Soldiers of Ice h-7

by David Cook

  As she trudged along the trail and read the signs of her pursuers, Martine caught a flash of movement off to her left. As quickly as she could focus her vision on the spot, the shape vanished, leaving only the glimpse of a burly, stoop-shouldered shadow. A gnoll? She couldn't be sure. It could be a bear, or even a change in shadow as clouds drifted across the sun. Hefting her cudgel, the ranger slowly approached the spot where she had sighted it, silently picking her way from shadow to shadow.

  Ten feet and several moments later, a gnoll suddenly stepped from behind a tree trunk, sword drawn but oblivious to her presence. With a great roundhouse swing, Martine smashed her stick against the side of the creature's head and was rewarded with the metallic twang of wood cracking against a helm. Her cudgel split with the force of her blow, and the jolt rang down through her arms. The gnoll dropped like a felled ox.

  Martine sprang astraddle the body, doubting that she'd killed her foe. With numb hands, she fumbled in the snow to recover the dropped sword. Stepping clear, she pressed the blade to the gnoll's throat just as the creature began to

  "What… what happened?" the gnoll groaned, and the Harper instantly recognized the voice. By some capricious whim of Lady Tymora, it was the Word-Maker who lay

  sprawled before her. A trickle of blood soaked the fur that stuck out from beneath his helm, but the wound didn't appear to be serious.

  "Lie on your back, arms up, hands together," Martine ordered, all the while smiling in grim amusement at this sudden reversal of their situations. The shaman groggily complied, and she quickly bound his wrists with some of the sinew she had salvaged from the hut. "Not one sound," she ordered next, sword still held at his throat.

  Krote obeyed, clearheaded enough to recognize the peril of his situation. She began searching him for other weapons. "Why are you here?" the shaman asked in a whisper. With the blade held close to his jugular, he took care not to alarm his captor.

  `The rock… the one in my gear. I need it. Is it still in the lodge?"

  His answer was a choked laugh. Before she could demand what was so funny, her hands patted a hard lump in one of the shaman's pouches. Quickly she opened it and pulled out the familiar reddish cinder that was Jazrac's stone. In the same pouch, she discovered the wizard's bone-handled knife.

  "I knew you wanted it, so I took it," Krote explained, grinning. "Am I right? Is the rock why you came back? It is the thing Vreesar seeks, true? The way back to his home?"

  "Get up," she ordered abruptly, ignoring his questions. The discovery of the rock and the knife eliminated the need for several steps in her plan, but now it left her with a new problem. She couldn't leave the Word-Maker behind. Already the shaman had correctly guessed too much. Vreesar would almost certainly learn the truth from the gnoll. Nor could Martine bring herself to kill the shaman now that she'd caught him. The practical solution was too coldblooded for her to stomach.

  Like it or not, I've got myself a prisoner, she thought ruefully.

  "Move," the ranger snapped, furious with the situation, herself, and her ever-present sense of right and wrong. Once more she doubled back, this time turning in the direction of Samek. Dragging along Krote as a prisoner didn't improve her chances of reaching the gnomes safely. She doubted he'd be of much value as a hostage, and there was every chance the gnoll would betray her at the first opportunity.

  With the shaman in the lead, the pair followed the gnoll trail once more, traveling the same direction as she had before. It was a good plan. Certainly any tracker would be confused, although there was considerable risk that they might run into the returning gnolls. Knowing these things did nothing to lessen her nerves, which were as jittery as a rabbit's.

  They reached the granite outcropping that marked the place where she had begun to backtrack. Kneeling, Martine examined the trail she had not taken. It was with some relief that she noted the tracks of the hunting parry continued on. They missed my backtrack, she thought, pleased with herself even though she knew they might return at any time.

  Leaving the trail once more, the Harper guided her prisoner over the ice and rocks, rousing the dark ravens from their roosts. As before, she used the hard surfaces of granite and ice to make their trail disappear, although this time she did not backtrack toward the village but instead headed south toward the dark saddleback ridge that was the pass to Samek.

