Soldiers of Ice

Twelve

The rumble of heavy feet sounded through the thick, earth-banked walls of the warren as the Vani hurried to carry out their priest’s commands. Farmers and hunters alike sprang to their new duties.

“Harper, wait,” Sumalo called, using the same tone of command he used with the gnomes. Martine, Vil, and Jazrac slowed until the priest, with Jouka close behind, joined them.

“What was that all about, Harper? What is this stone the creature wants?” The normally understanding priest looked at her sternly, rather like her father the blacksmith had when he caught her playing with the swords he made.

Feeling she was caught in yet another web, the huntress explained. “It’s the key to the rift the one I closed. If that creature got possession of it, it could break the seal and reopen the gap it came through.”

“And do you have the stone?”

With Jazrac there, Martine could hardly avoid the truth.

If she were to deny existence of the stone, the wizard would surely contradict her. “Yes. I lied to Vreesar.”

Sumalo’s face clenched with anger. “You have the stone it wants? Didn’t you hear the creature? It will kill the Vani for your stone, yet you refuse to give it up? You have no right to condemn us, human. Give me this stone, and I will put an end to this thing.”

“No… she can’t do that,” Jazrac said as he stepped forward to support his fellow Harper. He adjusted his cape and planted himself firmly at her side. “If this creature opens the rift, do you think he will go home and leave you alone? No. Instead, more will come, and then what will you do? Can you defeat ten, twenty, a hundred of his kind?”

“So you say we must fight?”

“You already chose that last night,” Martine snapped, Sumalo’s face reddened and he chose to ignore the illogic of his arguments. “We chose, not you. You are not Vani. You do not have the right to choose for us!”

“Elder Sumalo,” Martine snapped back, her patience almost at an end. “You heard the creature talk of its brothers. If it gets the stone, that will be the death of the Vani. As long as we have the stone, the creature fights alone.”

“Not alone with the gnolls,” Jouka growled.

The woman wheeled on the other gnome. “You’re a hunter, Master Jouka. Which way are your odds better? Against one bear or three?”

The gnome swore under his breath. “One,” he said reluctantly.

Vil spoke up for the first time. “The Harpers are right.” His voice was even and calm, in marked contrast to the growing passions on both sides. “They have acted badly, but they are right. Now is not the time to argue among ourselves. We must act as one or we will all lose.”

Standing as straight as the low hall ceiling allowed him to, Vil stepped between the two groups. “Jouka,” the former paladin said in a way that neither cajoled nor dictated, —“we must act now together. What do you recommend?”

“Organize a raid,” Jouka said, glowering. “Attack them first, before they attack us.” Beside him, Sumalo nodded in agreement.

“But your strength is your warren,” protested Jazrac. The Vani do not hide in their homes!”

“What do you say, Elder Sumalo?” Vil interrupted before passions once more got out of hand.

“I agree with Jouka. We must attack!”

“Martine?”

“I also agree. Let’s hit them before they attack us and put a quick end to it.”

“Then I think we’re in agreement,” Vil said, placing his hands on Jouka’s and Martine’s shoulders. “We will help you in this, Master Jouka, if you will have us.”

“Meet us at the east gate, then,” Jouka said, his voice somewhat surly. “We’ll pick up their trail from there.” With the course of action decided, the two groups split. Sumalo and Jouka went to organize their people while the three humans headed for their room. All the way there, Jazrac argued against the wisdom of the raid and his part in it. He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t have the right spells, they needed more information, he didn’t have fighting gear… the litany went on and on until Martine was sure Jazrac was looking for some excuse to back out.

At their room, the wizard, who had nothing to prepare, waited outside while the other two made ready for battle. Working quickly, the pair struggled into what armor each had brought from Vil’s cabin. Martine wore a resilient tunic of chain mail, intricately woven by elves under the light of the full moon or so the merchant who had sold it to her claimed. Whatever the circumstances of its creation, the suit had served her well for many years, helped by careful patching and a fine sheen of oil. As she pulled it on, the metal felt bone cold even through the clothing she wore beneath it Her open helm fit tightly over her fur cap, so she finally opted to set the helmet aside. She missed the light touch of her sword, the one she’d christened Sea Dog, but the weapon she’d borrowed from Vid was solid enough. She still had her bow and quiver, which she slung over her shoulder. “Ready?” she asked finally.

