Soldiers of Ice

Eleven

Oh, gods, I’m doomed! Martine thought as she sagged against one of the paneled walls. At the same time, the color drained from her face, leaving her deadly pale. The thought that Jazrac needed to check up on her inspired in her a dread awe of the wrath the Harpers.

Where do I begin? How do I explain what’s happened? Martine couldn’t see any simple way to tell about her misadventures that wouldn’t cast doubts on her judgment. Lying was unthinkable. The woman knew there was really nothing she could do to avert Jazrac’s displeasure, and trying to conceal any of her errors would only make it worse. The knowledge that there was no escaping the truth didn’t help her either. The fear of her superiors was instilled too deeply to ignore.

“Excuse me,” Vil said sharply as he banged the flat of his sword against the wall. The loud crack was a sure attention-getter. “What in the world is going on?” The warrior looked to Martine for an answer, all the while watching the stranger from the corner of his eye.

The color rushed back into Martine’s cheeks and blossomed into a full blush as she was suddenly reminded that Vil was a spectator to her mortification. “Uh, Vilheim, this is Jazrac, Mage of Saerloon. Jazrac, this is Vilheim Baltson. He’s the one I mentioned in the letter.”

The wizard stopped unpacking, which was fortuitous, for the bed was almost overflowing with furniture, scrolls, bundles, shoes, even a thick pair of robes. Holding one hand to his chest, the senior Harper bowed slightly toward Vil, tilting the tip of his goatee toward the floor. “Greetings, Vilheim Baltson. Your home is extremely well built.” The wizard looked down at the sword Vil still held clutched in his hand.

“Greetings to you, Jazrac, but 1 must explain that this is not my cabin,” Vil replied, grinning at the error. “I’m not that good a carpenter. You’re in a gnome warren.”

“Really? I’ve never been inside one before.” Jazrac’s face brightened as he peered at the walls with renewed interest “No wonder I was confused about the small size.”

“You don’t intend to stay here, do you?” Martine ventured. She pointed to the bed piled with things, a mound already twice the size of the wizard’s small valise.

“I’ve come to talk with you,” Jazrac easily replied, avoiding the question. His gray eyes were dark pits rimmed by deep creases, his sharp nose a brilliant highlight. Martine couldn’t guess her mentor’s thoughts behind his veiled expression, and so filled that void of knowledge with fearful imaginings.

Jazrac put her fears to naught with a shrug. “Well, I should explain for Master Baltson’s sake, I suppose.” With a flourish of his cape, the mage sat on the edge of the bed. The stack of scrolls behind him teetered ominously.

“I’m a Harper, and this young lady is a Harper, too.” Jazrac paused, awaiting some sort of reaction.

There was only silence. No gasped breath, no protestation of disbelief.

“So she told me,” Vil said calmly.

Jazrac looked crestfallen that his dramatic announcement had been spoiled. With one eye cocked toward Martine, he continued, “Well, we’re normally not supposed to reveal that, but I’m the reason Martine’s here. I sent her on a mission—”

“I know. To close the rift.” Vil’s bland interruption once again foiled the wizard’s theatrics. Now Jazrac fixed both eyes on Martine, missing the former paladin’s mischievous grin.

“Well, anyway,” Jazrac continued coldly, “since I hadn’t heard from my protégé for some time, and then I get two alarming messages, I thought it best I come to see if all’s well. We Harpers do that sort of thing,” he added cavalierly. “Indeed.”

Jazrac made a stab at small talk as he rebalanced the scrolls behind him. “I don’t imagine you know what a bother it can be, keeping tabs on each other. You seem more the independent type. You probably never had to worry about anybody else, eh?”

Martine bit her lip; she knew Vil was once a paladin. She didn’t know much about paladins, but she did know their lives were committed to serving others. Vil merely smiled wryly. “Oh, I’ve had a few duties in my life.”

“Indeed! Then you do understand how it is. I’ve come to see if everything is well—” here the mage hesitated significantly “and talk Harper business with Martine.” He paused broadly, spreading his hands in an obvious hint. When Vil failed to move, Jazrac cleared his throat. “Harper business. Private Harper business.”

“I see,” Vil answered with mock naïveté. “You want me to leave.”

