narrow doorway. Its chest was mottled with a ghastly pinkish stain, livid on its silvery whiteness like a fresh scar.

  "Where iz the whelp who burned me?" With long, cold arms, Vreesar sifted through the terrified gnolls, seizing those closest to it, only to cast them aside once it was satisfied they were not its prey. Even at the distance between the two lodges, Martine could see the fiend's ice spined brow tremble and twitch with fury. Abruptly it lunged forward and caught something with a triumphant cry. "Ahhh! You would try to kill me? Who told you to do thiz?"

  The elemental hoisted aloft a squirming gnoll, not much older than a kit, judging by its size. Vreesar's chilling claws

  encircled the gnoll's neck tightly, but the fiend took sadistic care not to squeeze its prize so tightly that its struggling ceased.

  "You burned me. Now you will freeze. That iz your punish-"

  "Lord of the Burnt Fur, it is our custom that a chieftain does not kill warriors," Krote Word-Maker interrupted boldly, almost shouting to be heard over the din. Standing in the dark doorway of the main lodge, the shaman had only just appeared on the scene. Like one accustomed to enforcing the burden of tribal memory, the Word-Maker spoke with the absolute certainty of tradition. His words silenced the gathered warriors as they expectantly awaited the outcome.

  Vreesar peered back over its shoulder and stabbed the shaman with an incensed glare. "What do I care for your customz?" it crackled.

  The gnoll snapped his fangs in surprise that anyone, even a thing as alien as the elemental, should ask such a question. That is what makes us the Burnt Fur," he replied, his tone one of horrified amazement. "Great chieftain, without the laws, the right ways of doing things, we would be no more than-than the wolves of the forest. The old ways made you chieftain. If custom is not followed, then you will not be our chieftain."

  "Fear makez me chief," Vreesar snarled evilly. 'Me prisoner's kicks grew weaker and weaker. "What do I care for thiz weak tribe'z customz? You are my slavez. Thiz pathetic creature tried to kill me, and az hiz master, I can kill him if I choose."

  Whether from bravery or foolishness, Krote stepped forward to stand directly in front of the chieftain. "Only if there is a duel. That is the correct way." He spoke in a soft voice that the wind barely carried to Martine. "It was an accident. The kit did not mean to spill his soup on you. Spare his life, and the kit will die willingly for you in battle."

  The fiend paused as if considering Krote's words, although at her distance Martine could not read any expression into the creature's face. The Word-Maker stepped back a pace, trying to ease the tension of the scene.

  "You are right, Word-Maker. The kit will die but not willingly." The elemental clenched its hand more tightly. The young gnoll convulsed in a single twitching spasm as its larynx and vertebrae were crushed with a series of thick, meaty popping sounds that echoed over the silent clearing. Martine had heard that sound before, many years ago in the port city of Westgate, when a mob had hanged a pair of suspected thieves. Like those hanged men, the gnoll's jerky struggles lasted longer than its life, the muscles flailing long after the mind had ceased to control them.

  As if the dead body were no more than a soiled rag, Vreesar let the corpse drop. "My slavez will not be clumsy," it hummed. Of all the warriors, females, and kits gathered before the longhouse, the elemental ignored them all save one-Krote, who still stood directly facing the creature. The Word-Maker was rigid with outrage.

  Martine could read in the gnoll's flattened ears and curled lips the warnings of a dog about to fight. So intent had she been on the confrontation that it came as a surprise when she suddenly noticed that she was alone. Her guard had vanished, apparently joining the onlookers who circled the pair. The ranger needed no more prompting. Grabbing up her bundle, she wriggled through the door and immediately sprinted for the woods. Having already failed once because she had been too cautious, she decided now to act boldly and trust Tymora's wheel. By its spin, she'd either make it or be captured once more.

  "Word-Maker!" The elemental's shrill cry made the Harper's heart drop, for in that moment, she was certain

  her flight had been discovered. Panic forced her to increase her speed.

  I've got to reach the woods before them. I'll be safe there. Martine knew her skills as a ranger would serve her well in the forest. The forest would become an ally. She knew how to travel without leaving a clear trail, how to conceal herself in the shadowed spaces between the trees.

  "Word-Maker!" Vreesar shrilled again, its buzz keening like a furiously spun grindstone. "Do not defy me!"

  Even as she sprinted across the last bit of open ground, Martine breathed a sigh of relief, for behind her the drama had not played out as she had feared. The onlookers would still be watching, her guard still away from his post, and her escape might yet go unnoticed.