“You can help me with this clasp.” Vil grunted. The warrior was almost finished buckling on his battered old breastplate, the final piece of his armor, an unmatched collection of leather, chain, and metal plates. It was an old suit and well matched to the wearer, the armor shaping itself to his body over the years. The big man moved easily in it, and without the sometimes annoying squeaks and creaks of poorly made plate mail. Sword and hanger in arm, he nodded he was ready to go.

In the hall, Jazrac waited. Borrowing one of the old quilts, he had bundled it around himself till his face barely peeked through a small gap at the top. “I still think we need more information,” the wizard complained even as they started down the hall.

Just as the three neared the east gate, a fantastic figure, encrusted from head to toe in a suit of iron and jutting spikes, ambled around the corner and almost walked into Martine. The Harper could barely recognize the grim Jouka beneath the bizarre armor. The gnome’s black beard was bound with ribbons and tucked around his neck so it didn’t snag on the spikes bristling across his breastplate. His armor consisted of three pieces of black iron, jointed at his chest to follow the curvature of his muscles. Shaped iron covered his arms, thighs, and calves.

That alone would have made the armor more than serviceable for war, but Jouka’s plates were studded with thick, rusting iron spikes that almost looked as if they had been driven through from the underside so that the sharp points wavered dangerously with every movement of the wearer. The suit was complete nail studded gauntlets, tack-covered arms, even a metal helm, a full skull mask of hammered iron, gingerly tucked under one arm. The helm sported features of smooth anonymity, with barely the trace of a mouth, nose, and chin. The whole thing was marked by the needle-sharp points that projected to an even length about the skull, like some strange cultist’s mask.

“What is that?” The question, full of disbelief, exploded unconsciously from Martine’s lips.

“This, human, is my badger fighting suit,” Jouka said proudly, almost thumping a thorny fist against his spiky chest.

“A what?” She knelt to have a better look.

“My badger fighting suit,” came the fierce reply. “Sometimes badgers dig into the warren and we have to kill them.”

“In that?”

“It is an old Vani tradition, Martine,” Vil answered, coming up behind the pair. “The Vani corner the badger or wolverine, usually by penning it inside a room.Then one of the warriors goes in and tries to kill it. By custom, the lucky fighter is armed with just a knife and that outfit.” The man nodded toward Jouka’s armor.

“Lucky?”

“It is a great honor to kill a badger,” Jouka huffed. “I have killed two badgers already”

“It’s how their men become true warriors,” Vil pointed out.

“But why the suit?” Martine asked as she gingerly touched one of the spikes.

“Badgers do not like the spikes, human. It gives the fighter a fair chance.”

“A chance? Against a badger?”

Jouka glared up at her as if she had questioned his manhood. “Have you ever fought a badger, woman? Do not—”

“The Vani call him tukkavaaskivo—‘little mean one,’ Vil cut in quickly. “The animals are not be trifled with. I’ve seen a wolverine take on a bear twenty or more times its size and win,” the man added.

The gnome nodded sagely. “A bear will run where a badger turns and fights. The Vani fight like badgers, too.” Having arrived at the east gate, he cut the conversation short.

In the chill hall, an assemblage of gnomes were gathered into rough-and-ready companies. The militia broke ranks the minute Jouka and the others entered the hall and besieged the spiky gnome with questions, demands, and suggestions. In the cramped chamber, Vil and Jazrac towered over the clustered gnomes packed around them. The little warriors bristled with an assortment of weapons, mostly stubby spears. Short swords, their hilt grips well worn with use, hung in the undecorated scabbards of many others. There was a suggestion of armor under the shapeless layers of their dirty white parkas. Armets, pot helms, skullcaps, and other wondrously incongruous headdresses bobbed among them. The air reeked of gnome sweat, oil, and stale beer, the latter no doubt consumed to fortify more than a few before they set out.

With all the voices raised at once, Martine did her best to listen, but the tumult was a blend of shouting so thickly accented that the Harper gave up all hope of understanding.

At last Jouka, who would serve as commander of the raid, restored order. Organized back into their companies, the gnomes stood tensely expectant while Jouka huddled with his chosen captains.

“I didn’t think the gnomes had this many warriors,” Martine said to Vil. There were about forty of the Vani packed into the little hall. “They don’t,” Vil said softly. “You can’t count most of these fellows as warriors. Most of them are farmers. A few are hunters who know the valley well, but fighters like Jouka are precious few”

The aforesaid gnome, in the middle of his captains, nodded toward the humans. “The humans are welcome, too. Master Vil you know. The woman can use a sword as well.” There was a murmur of surprise from some of the more traditional farmers. “The thin one is a wizard… or so he claims.”