  Descending from the rocky ledges, Martine plunged into the darkest heart of the woods. At sword point, she forced Krote to plow through drifts that sometimes reached well beyond his knees. There was no hiding their trail now, should her pursuers somehow find it. Speed was all

  important, and the race was against cold and exhaustion as much as those who hunted for her.

  The forest here was virgin pine, the kind cut elsewhere for their long, straight logs. The Harper doubted that any axe had ever touched most of this wood, for the trees were incredibly tall and barren except for bursts of needled boughs near the top. The drab green canopy was laden with snow, casting the forest floor into a perpetual quasitwilight

  Their journey wasn't easy. The snow ranged from shallow to deep as it drifted around the tree trunks. Frequently brambles conspired to block the way, and steep ravines stood in their path at several points. Massive deadfalls, where several trees had fallen in a single storm, created impassable snarls that could only be bypassed. All around these fails, uprooted pines leaned perilously on their neighbors. The woods softly resounded to the creaking trunks and the dismal hiss of the wind. Ravens spoke of their passage, the birds' harsh voices ringing far through the mute woods.

  Although Martine was born to the outdoors and knew it well, this forest was different from others she was familiar with. The endless tracts of pine were not like the woods of oak and elm in Sembia and the Dalelands. The forest here was tall; muffled, and cold.

  A feeling of dark watchfulness tingled at the back of Martine's neck, and she knew it was the spirit of the forest. Others, townsfolk and farmers, never felt it That sense was knowledge only true woodsmen knew by the way the wind rustled the leaves, the direction the water flowed, or even how a rabbit left its tracks. This forest's spirit was ungenerous and unforgiving, barely tolerant of intruders. Martine didn't feel any warmth in these woods like those of her homeland.

  Exhausted, the Harper finally called a stop as she leaned, perspiring in the chill, against the trunk of a tree. Krote squatted, his jaw slack and tongue hanging as he panted clouds of frost, almost as spent as she and glad for the rest.

  "You do not need to threaten me with the sword. I will not escape," the shaman finally growled as he brushed snow from his dirty bindings.

  Martine thought she heard an edge of bitter irritation in his voice. "Why not?" she asked doubtfully.

  "I cannot go back."

  "Why not?" It seemed all she could manage to say. Krote's lips curled in a snarl. "Vreesar banished me. If I go back, I die."

  "I heard him bar you from his lodge. That's not banishment" Martine poked her sword at the snowbank, carving little holes near the gnoll.

  "Lodge and tribe are one."

  "How come he didn't kill you? He killed Hakk and that other gnoll."

  Krote waggled an ear at her words. "You saw that, human? I live because even Vreesar fears the gods." Krote jangled the charm that hung around his neck. "Kill me and you anger Gorellik, the god of my people."

  That was enough talk for Martine. She didn't like the implied threat in the shaman's words, and so with a rough shove of her foot, she got the gnoll back on his feet.

  For the next hour, the woman plodded in silence. It took all her effort just to keep her attention on the trek, and she had no desire to talk through her cold-burnt throat. The path became even harder to follow as dusk fell, the thick shadows hiding jarring bumps and holes. Her leg muscles were beyond aching, numb with incessant pain. Sweat weighted her clothes. Even with the growing cold of nightfall, she drove them on by moonlight. Moonlight was almost a euphemism, silver Selune not yet even half full a
nd barely penetrating through the black-needled boughs. Sil

  ver rivers ran through the trees, broken by black rapids of bare rock and exposed moss.

  Martine had no idea how many hours or days it had been since starting when she finally called their march to a halt Krote, exhausted as well, stood still among the dimly lit trees. "If we stop, we freeze," he warned grimly.

  Freezing almost seemed appealing to Martine, but the gnoll was right. They needed protection from the night cold.

  "We'll dig a shelter," she said, pointing to a large snow bank at the base of a bluff. She began to scoop away handfuls of snow. Krote did not resist or argue but mutely held up his bound hands for her to cut them free.

  In a short time, the two had tunneled out a chamber a tomb fit for an ice queen, Martine felt barely big enough for them to lie down in. "This is where we sleep," the woman explained as she re-bound the gnoll's wrists. She didn't have enough cord to tie his ankles, so she could only rely on common sense and trust. "If you run away, you'll freeze in the cold. If you kill me, you'll freeze here. Understand?"