Vil was mocking Jazrac, the woman knew, though she couldn’t guess just why. It probably had something to do with the traditional rivalry between paladins and wizards. She’d never known the two groups to get along well. Paladins were painfully noble and suspected the motives of most sorcerers; which naturally irritated the sorcerers. If I were a wizardress, it’d annoy me, too, she thought. Fortunately in this case, Jazrac didn’t even notice the warrior’s mocking tone. Perhaps he assumed Vil was simply dense. Martine had been around the warrior enough to know that wasn’t true.

It was time to intervene, though, just in case Vil got out of hand.

“Jazrac, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Martine pleaded as she pushed herself wearily from the wall she’d been slumping against. “These last several days have been really hard on me. Nothing’s going to change by tomorrow”

The mage’s eyes wrinkled at her suggestion. “I think we should talk now. I’d like to know everything that has happened.” His tone was all authority.

“I’ll go see how the Vani are doing,” the warrior volunteered graciously. “I’ll be back in about an hour.” Vil sheathed his sword and quickly made his departure.

Although she didn’t want the warrior around for what was certain to be an unpleasant conversation, Martine still couldn’t help feeling she was being abandoned. She waited stiffly for the wizard to speak. Without a knife in hand, her fingers knitted and clenched nervously.

Jazrac coolly brushed some invisible dust from his clothes before he looked at Martine. The mask of affability he’d maintained since he arrived was gone.

“Now, tell me just what has been happening here,” he demanded calmly. “First I read that clever little ‘Captured by gnolls’ message. Then after days of silence, you suddenly report that everything is fine but your prize mount is dead. What is going on, anyway?”

Martine tried to swallow, then offered meekly, “I closed the rift and I’ve got your keystone.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, though I already knew about the rift. Both Elminster and I detected the change in the balance. of things up here. What I want to know is the rest.” Jazrac stared at her, waiting for her answer.

Martine suddenly remembered a prayer to Lady Tymora she’d learned when she was young. Unfortunately, the memory had come too late for her to use it.

“Astriphie died on the glacier,” Martine murmured. Her voice cracked as she thought of the hippogriff lying broken and gutted on the ice.

“Details, Martine, always details. Now, how did the beast die?”

Oh, gods, what do I tell him? That I pushed Astriphie too close to the geyser? Or should I leave that part out? “Astriphie got caught in a windstorm at the rift and was blown out of the sky. The hippogriff died when we landed. I thought it was important to get as close to the rift as possible in order to get done quickly.” Martine found herself wringing her hands, feeling like an apprentice reciting her lessons.

“Hmmm” was Jazrac’s only comment. “Then what happened?”

The woman avoided the wizard’s unwavering gaze, looking instead at the wood grain in the bare walls. “Then I closed the rift, like you showed me. And then something caught me.” Martine hurried through the last part, vainly hoping Vil would overlook it.

“Something?” the senior Harper asked pointedly.

“It was a thing of ice and cold. It called itself Vreesar,” Martine explained. “There was another creature with it. A mephit, I think. I killed it.”

“Hmmm.” This time the pause was longer and more profound. “Some type of elemental, no doubt,” the wizard murmured to himself. “And did you kill this creature as well or send it back where it came from as you were instructed?”

“I couldn’t send it back, Jazrac. The rift was already closed.” Feeling frustrated at the impossibility of the question and the need to defend her actions, the woman carefully undid the top strings of her blouse and pulled it open to reveal her shoulder. Livid unhealed scars were etched lightninglike across her skin. “That’s what the little one did to me. I’d crashed, I was half frozen, and I had broken a couple of ribs. I couldn’t fight it. It’s only by the luck of Tymora that I’m still alive. At least I closed your rift for you. And,” she added as she closed her blouse and furiously dug through her pouch, “I brought back your damned stone! Isn’t that enough?” Biting back her words so she didn’t completely lose her temper, she slapped the stone onto a bare patch of the bed.

Jazrac shook his head. “I’m sorry, Martine,” he offered, though he didn’t sound particularly sorry. “I’m sorry, my dear, if this is unpleasant for you, but if you want to be a true Harper, then you must realize that the bare minimum is not enough. This creature—Vreesar, was it? should have been dealt with. You should have called for help.”