Martine felt that Jouka’s introductions were somewhat strained, as if he were unwilling to admit their skills. However, the gnome added finally, “They know how to fight, brothers, and every sword will help us. They will travel with me. That way they cannot get lost.” A weak chuckle rose at their expense from the gnomes.

“Elder Sumalo is no longer as young as he once was,” Jouka continued, “so we will have no priest. If your brothers are hurt, you will have to bring them back to the warren for healing. Sumalo will be ready for you. My brother, Turi, and the human wizard are our only magi.”

“Is Turi a good mage?” Martine whispered to Vil.

The warrior shrugged. “Good enough, if you need illusions tricks of light and shadow, phantoms those sorts of things. Better get yourself ready to go,” Vil added with the barest nod to Jazrac. “Does he need skis?” Jouka was already herding his chattering fellows outside as Vil took his skis from the pegs.

“Not at all,” Jazrac cheerily replied, overhearing the question.

Stamping their ski-clad feet to drive out the cold, the gnomes waited impatiently outside for the humans. In the morning chill, their frosty breath caught in their beards and mustaches, coating them with a snow-whitened glaze. The waiting gnomes said little, their gazes fixed grimly on the woods. Their old eyes held no fear, only determination for the mission before them.

Jouka gave the signal to move out. The outer doors parted. “We go!” barked Jouka, barely waiting for the humans. Expert skiers, the Vani set a brisk pace, each following in the track of the gnome before him. Martine was surprised how quickly the short-legged folk could shoot across the snow as she and Vil labored to keep pace. Only Jazrac traveled without the long boards, instead drifting over the surface of the snow, held magically aloft, floating alongside Martine and Vil.

“I thought such magic could be used only for brief periods,” the former paladin rumbled. “We’re likely to be traveling all day.”

The wizard ignored Vil’s evident irritation. “Thats true of spells, yes, but a ring of flying is much more useful.” To demonstrate, the wizard made a pass by the skiing warrior, rising slowly until his feet were level with the man’s helmeted head.

Singularly unimpressed, Vil growled, “I’ve seen flying wizards before. Archers call them flying pincushions.” Martine chuckled, for wizards tended to be pretty useless as fighters. It was their spells and not their fighting prowess that made them powerful.

Appropriately chastised, Jazrac resumed skimming over the snow, stirring up a thin cloud of ice crystals as he went. As she pulled alongside her skiing companion, Martine couldn’t help but notice a sardonic smile on Vil’s lips.

After half an hour of nonstop travel, Jouka whispered back the command to halt. Her throat rasped raw by the fierce cold, Martine was thankful for the slightest break in their march. She wanted to spit, but her mouth was parched by the arid winter air. Her sides burned and her legs felt ready to buckle, reminding her of just how little experience she had had on skis. Knowing the gnome hadn’t halted the column just for her benefit, Martine somehow resisted collapsing into an exhausted heap. Instead, she slowly drew her sword for battle, her fingers muffling the scrape where the scabbard’s metal lip rubbed the blade. The sword’s edge nipped her finger, a sharp sting that she ignored as several drops of blood rolled down her finger and plopped, overlapping, on the snow. The white crystals melted and then spread into a pink areola at her feet.

Jouka carefully issued orders to form a search line. The instructions that followed were simple; the gnome knew he couldn’t expect anything too complicated from his militia. They were to fan out in a line. If they saw anything, they should freeze and stay hidden, then signal those to their left and right, who would pass the signal down the line. Most of all as the gnome said it, he looked pointedly at the three humans no one was to act on his own. No individuals were to rush to the attack, but rather wait until the command was given. To be certain they understood, Jouka had his warriors repeat the instructions. Only when he was completely satisfied that all the farmhands and carpenters understood did Jouka begin posting the gnomes to their positions.

“Do you know where the gnolls are?” Martine asked Jouka privately once everyone had received his instructions. She wondered if the gnome was privy to some information, perhaps brought in by a scout or outlying farmer.

Jouka shook his head from side to side, then pointed toward the northwest. “No reports, but Hudni’s place lies off that way. There’s sheltered ground and fresh water between us and the farm. That’s where I’d camp if I were the gnolls. We’ll search there first.”

The search tine formed a long irregular arc along the edge of the woods. Martine kept Jazrac to her left, and Jouka took up position on her right, forming the center of the line. Vil was somewhere farther to the right, lost to her sight by the paper-white trunks of birch trees. Beyond him was Turi. Martine guessed Jouka was being careful, keeping his ablest fighters close at hand. That way he could quickly change directions when the enemy was spotted.