  The Word-Maker nodded. "And if you kill me, human, you freeze. This night we need each other."

  Martine nodded, her sore shoulders screaming at even that slight turn of the head. With tinder and Jazrac's knife, Martine kindled a tiny fire in the entrance that barely warmed them

  Dinner consisted of moss and tender bark, the best the ranger could gather in the snow. Normally she wouldn't have bothered, but her captivity had left her starving. Krote was not that desperate and so only watched her eat.

  "Inside," Martine said after the unappetizing repast. As the gnoll squeezed in through the entrance, Martine gave one last look skyward. Selune's Tears, a waft of star motes that hung off the crescent hook of the butterfat moon, weaved through the sparse branches of the wind-blasted pines along the cliff face. The sky was clear and bitter. Night birds lurking in the icebound woods called to any listening ear, speaking to each other of their might and wisdom Something, a breeze or a small beast, snuffled beyond the rim of light. The night forest excited her; even here, it was a world she understood and loved, more so than the timid towns and villages she had sworn to defend as a Harper.

  A grunt from Krote broke the mood. Drawn back from her reverie, the Harper numbly crawled inside, taking care to keep her sword ready. Now came the time when she had no choice but to trust the shaman. Trust out of necessity did not come easy.

  In the near darkness, the Word-Maker had twisted and squirmed his rude bed closer to the ice-sheened wall, distancing himself from Martine's space. Even so, the two, woman and gnoll, were still pressed tight to each other. Martine placed her drawn sword along the wall, just in case. Only exhaustion would grant her any rest tonight.

  As she lay in the darkness, the ground chill insinuated its way through the layers of her leather parka, into its sweat matted fur lining, through torn and stained clothes, past skin, until it reached muscle and bone. Martine could feel it creep through her body. The cold wanted to kill her, to stalk down the warmth within her and leech it into the snow until she was left an ice-filled husk. In the near darkness, these thoughts obsessed the woman. She had camped in the woods as much as she had lived indoors, but never could she remember a night so hostile.

  "Gods, I'm freezing," she chattered softly.

  "So am I," her companion answered unexpectedly from the darkness.

  Tentatively the pair inched closer to each other. Neither wanted to get close to the other, but they needed each

  other's warmth. Fi their bodies huddled together. The gnoll stank, and where his fur poked through, it scratched her, but the contact kept the cold at bay. Finally the Harper drifted into a dim semblance of sleep.

  When the cave walls began to glow autumnal gold, Martine at first dismissed it as another waking dream. The light persisted, until she finally realized it was no fantasy. Wriggling through the narrow entrance, she gratefully drew in a lungful of clear morning air. Accustomed to the den, she had forgotten just how thick, rank, and humid the snow cave was until she was outside of it.

  It was incredibly bright outside, the kind of brightness that comes when all the moisture has been frozen out of the air, allowing the sun's rays to burn unhampered onto the ice-sheeted ground, where the sunlight reflects back up and for a brief moment crosses itself to intensify the glare. On such mornings, it seems as though the whole world has risen up from an ocean of light.

  Retrieving her sword, the Harper tugged on the WordMaker's boot until the gnoll finally woke. She had expected the shaman to wake quick and alert, as matched the feral reputation of gnolls, but Krote, it seemed, was a terrible sluggard. Only after a fair amount of growling was she able to get the gnoll outdoors.

  "Why get up? It was warm in the cave," the shaman grumbled as he suppressed a yawn.

  "I want to cross the pass before noon. Once we're in Samek, we should be able to find a farm or something." Martine was already stowing her bundle for the journey.

  "What will happen to me? The little people are not friendly." As he spoke, Krote held his wrists up, asking to be unbound. Catching the suspicious look in her eye, he added with an angry snarl, "Wrists hurt I could have killed you in the cave."

  Martine drew the bone-handled knife and absentmind edly stroked the blade as she considered the gnoll's request. "Your oath, shaman. I cut you loose and you come with me. No tricks."

