Soldiers of Ice

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.

“Drink,” he advised, tipping the small cup to her lips. Martine sputtered and then let the warmth trickle down her cold-scorched throat. Another thimbleful followed the first The alcoholic warmth numbed the pain she felt “Where’s the Word-Maker?” she whispered.

“The gnoll? He’s unharmed. Take my word for it. Don’t worry.”

Martine didn’t worry. She knew Vil was good for his word.

“Vreesar’s hunting for me.” Martine surprised herself, remembering to warn them about her pursuers.

Vil nodded. “Then we should get going. Drink some more.” He pushed the cup into her trembling fingers and then turned to the gnomes behind him. “Master Jouka, the woman cannot ski. Can you build a drag for her? She says there are more gnolls coming.”

Martine wanted to correct Vil’s error, to tell him that Vreesar wasn’t a gnoll, but the words wouldn’t form. Soon the forest rang with the bite of axes against wood.

Once the drag was built, Vil helped Martine onto the frame and bundled her in dry blankets, all the time fussing over her wounds. I must be a sight, Martine decided, judging from Vil’s concern.

As she was settling into her bed, Krote was dragged into her view. A burly, thick-browed gnome, Ojakangas by name, pulled the shaman along by a rope that bound his wrists. The Vani had given Krote a pair of snowshoes, but other than that, they showed him none of the kindness she had received.

“Move, dog-man,” the guard rumbled, jerking the weary gnoll onto the trail. The gnome acted without cruelty or kindness, only a matter-of-fact coldheartedness. The Word-Maker staggered a bit as he followed, but held himself stiff. His pride was fierce and far from broken.

“Treat him well, Vani,” Martine croaked fiercely as the gnome and prisoner passed by. “He saved my life.”

The gnome started to glare at the human disdainfully, but the passion in her eyes put him off. Chastised, he motioned the gnoll forward and the pair passed out of sight.

Shortly after that, Martine felt the drag lurch from the ground, towed by Vil and a pair of gnomes. Bundled and lashed in, she could only let herself be jounced along as the party began the journey home.

At some other time, the trip would have been too rough and uncomfortable to sleep, but now was not such a time. The rhythmic swish of skis over snow, the chill in her limbs, and the monotonous parade of green pine branches overhead lulled the Harper to sleep. She had memories of waking several times, though each was barely enough to lift the veil that lay over her consciousness. There was little notable about these brief moments of lucidity the rattle of a woodpecker as it drilled into a pine, the burn of painful sunlight as they crossed a frozen meadow. There was a brief moment of interest as they passed a Vani farmstead. In her present state, Martine would never have even noticed it had not a pair of their party taken their leave here. The farm was a miniature warren, hidden in a hillock. Its only outward sign was a small door into the mound, hidden within a clump of birches. After brief good-byes and a round of drinks, the trek began once more.

Only a final jolting stop broke her dreamless haze after that. Groggily she became aware of the barely familiar surroundings of Vil’s cabin the hewn log walls, the scent of woodsmoke, and the outline of a tree that arched over the cabin’s roof. Bound into the drag, the Harper could only wait impatiently as Vil undid the lacings. Krote was still with them, bound but unhurt, and although the gnoll’s pride was certainly wounded, Martine doubted the gnoll had expected any more.

“Vil, is there someplace he can be kept?” Martine wasn’t sure it was necessary to treat the shaman as a prisoner, but she also wasn’t quite ready to take the chance. Last night in the snow cave had been a matter of survival; now the situation was slightly different.

The former paladin scowled as he undid the last lacing, thinking. “Someplace, yes, but not in my house. The Vani will have to take him.”

Now it was Martine’s turn to scowl as she considered the wisdom in handing her prisoner over to the gnomes. “How do you know he’ll be safe?” she asked softly.

“They’re not beasts, woman,” Vil rumbled. “If he doesn’t provoke them, the Vani won’t harm him. You’ll have to trust them on this.”

The Harper wasn’t quite so sure about the gnomes, but she knew she was in no condition to be responsible for a prisoner. “All right, it’ll have to do,” she said with a nod before turning to the others. “Master Ojakangas, will your people take this prisoner and guard him? You can see that I am in no shape to do so.”

The broad gnome nodded. “This was expected,” came his taciturn reply.