“I didn’t have the chance,” she protested. “I was captured by the gnolls.” In her nervous state, she started to pace the small room like a caged cat.

“You were able to get me a message, young woman,” the wizard reminded her. “You could have added one word: ‘Help.’ ”

“‘Captured by gnolls’ wasn’t clear enough? It was all I could think of at the time.”

Jazrac grabbed her by the arm as she paced by. “You’re supposed to be a Harper. I can’t go running every time you have a little problem. You’re supposed to be able to take care of yourself.”

“You just said I should have called for help.” The wizard’s inconsistencies were maddening.

“To deal with this Vreesar, not the gnolls. You did escape, after all. So what happened? And please remember the details.”

“I got away from Vreesar, but I was hurt and freezing. When I came across the gnolls, I decided the best thing to do was surrender.” She found herself twisting her fingers again.

“Wise choice.”

“I managed to convince them not to kill me,” the woman continued, though she decided to leave out the business of her marriage.

Jazrac twiddled his beard. “So you tricked one into writing that message…”

“Their shaman Krote Word-Maker. He’s my prisoner now.”

“A gnoll shaman prisoner… very interesting.” The wizard tapped the side of his sharp nose thoughtfully. “So how did you escape?”

Martine felt her shoulders tense. “The creature Vreesar—came off the glacier and kind of took over the tribe.”

“Kind of?”

Martine took a deep breath. “He killed the chief and took his place. It’s a gnoll law. But then he wanted me to reopen the gate for him. I knew I couldn’t, so I escaped as soon as I could.”

The wizard scowled so that his fine goatee waggled sharply at her. “So now he leads these gnolls? I assumed you used good judgment and could recognize true dangers from inconvenience,” he said with cutting coolness. “This is bad. Your second letter didn’t say a thing about the elemental, did it?”

Martine turned away. “No, it didn’t,” she admitted. “Why not, Martine?”

Now was the painful part, she knew. “I was afraid to,” she whispered as she turned back to face him. “I really wanted to do well, for everything to work out. I didn’t want you to think anything had gone wrong. Besides, it’s only one creature, and he can’t get back because you’ve got the keystone.”

“It’s never that simple, Martine,” Jazrac snapped. “We can’t leave things like this.”

“Why not? Aren’t you the one who always told me that the Harpers can’t get involved in everything?” The ranger flipped her black bangs from her eyes. “This is just the sort of situation you used to tell me about. Vreesar doesn’t threaten the safety of the Dales, or even the Heartlands. Its a local problem, and we don’t get involved in local problems at least that’s what you used to tell me.”

Jazrac stood up tall with his arms crossed so that he towered over her. “It’s not a local matter anymore, Martine. You don’t understand,” he said flatly. “You’re involved, which means the Harpers are involved. We didn’t let this Vreesar into our world, but because of you, the creature’s a threat to the safety of everyone who lives here. These gnomes, for example. True, you closed the rift, but what good is that if the results still destroy everyone in the vicinity?”

“Not much, I guess,” the ranger answered sheepishly. “You shouldn’t have tried to hide things.” Jazrac’s chest rolled with a sigh. “Simply put, this has jeopardized your career. Yes, you’ve handled the mission, but not well. Not only that, I vouched for you before the others, and now you’re making me look like a fool.” He thrust a long finger in her direction irritably. “Now we have no choice. We’ve got to straighten out this mess and, gods forbid, hope there isn’t any more trouble.”

Feeling miserable and humiliated, Martine sank onto the bedding in the middle of the floor. “There is more trouble, I mean,” she moaned, holding her face in her hands. “The gnolls have attacked, and now the Vani are going to war.”

“Wonderful!” Jazrac exclaimed, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Well, then, my dear, we’d better get busy.” Assuming there was no more to discuss, the wizard began sorting through his unpacked possessions. “I’d like to talk with this shaman. Can that be arranged?”

Without looking up, Martine nodded numbly. “Someone Vil or Turi maybe can show you the way.”

“Vil, is it?” Jazrac murmured.

“He’s not my lover, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Martine said indignantly, her back stiffening. “Vil saved my life and has let me stay with him since.”

“Indeed.”