The gnome waved his ski poles to both sides; a signal Martine dutifully passed.down the line. Tentatively, as if expecting a gnoll behind every tree, the scouting line entered the woods like beaters on a king’s hunt.

After breaking through the thicket-lined edge of the woods, no easy feat on skis, the Harper cast about for her flankers. Jazrac was abreast of her, about ten feet off the ground, gliding easily over the last of the bramble wall she had just labored through. A more experienced skier, Jouka was already well ahead of her. “Damn!” Martine hissed under her breath as she floundered awkwardly on her skis, determined not to be shown up.

Now the trip became considerably more difficult than before. There was no clean track broken by the others for her to follow. The search did not move along any easy paths like game trails, so her route was constantly impeded by thickets and deadfalls that forced her into slow detours. To make it worse, sometime in the last day or two a brief thaw had transformed what had been soft powder into a glazed sheet of ice that slid under her skis like a greased pig. One ski or the other kept unexpectedly shooting forward, only to have it break through the crust and disappear completely into the powder beneath. It wasn’t long before she had worked herself into a lathered sweat.

Eventually the thickets thinned and the forest floor became more open as the raiders plunged deeper into the ancient forest. Regaining her position, Martine continued to scan the woods ahead for signs of their enemy.

They continued unimpeded for several hours, the searchers moving with deadly slowness. Occasionally the interlaced pine boughs gave way to leafless aspens, and Martine could see the sun hanging well above the tallest peak of the mountain wall, making ice and bare rock glint brilliantly. Streamers of windswept snow fumed off the jagged slopes and made the distant sky sparkle like a magical star shower. Such glimpses were brief, for as soon as the openings appeared, the forest closed back in around them.

On another day, the wild beauty of the winter woods would have undoubtedly thrilled the ranger. There was no such enjoyment today, however. Martine’s concentration was too fixed on the dark spaces that lurked between the creaking trees. Bird calls, rabbit tracks, wind-fallen trees, and the bloodstains of a lynx’s kill all acquired and then lost ominous meanings. The eerie silence of the other searchers unnerved her.

A whispered signal brought the line to a halt. While everyone else waited, Jouka silently disappeared down the line to investigate. Martine was impressed by the gnome’s stealth.

It quickly became difficult to remain still. Curiosity and intense cold both made her want to keep moving.

At last the small figure returned. The gnome skied past his own position to confer with her. “We found tracks angling to the northwest. Signal the message down the line.” No more explanation was needed.

From there on, the skiers moved with even greater stealth. Although the valley was certainly well known to the gnomes, they were now in essence entering an unknown region prowled by hidden terrors. While everyone that morning had been placid, if grim, they were now tense. Jouka skied with sword and poles in hand, a technique Martine was not ready to master.

It wasn’t until the sun had started on its long descent toward the western treetops that the searchers ground to a stop. A terse word rippled down the line. “We’ve found them, woman. Come,” Jouka glided over to say. With that, he plunged deeper into the woods. The Harper signaled to the wizard behind her. She waited only long enough for Jazrac to confirm her hand signs before breaking position to follow Jouka’s trail.

The pace now became extraordinarily slow as the ranger scanned every inch for signs of the enemy. Matching her advance were the shadows of the others, flickering among the pines, the thickets, and the hummocks of snow.These farmers were better than she thought, moving as if they were stalking nervous squirrels for the dinner pot.

Gradually the raiders converged on a point where Jouka lay, belly down, in the snow at the base of a large drift. Beyond his position, the stalking was over and the strike would be at hand. Jouka softly issued a string of commands, sometimes drawing the more detailed instructions in the snow. The tired warriors, tight-lipped and tense, listened and then stealthily moved down the drift, each drawing his weapon and wending into the woods to his assigned post. Jouka laid a hand on Martine, signaling her and Vil to stay close.

“What should I do?” Jazrac whispered at her side.

“Don’t you know?” Martine hissed back, astonished by the question. She had assumed that the wizard, older than she and skilled in magic, was naturally experienced at this sort of thing. The look of uncertainty in his eyes said otherwise.

“I abhor fighting,” he explained. “I never was any good in battles. Research and study are my strengths.”

Martine bit back a curse, especially since Jazrac was her superior, but she certainly wished he’d said something before. “Stay back and be ready then,” she snapped, unable to keep a hint of scorn out of her voice. The wizard stiffened but, perhaps knowing his place, accepted her command.