“You said I would be treated well, human,” Krote hissed, furious at being turned over to his enemies. Ojakangas jerked the rope around Krote’s wrists, warning him to be silent.

“I said you wouldn’t be harmed. You’re still my prisoner, Word-Maker.” The Harper was too tired to argue the point. Krote would just have to accept whatever happened. “Thank you, Master Ojakangas. Guard him well.”

Prevented from killing their enemy, the gnomes, Jouka in particular, set to the task of binding Krote with such relish that Martine worried about their intentions. Still, there seemed to be no effort to seriously mistreat the prisoner, and she said nothing more as she watched the gnomes leave.

Once the Vani were gone, Martine turned and went into the cabin. Her body throbbed; her fingers and face burned as the warmth of the cabin penetrated her frost kissed skin. Her feet felt leaden and numb, sure signs of encroaching frostbite. Barely four steps inside the cabin, she collapsed in front of the fire and ungracefully fumbled at her boots. When they were both finally off, she thrust her feet as close to the banked coals as she dared. Heels propped up, she shed her improvised cape and pawed at the remains of her parka, peeling away the sweat stiffened clothes.

“Thank gods we’re back!” the ranger said as Vid stomped through the door.

“Thank Torm indeed,” Vil wearily agreed. He selected tinder for the coals and quickly had a small, welcome blaze coaxed from the embers. When the fire was lit, he sat on the sooty stone hearth, where he carefully eased off his boots.

“Heat… I never thought I’d feel it again,” Martine moaned as she lay with icy feet almost in the fire. Tiny curls of steam began to rise from her damp woolen socks. Already her soles were starting to itch and burn as the frostbite was slowly driven out of her toes. Even that pain couldn’t keep her awake, though.

An untold time later, the woman surfaced from oblivion surrounded by the startling warmth of a thick comforter. After the comforter, the glimmer of firelight and the gnawing pain of hunger were the things she was most keenly aware of.

I’m dreaming, she thought, staring at the scarred rafters over the bed. It took several minutes to realize she was once more lying in Vil’s bed, buried deep in blankets and a faded goose-down comforter. Her host sat at his rickety table whittling curls from a block of wood. “Oh, gods,” she gasped as the dull ache of consciousness moved through every muscle in her body. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Ail night and the better part of a day,” the big man said as he set down his work.

Martine sank back into the featherbed. “Hungry”

“Yes!” she blurted. She was famished.

Vil fetched a big bowl of broth and set it carefully in her lap, then remained hovering over her to see if she needed some help eating. Although the spoon was unsteady in her hand, Martine slowly and deliberately scooped up a few drops of the broth and greedily slurped it down, determined not to be fed like a child. The soup was fatty and over-salted but rich nonetheless with the pervading taste of smoked venison. Chunks of meat and fat and bits of ash swirled through the murky liquid, and it all tasted wonderful.

Only later, after she’d bathed and changed, did Martine finally start to feel human again. The gear she’d stored at Vil’s cabin provided clean clothes, and after a quick inspection of her ragged parka, she decided the best course was to burn it. The tears in the leather were impossible to patch, and she saw black specks moving in the fur trim—fleas, no doubt. The former paladin rummaged up a coat to replace hers. It was more than a little large, but serviceable with some alterations.

With a sheet of foolscap and her writing kit, the Harper sat at the table. Finally, after so many days, she could compose a proper letter to Jazrac. So much had happened and there was so much to explain that the woman didn’t know where to begin—nor did she know just what she should say. The crash… the elemental… her capture by the gnolls… For what was supposed to be a simple job, I certainly made a hash of it, she thought ruefully.

Martine decided to use discretion.

That should do it, the ranger thought as she gently blew the ink dry. Taking the bone-handled knife, she set it upon a corner of the page. She wasn’t quite sure how long to leave the letter sitting out at least a day, she guessed. “Is it all right to leave this out on the table?” she asked her host.

The big man shrugged. “That’s fine. We won’t be around anyway.”

“What.?”

Vil clapped a hand to his forehead. “Sorry. I forgot. The gnomes are celebrating the safe return of the search party tonight”

“And they invited us?” Martine asked dubiously. “We were the cause of all their trouble, after all. Besides, I thought they didn’t like outsiders.” She was still tired, and the thought of several hours of socializing with the gnomes was already giving her the. beginnings of a headache.