  There was a jumble of voices behind her, none of which Martine could hear clearly, and then Vreesar's stinging drone once more pierced the clamor. "I do not care for your advice or your customz, Word-Maker. Get out of my sight before I kill you, too. Hide in your hut, weak one. Do not come into thiz hall again!"

  The elemental's orders gave Martine very little time. If Krote went to the hut, he was sure to discover her escape. Nonetheless, at the very edge of the clearing, the Harper deliberately veered from her course. The shelter of the thickets beckoned to her, but the woman resisted plunging through the unbroken snow. Just ahead was what she sought, a well-used trail that wound through the woods. Her plan, quickly formed, was to follow it until she was well away from the village and then strike out on her own. With luck, she'd hide her own escape route among the footprints of her captors.

  At the entrance to the pine forest, she paused to scan for pursuers. Success hinged on secrecy, and if she had been discovered, the ranger wanted to know now There were no gnolls in sight. She didn't wait for the cry of pursuit. Turning onto the path, she plunged into the welcome gloom of the winter forest. The trail almost instantly twisted out of sight of the camp, bending past tall pines, birch thickets, and the bare canes of last summer's berry bushes.

  The temperature was frigid, whipped colder by the strong winds that swirled through the trees. She welcomed the wind, though, for the fine powder it swept along with it would quickly drift over the trail, making it harder to distinguish her tracks from all the others. Without weapons, food, or proper gear, Martine needed every advantage possible. Even though the snow was fairly well packed, follow-. ing the trail was arduous without skis or snowshoes. It didn't take long before the cold was forgotten. Sweat worked into the thick weave of her clothes, where it froze, making her legs and arms crackle with each step.

  A half-mile along the trail, perhaps more, the ranger heard the first sounds of alarm. A series of baying howls, like jackals calling together the pack for a hunt, drifted through the woods. In the silence of the forest, the voices of the gnolls were unmistakable from the hoots of the owls or even the occasional call of a lone wolf.

  Maybe they won't find the trail right away, Martine thought as she ran. No, wishful thinking like that gets people killed, her warrior instincts reminded her. They'll find my path soon enough. It's time to get off the trail.

  With that in mind, Martine stayed on the path until it skirted a granite upthrust, one of many that marked the lower slopes of the surrounding mountains. The weathered stones rose from the undulating snow in a series of spires, tilted and tumbled to form irregular terraces. Few trees grew around the base, leaving a windswept area where the snow had thawed and frozen with each sunny day until the snow was a hard crust of wind-rippled ice.

  It was the perfect place, since she would leave no tracks on the hard bare ice, so Martine abandoned the trail and

  clambered over the rock, taking care to avoid the patches of snow that clung to the cracked stone. Slipping through a cleft in the spires, she came out on the back side of the o
utcropping. There she waited, crouched in the lee of the stone, screened from the wind-driven snow, listening to the brutal squawks of the ravens answered by the titters of the chickadees. Already her fingers were cold and her feet numb inside her fur-wrapped boots, but her patience was at last rewarded when she heard the barking voices of gnolls nearby. The hunters were on the trail.

  She set off into the deep snow, this time heading back toward the gnoll village. Martine knew she didn't have to leave the rocks. She knew she didn't have to go back. She could have turned her footsteps south and made for the pass to Samek. Still she slogged through the drifts that coiled around the pine trunks, always taking care to stay in the deep woods, well away from any trails.

  Duty drove her back.

  Jazrac's key was still in the village, against the wall in the main lodge, and she had to go back and get it. It's my duty as a Harper, she thought. That's what Jazrac or Khelben or any of the others would tell me. I'll never be a true Harper if I'm afraid to go back. I'll have failed, and they'll all know it. I have to go back.

  It's all part of a plan, she convinced herself. First I lure the gnolls out of their village, then I slip behind them, get the stone, and escape. They'll never find me, because I'll be behind them. It's a brilliant plan or is it? Martine didn't know, couldn't know, until it either succeeded or failed.

  Using the sun and a few landmarks she had noted, Martine backtracked slowly. The voices of the gnolls grew louder until she was certain they were just off her left flank. The huntress took shelter in a thicket until they passed and the voices had faded farther up the trail.

  When their barked commands were no more than dim echoes, Martine angled back onto the trail. It was a risk. There might be a straggler or even a second search party, but she needed to make better speed. Breaking trail through the deep snow was exhausting her, and that was a condition she couldn't risk, especially without food. With exhaustion would come uncontrollable shivering, then frostbite, collapse, and a dreamlike death as the cold overcame her. As a precaution, she found a stout branch. Swung with two hands it would make a fair club the crudest of weapons, but a weapon and therefore useful.