“Jazrac, don’t be such a prig.” The woman was too angry to be polite.

“You’re right. I’m being rude,” Jazrac said. “What kind of man is he?”

Martine considered the question before offering an opinion. “Trustworthy… decent… He says he was a paladin of Torm.”

“Was? What happened?”

“Something about his god abandoning him. It was during the Time of Troubles.”

“Hmmm… yes, that would make sense.” Jazrac fastidiously straightened his doublet as he went to the door. “Well, grab one of those chairs,” he instructed, pointing to the furniture heaped on the bed. “If we’re all going stay in one room, we’d better clear off that bed.”

Martine set to work numbly. By the time Vil returned, the tables and chairs were neatly placed against the wall of the hallway outside the room. The linens and quilts were divided into thirds. Two beds were laid out on the floor, while the small gnome bed was made up for the third. Vil took these new accommodations in stride.

For what little remained of the night, the trio slept, the two men sleeping on the floor while Martine curled up on the bed. It wasn’t gallantry that gave her the mattress; both men were far too tall to squeeze between the cramped head- and footboards. Even for Martine, it was hardly restful. Although she was only five feet tall, that was still nearly two feet taller than the average gnome. It was only by curling up like a kitten that she was able fit on the bed.

By morning, the ranger had cramps from her neck to the base of her spine. Stretching, she heard the bones in her back pop and crack with every move, but she was grateful to stand upright. She watched enviously as Jazrac laced up his clean linen shirt, trimmed with Chessentian lacework. The smell of town-laundered clothes was unmistakable after weeks of having to wash her own clothes in cold streams or not at all.

Catching her eye, the wizard nodded toward a pile of fabric near his bag. “I thought you might want those,” he said with deceptive casualness.

Curious, Martine went to investigate. “Jazrac, how could you know?” she exclaimed. First she held up a quilted smock, then a pair of woolen breeches, then linen blouses, and finally a long, thick gown. “Why, these are my own clothes! Where did you—” She stopped suddenly and her eyes narrowed. “You have been spying on me, haven’t you? Somehow, with that crystal ball of yours, you’ve been watching me.”

Jazrac only laughed while Vil looked at the two of them in sleepy confusion.

“How much spying does it take to guess you’d need clothes?” the wizard asked innocently. “I just asked Jhaele if you’d left anything at the inn that I could bring you.”

“Oh,” the woman said, her face reddening. “Would both of you please turn around so I can change?” As they faced the door, Martine took her time selecting an outfit. After so long, clean, proper-fitting clothes were almost a novelty; she was resolved to savor dressing in them.

“All done,” Martine finally called. When he saw her, Vil cocked his head in surprise. “Is that uh functional for fighting?” he queried, clearly suspect of her choice but at the same time taken aback by her appearance. After so many days wearing the same stained jerkins, Martine had deliberately chosen a tightly tailored smock that hugged her figure yet kept her warm.

“I’ll be fine, Vil. You’re just not used to women’s clothes.” She smiled at the former paladin’s reaction, secretly flattered. “Thank you for being concerned, though.” Impulsively she swooped over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, flustering the man. “Now we’d better introduce Jazrac to our hosts.”

Finding their hosts didn’t take very long. Just outside the door, Martine saw two pairs of eyes that looked up with her appearance. Round Turi and his leaner brother Jouka sat in the hallway on the two chairs Martine had removed from the room the night before. Turi’s glossy black braids swung loosely as he stared at them. Feet clomped as the pair stood to greet them.

“Masters Jouka and Turi,” Vilheim said as he ducked through the door and entered the hall. “I want you to meet Jazrac of—”

“Mage of Saerloon,” the wizard offered as he emerged from the room. The two gnomes blinked with surprise at seeing yet another human in their midst.

“I apologize for appearing unannounced, but the hour was late when I arrived last night,” Jazrac said in a rich gnomish accent, showing his familiarity with the small race. He bowed deeply to the gnomes, his lace sleeve nearly sweeping the floor. “I ask for your tolerance and hospitality and hope that I can repay you with any service at my power.”

Jouka and Turi gaped openly at the wizard until the woodsman finally stammered, “Master Vil, will you—uh—give assurance for this person?”