  "So you give me to the little people?" he snorted. "You're my prisoner. The Vani won't hurt you." "Your oath, human?"

  "By the blood of my family."

  'Mat is good. I give you my oath, human but only until we reach your valley."

  "Only if you swear by Gorellik, your god." Martine bit her lip.

  Krote scowled. Martine was getting better at reading the gnoll's expressions. "Gorellik sees all and knows Krote gifts his word. We will travel in peace, Martine of Sembia."

  "Praise to Mielikki," Martine added, beseeching in her heart the blessing of the Lady of the Forest. It might mean everything or it might mean nothing, but Martine instinctively believed the Word-Maker's oath to be valuable. Now that she had it, the Harper cut the bonds with some sense of confidence.

  The pair started the day's march without delay. To an untrained eye, it would have seemed as if they were traveling through more of the same as yesterday the same gray pines, the same dazzling whiteness, the same rocks, the same streams but to Martine's practiced eye, there were important differences. Gradually the pines no longer grew as high and the brooks gurgled with less water, both clear signs that they had begun the climb up the pass. The snow was deeper, too. Krote waded on through drifts up to his waist, drifts whose smooth tops carne as high as the smaller ranger's chest. Woodpecker drills echoed through the woods while the squawks of the ravens grew less frequent. Overhead, an eagle circled a nearby meadow, patiently waiting for a marmot or a field mouse.

  By midmorning, Martine's hope was revived. There was

  no doubt they would clear the ridge today. At worst, it would be one, perhaps two more days before they reached the Vani warren. The prospect of rest and hot food renewed her flagging energy.

  The huntress was waiting, feet stomping impatiently, as Krote crossed a fallen tree spanning a frozen stream. Just when the gnoll was halfway across, six small shadows stepped from the thickets that lined the far bank. Their spears were ready, their bows drawn. Unarmed and exposed, Krote froze on the log bridge as his muzzle flared and his ears stiffened straight back, ready for a fight.

  The six small shadows were short and stocky-Vani gnomes. The grins of their successful ambush played across their faces.

  "Don't hurt him!" Martine yelled as they sprang onto the slick log. "He's my prisoner!"

  Nine

  "Hold! Don't harm him!" rang Vil's bass voice from the woods.

  Martine wavered with uncertain relief. Am I saved? Can I stop struggling and sleep? Her exhausted mind was too befuddled to do more than vaguely imagine the reality before her.
She fought back the sudden flood of exhaustion that came with trying to comprehend.

  Dumbly the Harper scanned her rescuers, staring at them like mirages. She thought she identified Jouka Tunkelo's belligerent scowl, although it was hard for her to see clearly enough. Ice crusted around her eyes, and her pupils burned from hours in the brilliant snow. The blurry faces of the gnomes were little more than thick stockings, black bristling beards, and slitted wooden goggles that shut out the glare of the snow.

  "Four days… I told you, Martine." The thicket rustled and cracked as Vil stepped through the center of the Vani line. Seeing her, he stopped abruptly. "By Torm, what happened?"

  "Avalanche… Vreesar… gnolls… cold." The jerky words were clear to her, her memories filling the gaps between each. The sight of her rescuers drained her of the instinctive fear that had kept her going for the last several days. Suddenly, after days of ordeal, the woman was tired, raw, wet, freezing, thirsty, hungry, and more things than her numb mind could comprehend. "I'm… alive," she croaked even as she wavered.

  "Don't hurt Krote. I gave my word." As if her will had kept her standing long enough to say that, the ranger's legs gave out from under her and consciousness slid away into a dream.

  There was a faint feeling, deep in the core of Martine's body, that she was flying perhaps ascending to the planes of her ancestors, she thought bemusedly. It ended abruptly in a thump. The landing launched a dull wave of pain that spread throughout her body, transforming the gray haze into turbid and unrestful darkness.

  It was warm, wet liquor, strong on caraway and heady alcohol, that revived her. Vilheim Baltson, four days unshaven, knelt over her, carefully forcing a thimbleful of spirits through her lips. The curious faces of gnomes clustered behind him, but Krote was nowhere in sight. She tried to rise to find the gnoll, but the man's firm hand pressed her down.