With Jouka’s warriors in position, Martine expected the commander to immediately plunge over the drift and into battle. Instead, Jouka waited and listened for any sounds of their foe. After several minutes with no indication his advancing warriors had been discovered, he undid his skis, jammed them upright into the snow, and then slithered up the bank. Vil and Martine quickly followed suit.

At the top of the drift, the trio took position behind the cover of a thin stand of young birch that broke through the snow. They lay a flank several other gnomes hunkered down in the snow. Snarling voices came from beyond the ridge.

The gnome reached up and cut away a small gap in the drift for the trio to peer through. “There they are,” he whispered. “The brutes.”

Nestled in a bowl of drifts was the gnoll camp. Small dark leather tents dotted the ground. In a quick count, the Harper estimated there were about twenty of them. Along the base of a large drift opposite were the tunneled openings to snow caves like the one she and Krote had shared. About fifteen gnolls, bundled in furs and rags, were in the camp, most of them squatted around the large bonfire at the center of the clearing. With the habit born of combat, Martine noted three guards, none particularly attentive, widely spaced around the camp’s edges. They seemed more concerned about their freezing feet and fingers than the dark woods beyond the drifts.

Carefully the trio slid back just below the top of the drift. “Did you see any sign of Vreesar?” the ranger softly quizzed the other two, wondering if she’d missed the creature. Both gnoll and man shook their heads. The creature’s absence was both a disappointment and a relief. Martine had hoped they would catch the elemental here and end it all, but at the same time, with the fiend gone, their chances were much better.

“What’s the plan.?” Vil asked.

“We outnumber them,” Jouka pointed out. “On my signal, we rush them from all sides. Kill everyone and destroy the camp. Those who are not in camp now can freeze or starve.”

“Not much of a plan,” Martine commented.

“We are not an army. It must be simple.”

“He’s right, Martine,” Vil concurred.

Martine peeked back over the ridge. “We should hold some of our forces back, just in case Vreesar shows up.” The gnome shook his head, the spikes of his armor wavering as he did so. “No. We can’t weaken the attack, and the others would not be enough against the creature anyway. If the monster appears, we and your wizard will fight it.”

The Harper didn’t like the looseness of the idea but, upon consideration, knew that Jouka was right. Even the entire raiding party might not be enough against the elemental. She drew her sword to show she was ready.

Jouka looked down both sides of the line, signaling his warriors to prepare themselves. As the silent signal passed from gnome to gnome, their leader fitted his spiked helm in place. His fierce eyes raged from behind the bizarre smoothness of the black mask.

With a loud battle cry, the gnome heaved to his feet and charged the unsuspecting gnolls, plowing through the waist-deep snow with dreadful abandon. His fellow gnomes caught up the signal and hurled themselves upon the foe, leaping and bounding through the drifts as best as their short legs could carry them. Some twirled swords over their heads, while others hammered their blades against wooden shields. The air was filled with a horrible din, the convoluted call of bloodlust accompanied by the deadly hum and clash of steel.

The unsuspecting gnolls froze in confusion near the fire pit, their savage eyes staring with shock. One recovered quickly, disengaging itself from its stunned fellows to scramble frantically for a bare-bladed sword stuck into the snow. The others sat staring, unable to move for a crucial instant as the gnomes descended upon them.

Almost as surprised as the gnolls, Martine sprang to her feet only moments after Jouka led the charge, but even with her longer legs, she couldn’t keep pace with the enraged gnome. Then suddenly Martine was brought low when her feet hit a patch of hidden ice and dropped her solidly to the ground.

The nearest guard stood transfixed with astonishment. When it finally realized the situation, all it could do was futilely fling a fistful of snow before attempting to run. Bounding down the slope with extraordinary speed, Jouka whirled his sword over his head and caught the fleeing gnoll across the neck with the full force of his swing. The meaty thunk of blade slicing through muscle and bone rose above the bloodthirsty din of his fellow raiders. Fresh blood streamed in an executioner’s arc as the blow cleanly severed the gnoll’s neck, its mange-marked head plopping softly into the snow. The gnoll’s decapitated body staggered two lifeless steps forward, the arms jabbing at the air in spasmodic twitches. Then, although its legs moved no more, momentum flung the body forward, spraying warm blood across the pristine winter ground.