“I told you they were good neighbors,” Vil said, grinning. “Besides, they like parties. They use whatever excuse they can to have one.”

Martine looked at the rough outdoor gear she was wearing. “I didn’t bring clothes for something like that.”

“Everybody will understand, I’m sure,” Vil countered. “Besides, they brew a very tasty hard cider. You could probably use a few drinks after your ordeal.”

That, Martine had to admit, was a point she could not dispute, and so, feeling bemused by the unexpected invitation, the woman finally consented to go.

Two hours later, Martine found herself in the entrance hall of the warren, the sounds of revelry all about her. The whiny music of hardrangers, curious fiddles with extra strings that droned like bagpipes, and a hurdy-gurdy echoed from the smooth wooden walls. Gnomes laughed and giggled as they hurried to the council chamber, adapted as a dance hall. Their fat round faces seemed festive enough, but to the Harper, it seemed their merriment was forced.

The din reached its peak at the doorway to the council hall, which was already jammed. White-bearded musicians scraped and bowed from atop a rough table made from several hogsheads and boards. Bungs hammered into the barrels beneath them flowed freely with strong cider. Courting couples danced a furious reel across the floor while the uncommitted lasses giggled and whispered as they watched the young swains from the shadows of the arches. The quadricentenarians of the colony sat on the foremost benches, nodding numbly to the drone of the hardrangers’ strings, their liver-spotted fingers rippling to the runs of the tune. Married men sat clustered around the taps, the air over their heads thick with pipe smoke. Behind them, in the higher seats, their squat wives looked out on the dancers, dreaming of tunes when they once whirled on the floor.

Only the martial figures lurking near the back walls belied the cause of the celebration. Jouka was there, still stiff and grim, even off duty. Gathered around him were a few other members of the rescue party, young warriors who savored the heroic image of their elders. Martine noted that shy Turi had distanced himself from his brother. The quiet one sat in a corner, hands fidgeting with the hem of his robe.

Before she could move any farther into the chamber, the woman was whisked aside by a cluster of gnome maidens. The little damsels cooed and fussed around her, the festive spirit of the hall giving them the courage to overcome their innate bashfulness. Martine found herself subjected to a flurry of questions. Did all human women dress like her? Did they dance? Did they all carry swords and curse like farmhands? What were the men like? On and on it went, till the ranger felt positively dizzy.

The Harper was relieved to see Vil, holding a broadmouthed mug in one hand, rising a good two feet above the throng of smoking Vani. Breaking through her inquisitors to make her way to Vil’s side, Martine ignored the glares of the Vani men as she intruded into their clique.

“Ah, there you are, Martine,” the man cheerfully commented. “Drink?”

“Absolutely,” Martine said with relief. “If I have to answer any more questions, I won’t have any secrets left.”

Vil held up his mug and grinned. “I saw you trapped over there.”

The old men around them scowled at the Harper, though they said nothing since she wasn’t used to their ways. Martine noticed their reactions. After a quick sip, she raised her mug. “You Vani make a fine cider,” she said. “This is the best I’ve had anywhere.” The words weren’t far from the truth, for the cider was crisply sweet, yet just sour enough not to linger thickly in her mouth. Already she could feel the strong kick it carried.

The gnomes near her nodded in polite acknowledgment. Apparently placated by her compliment, they returned to the serious business of socializing. Martine listened in silence for several minutes, then gradually began to ask brief questions of her own. Seeing that she had gained acceptance among the circle of elders, Vil went out to circulate among the feasters.

Martine’s conversation was limited by the growing intensity of the fiddlers’ tunes. The musicians segued easily from waltzes to polkas, with a liberal sprinkling of schottisches, hornpipes, reels, and furious jigs. With each round, the pace quickened, till finally the floorboards trembled with the thundering capers of the dancers. Martine gave up trying to shout over the din and savored her cider, letting the warmth of the drink blank out the pains, concerns, and tensions of the day. Spotting Vil nursing his tankard, the Harper topped off her own mug from the free-flowing tap and rejoined him, reeling only slightly as she strode across the floor.

“Want to dance?” she asked.