Vil sucked his cheek as he considered the request, not particularly eager to stake his word on someone unknown to him.

“I will be the model of behavior,” Jazrac assured them. With no small reluctance, Vilheim nodded. The gnomes seemed satisfied.

“I understand there is a gnoll prisoner being held here,” Jazrac said, not one to be timid. “I would appreciate it if I could see him. Can someone show me the way?”

Behind the wizard, Martine could only marvel at how quickly the wizard made himself at home. “I know the way, Jazrac,” she offered, but the wizard shook his head.

“It would be best if you reflected on your actions up to now, my dear,” the wizard whispered. “I think one of the things you need is more time for contemplation.” With that, the wizard prevailed upon Turi to act as his guide.

The pudgy gnome, a crafter of magical illusions by trade, was intrigued by the opportunity to talk with the human wizard and the pair of them disappeared down the hall, engrossed in conversation.

“I invite you, Master Vilheim, to meet with the council regarding matters that concern you as well as us,” Jouka gruffly announced once he had regained his composure. “You have a home in our valley, so it is right that you join us.” It was clear from Jouka’s invitation that it extended only to Vil. The warrior could hardly refuse, and soon he and the gnomes also left, leaving Martine alone. Upset, she returned to the room.

Clannngg!

A steel helm ricocheted off the bedpost and skittered across the floor, propelled by the sharp kick of a hard-shod foot.

“Damn that man!” The oath followed hard on the rattling clank of the still-spinning helmet. “The nerve—the utter gall!” Martine launched into a string of invectives, dredging up the choicest insults she had learned in her years along the coasts of the Inner Sea. It was fortunate the wizard wasn’t present to hear her curse his ancestry, his wit, and especially his prowess.

It was so like him, Martine knew. If there was anything that bothered her most among Jazrac’s many irritating qualities his condescension, his smugness, his superiority it was Jazrac’s consummate ability to thrust himself to the forefront in every situation. He was egotistical, overbearing, even childish, but most of all Jazrac had the talent to transform even the most mundane action to a mystery that captivated others even as it infuriated her.

“Wizards!” she fumed, as if that explained everything that bothered her about Jazrac’s behavior.

As she sat in imposed contemplation, Martine doubted she was learning whatever lesson it was that Jazrac wanted her to learn. Instead, all she could think about was how close she had come, years ago, to being her mentor’s lover. She had been considerably younger then, and Jazrac had seemed urbane and dashing. It seemed as if he had traveled to every exotic place she had longed to see and had tasted, touched, and seen things the young ranger could only imagine. She had been thoroughly infatuated with him. The thought appalled her now.

Still, Martine had to acknowledge a certain basic decency in the man. Naive as she had been, the wizard had always been gentlemanly toward her. He had never taken advantage of her and had always told her honestly what he thought was best for her career. Although his manner was infuriating, the wizard had always cared about her.

The longer she sat, the stranger the turns her contemplation took. Her anger at Jazrac became anger at herself. She had let him down, even though she had completed the mission. The wizard had a right to be angry with her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a distant blaring noise that sounded dully through the halls. It was a curious noise, one of those sounds that Martine was certain was familiar, yet she couldn’t place it. She ignored it until it happened again, proving it wasn’t just a freak occurrence. She went out into the hall to investigate.

The blaring note sounded again, tapering off like a wailing child. It sounded like a huntsman calling his hounds, like a huntsman’s…

“Horn!” Martine blurted suddenly. “Someone’s outside sounding a horn.” Grabbing her gear from the room, she sprinted down the wooden hall, trying to remember the way to the main chamber. Just as she was beginning to think she was lost, the ranger rounded a corner and almost tripped over Jouka, rushing in her direction. Instinctively the two sprang back, both reaching for their blades, before realizing exactly what was happening. Hurrying behind the gnome came Vil, towering over the rest of the gnomes of the council.

The fierce look fled from Jouka’s bearded face as he recognized the human. “The south doors, everyone! Quickly!” Without waiting for a reply, Jouka sprinted past Martine and down the hall.

The Harper seized on the chance to follow before anyone could object to her presence. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be part of this council assembly, but she assumed his words just now negated that restriction.