A second gnoll, a battle-scarred veteran distinguished by a lopped-off ear, wasn’t going to fall so easily. With canny verve, it dove upon the nearest charging gnome and clamped its fangs into the Vani’s sword arm. The warrior shrieked, his blade slipping from his grasp, and the gnoll callously hurled him aside and scrambled after the weapon. Momentarily beyond the reach of its enemies, the gnoll tensed to fight, the rags it wore flapping wildly about it.

Yet even as the gnoll battled to gain a fighting stance, the Vani were slashing through its fellows. Barely breaking stride, Jouka shrilled out a series of orders that his fellow gnomes were quick to implement. The ring quickly closed about the gnolls trapped beside the fire pit, cut off from their weapons. When they drove forward, the gnomes ahead gave ground while their brothers rushed up from behind to catch the stragglers unprepared. One by one the gnolls fell to the overwhelming numbers of the Vani, until only a small knot remained, surrounded by the dead and the blindly thrashing wounded.

With the main force pinned, Martine and Vil found themselves facing the veteran. It was quick and canny, whirling constantly to face off against first one, then the other. The creature’s face was contorted, its black lips pulled back in a tight, skeletal rictus. Martine could hear its breath come in rasping gasps, and its legs wobbled from exhaustion, but the primal glare in the gnoll’s eyes showed its determination not to give up. The dance between hunter and prey, the roles shifting constantly between gnoll and human, slowly continued toward its inevitable conclusion.

Huffing from the effort of breaking through the snow, Vil growled, “I must be getting old. I can’t keep this up anymore.” Nonetheless, he lunged again, the point of his blade tearing into the gnoll’s side. The creature swept its sword about in a hapless effort to parry, and in that instant, Martine slashed at the opening the creature left in its guard. Her blade hit the beast in the midsection. With fury driven by pain, the gnoll parried Vil’s second thrust with a vicious clang of metal and whirled to face the Harper, driving her back with a mad series of slashes. As she stumbled out of reach, the creature staggered to a stop. Woman and beast stood staring at each other, both too intent on their foe to feel fear.

It was the gnoll who ended the standoff. With a wild leap, it hurled itself toward Martine. The gnoll’s ululating cry rang through the woods as the wind shook the branches in sympathy. The long sword slashed out viciously.

In a single, graceful move, Martine dropped flat, thrusting upward at the same time. Her sword tip caught the charging gnoll just above its sternum and sliced downward. Warm blood sprayed her face as the gnoll toppled past her to die, twitching, on the ground.

Martine didn’t waste any time but was already moving to rejoin the main battle. Five gnolls remained, glaring at their enemies who thronged around them on all sides.

At the forefront of the gnomes, Jouka picked up an axe from the litter of a trampled tent and, with a snap of his wrist, hurled it spinning into the gnolls’ midst. Immediately behind it, he plunged into their ranks, bloody sword in hand. The closest gnoll threw its furry arms up. It could have been no more than a cub, barely trained in combat and hopelessly outmatched. Jouka’s single darting lunge was enough to plunge his blade past the futilely warding arms and into the gnoll’s gut. The creature staggered to its knees with a look of terrified astonishment across its drawn muzzle. Savagely Jouka slashed the blade free, ripping the wound open to complete the job, his eyes already alighting on another gnoll.

Their leaders onslaught released the other Vani warriors from their hesitation. With a communal rush, the band hurled itself upon the gnolls in a flood of savagery. Hopelessly overwhelmed, the creatures staggered and reeled under the Vani charge, futilely trying to lash out even as they fell with a howl of agonized terror. A chorus of blades flashed, first silver, then bloodstained, as the gnomes hacked blindly at their enemies even after the beasts were long dead.

Martine turned away, sickened by the sight. Up to now, the Vani had seemed a fierce but nevertheless compassionate people. Now, crazed by bloodlust, they acted with unbridled savagery. Echoes of Krote asking who was better, gnoll or Vani, flooded her thoughts. The words made the shaman seem like a remarkably accurate seer.

“Look out!” Vil’s hand shoved Martine forcefully to one side. “There was a loud thunk from roughly where she had stood. The shaft of a spear vibrated in the snow beside her. Her battle instincts springing to life, Martine maneuvered as quickly as she could manage in the broken drift.

“Kill them! Kill the little people!” a buzzing voice shrilled from behind them.

Wheeling about, Martine looked up in horror at the snowy ridge. There, towering over them all, flanked by more gnolls, was Vreesar, glinting cruel and silver in the afternoon light. Jazrac, who had been waiting on the ridge, was nowhere in sight.

The trap haz worked, my slavez! Kill them… all but the female! She must live to give me the stone!”