“What?” Vil’s beard bounced as his jaw dropped in surprise.

“I said, do you want to dance?” Martine repeated, more loudly this time.

“Me?”

“Of course you! The others are a little short, even for me.” Feeling the exuberance of the drink, the Harper grinned and tugged the man to his feet.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Vil protested lamely.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoilsport. I don’t care if you’re one of those one-legged fachans that haunt the forest. Drink up,” she ordered as she tossed back the last of her cider. The fiddlers launched into a reel.

“I’ll never keep up with this!”

She hauled him onto the floor, ignoring his pleas. The gnome dancers cheerfully opened a space for the giant couple. “Just watch them.”

Before he could begin to absorb her advice, she seized his hands and swirled them into the high-stepping reel. Gamely Vil struggled to keep pace, his face an agony of concentration as he watched her feet and tried to match the whirling steps. As a consequence, he was always at least a half a step late, and forever doing higgledy steps to regain the rhythm.

They spun and crashed into the small couples around them like a tavern skittle caroming from pin to pin. Martine’s obvious enjoyment and Vil’s flustered apologies only added to the entertainment of the other dancers.

The song ended, but for Martine, it had been too long since she had released herself to such simple pleasures. The fiddlers, perhaps sensing her mood, launched into a rousing polka that swept the pair around the dance floor once again. Despite himself, Vil was managing to gain enough confidence in his simple steps to look up from her feet and smile occasionally, although his head still counted out the musicians’ beat.

With heels flashing, they circled the floor dizzily, Martine leading Vil through the capering steps. With its undersize furnishings and people to match, the warren became a child’s dollhouse. They whirled past wizened toadstools posing as solemn ancients, past dames dressed like dried pippin dolls, past warriors lining the walls like martial puppets, past courting lovers—who teased each other like children. For an instant, all Martine’s cares evaporated with the soaring music. The fiddle bows flew faster as she shed her mantle of formal reserve.

When the polka came to a sudden halt, the Harper collapsed, panting, against her partner. His chest rose and fell strongly, slightly winded by their turns. She let herself savor the sharp tang of his sweat and feel the rough muscles of his chest.

Atop his barrel, the lead fiddler uncricked his neck, then threw his long white beard over one shoulder and placed the fiddle in the crook of his arm. While the other fiddlers rested, the old gnome coaxed the first aching chords of a mournful air from his instrument. Gradually minuscule dancers warrior husbands and their wives, hopeful lovers, and aping children crowded into the center of the hall. Martine held Vil on the floor as the dance began, her head still pressed close against him. Gently the dancers swayed about the floor, the two humans at the center like a living maypole at a spring festival. Unconsciously, Vil’s arms closed about her.

The fiddler’s tune seemed to draw out the community’s concerns, the droning strings of the hardranger ominously rumbling of some future fate. The drinkers on the benches fell silent as the musician’s bow sang with the voice of the winter wind and the moonless night.

The music lingered in the air even after the last note died, and everyone held his breath, savoring the memory of the mournful tune. Finally the other dancers slowly stopped, but still no one spoke for fear of breaking the spell. Vil and Martine remained in their embrace, unaware how closely they held each other. Only slowly did the life return to the party. Then, with clear reluctance, Martine slid out of Vil’s clasp and allowed herself to be led off the floor.

“Dancing certainly brings up a thirst.” Vil’s words were strained as he picked a path to the hogsheads.

“The little fiddler was very good,” Martine said with equal awkwardness while trying to straighten out her rumpled clothes.

“That’s Reko, their bard,” the former paladin explained. “At three hundred and forty seven, he’s had a lot of time to practice.”

For a moment, Martine was taken aback, until she remembered that most gnomes lived well past three centuries or even more. The thought suddenly made her wonder how old the warren was. How long had the Vani laid claim to this valley?

Her questions were never asked, for at that moment, a pudgy youth stormed into the hall. In his rush, the gnome charged through the throng like a small boulder, startling one benchful of drinkers so that they almost spilled to the floor. The chatter in the hall suddenly ceased, though no one moved, fearing what they might hear.

“Father’s dead!” the gnomish youth blurted out, his eyes wide and voice breaking with tears. “Our farm was attacked by the gnolls. Hudni… Father… everybody’s dead!”