Led by Jouka, Martine, and Vil, the gnomes hurried through corridors lit by cold flames and passed through doors so low that even Martine, hardly tall by human standards, had to duck her head. Other gnomes they encountered, startled by this strange entourage, shouted questions as they passed. Martine couldn’t make out the hurried replies. Elder Sumalo soon fell far back, his legs showing his age. As they ran, more Vani men joined them, spears and short swords in hand.

At last they poured into the great foyer at the south entrance to the warren. The passage was built without regard for humans, and Martine found it impossible to stand upright. The low ceiling made her feel uncomfortable. She noted that Vil was forced to crouch on the floor.

Sumalo; with Turi in his wake, pushed his way through the throng to join Jouka at the front of the group. Looking back, Martine saw the colorful flash of Jazrac’s doublet: “Jazrac!” she shouted, trying to let the wizard know she was here.

From the inside, the exit was an elegant work of simplicity, consisting of closely fitted panels of polished pine, once blond though now golden-brown with age. Looking at the cracks in the doorposts and the worn floorboards, Martine judged they were in one of the oldest sections of the warren.

By now, a half-dozen gnomes had formed a rough line in response to Jouka’s shouted commands. Their weapons were a mismatched assortment of whatever had been at hand. Martine noticed swords, spears, and axes, and one gnome even flourished a meat cleaver as he chattered eagerly in an accent so thick the Harper couldn’t follow it. Jouka’s sharp commands formed them into a rough rank that blocked the door. Curious children who had followed the group were herded back behind the line in case there was some danger.

While the gnomes were getting organized, Martine slid to the front to take the opportunity to scan the surface. Kneeling, she slid open the small peephole in the door. Dazzling light burst through the square opening and splayed across the worn floor, reflecting off the golden pine to brighten the entire chamber. A freezing draft accompanied the sunbeam, as if to mock its warmth.

“Human, get away from there!” Jouka snapped. Mindful she was only a guest, but still curious, Martine started to close the shutter but kept her eye glued to the peephole. Squinting, she strained against the sun-dazzled snow to make out anything clearly. A frosty morning haze hung over the berry canes at the meadow’s edge.

Martine could hear Jouka’s grumbling grow louder with every passing second, and she was about to give up when she spotted a movement among the canes. “Jouka, look there,” she whispered eagerly as she stepped aside. “By that uprooted pine.”

The gnome pressed his eye to the slot. “I don’t see you mean the big white thing?”

The ranger nodded. “Vreesar.”

The rasping horn blew again, sounding louder through the opening. Standing next to the distant elemental was a gnoll blowing a curved horn. The winter wind whipped the gnoll’s ragged clothes.

“It followed you here!” Jouka accused Martine as Elder Sumalo stepped forward to have a look.

“Not me,” Martine said with a shake of her head. “I’ve never used this entrance. Buri, perhaps.”

Jouka grunted, unwilling to divert the blame. “You brought them to this valley,” he insisted.

The Harper couldn’t deny that. The accusation reminded her of Jazrac’s words last night. In solving one problem for the Harpers, she’d created another, and it was just as much her duty to solve this one.

“We should hear what Vreesar has to say,” the woman said when Jouka gave no orders to open the gate.

The dour little man snorted. “There is nothing to say. I say we kill it when it comes closer.”

Martine’s first reaction to the gnome’s suggestion was that it would solve the problem, and in the instant when words come before thought, she almost agreed aloud. However, second thoughts followed, and she recoiled at what she had almost done.

“No, Jouka. The woman speaks wisely. We must hear the creature out,” Elder Sumalo said disapprovingly. “Heikko, open the door.”

The golden-bearded warrior nodded and shot back the massive bolt in its track. Martine, Jouka, and Sumalo fell back among the ranks of gnomes as the gate swung inward, releasing a shower of icy chunks from the bank overhead. The hardened snow shattered on the wooden floor and lay there to crackle underfoot. Warmth fled the hallway, fluttering the long beards of the little warriors braced for attack.

Across the snowfield, the elemental stood hunched and motionless at the edge of the woods. Behind him, in clusters of two or three, Martine saw in the haze the phantoms of Burnt Fur warriors among the brambles and trees. Like the elemental, they did not move.

“People of the dirt!” the elemental croaked in its peculiar buzzing accent. “I am Vreesar, prince of ice and master of the Burnt Fur. Who speakz for the little dirt people?”

Without hesitation, Elder Sumalo stepped from the line of militia advanced to the doorway. “I am Elder Sumalo. I speak for the Vani.” The old gnome’s normally thin voice penetrated the distance across the clearing with authority.

The elemental’s icicled brow flared in the sunlight, and it cocked its head to survey the small figure that faced him. “Su-ma-lo,” the creature said with difficulty, shaping the soft syllables with its harsh lips. “Su-ma-lo,” it repeated, striding across the snow. “Come out and we will talk.”

“Watch for any sign of treachery,” the priest said softly to Jouka. The warrior nodded, then motioned several spearmen to the edge of the door where they had a clear view.

The old priest waded through the drifted path to the center of the small field between the warren and the woods, where the elemental already stood. Barely had they met when the elemental pointed toward the entrance. “The female comez, too,” it shrilled. Martine realized its icy finger was pointed at her. Jouka eyed her darkly, suspicious of the link between the woman and the fiend.

Unbuckling her sword, Martine joined Sumalo on the frozen meadow. Away from the shelter of the doors, the wind blasted her cheeks and cut through the light clothing she wore.

“Speaker of the Vani, listen to me,” Vreesar was saying as Martine approached. “Give me the woman and the stone she haz stolen, and I will leave you in peace. She waz Hakk’z mate, and now she iz mine. She stole the stone from Hakk.”

Sumalo stared up at the towering elemental. “There are far more stones in the earth than Vani. I do not know which one you mean.”

“The woman knowz! Ask her,” Vreesar hissed, voice crackling with frost. The creature squatted down till its angular face was level with the old priest’s.

The tired veins on Sumalo’s neck traced blue-black lines as the priest tensed. His eyes narrowed, the gnome turned to the Harper. “What does he mean, Martine of Sembia?”

“It was a rock I found on the glacier,” the Harper lied. “I don’t have it now. Last I saw it was in the chieftain’s lodge.” Suddenly she was thankful for the cold, for her shivering disguised her trembles of fear.

“Liez! I know it iz the key! That iz why you stole it, human!” The elemental almost reached for her, then restrained itself, perhaps deterred by the line of spear points behind her.

Martine trembled. Damn! The creature knows! I was too obvious. I can’t let it get the stone. “I don’t have it,” she repeated fiercely.

Vreesar changed his tactics. “My slavez say, ‘People of the dirt hate the Burnt Fur. You must lead uz in war against them.’ But I, Vreesar, do not want war. You do not want war. I give you thiz chance to make peace, Su-ma-lo. Do not be tricked by thiz human. She haz the stone. Give them both to me.” The creature’s icy face crackled in expectation.

“Me woman is our guest. I will not break the laws of the warren.”

“She liez!” Vreesar’s razor edges glinted in the sunlight. “She haz stolen the stone. She must be punished!”

“Your law is not our law, creature,” Sumalo snapped back, his anger rising with each threat. “We did not start this war. You invaded our valley.”

The elemental drew itself up. “We see no totemz, no claim stakez,” Vreesar said with a sneer.

“Our homes are our claims,” Sumalo replied. “You murdered Elder Hudni! The crimes are yours, not the Vani’s.” The fiend buzzed in a mockery of laughter, its needled mouth cracking in a perversion of a smile. “When all of you are dead, I will bring my brotherz to amuse themselvez here. No more talk! I kill some of your people. Then we talk again.”

The elemental turned and strode back toward the woods and the waiting gnolls. At the edge of the forest, it stopped and looked back. “People of the dirt, remember who started thiz war!” With that, the wind embraced the pale creature in a cloak of driven snow, swirling him out of sight.

“Shut the doors,” Sumalo rasped as they entered the warren. The puffs of his breath hung like cold charms in the air. Martine held out one arm to help the old gnome along, but he paid her no attention. When they reached the foyer, the others quickly labored to close the broad wooden gates. The doors met with a loud thump, and the bar rattled into place.

Sumalo pointed at the gnomes nearest the door. “Stay here and guard. Three others each guard the cliffside and the east entrances. Vani, arm yourselves and prepare for war!”