Soldiers of Ice

Thirteen

“Over there… more of them!” Vil shifted Martine’s attention to the west side of the bowl. The Harper was distracted as another spear arced over their heads to tunnel into the drift behind them. “Damn their mangy hides! It looks like a war party!” the former paladin cursed.

A baying rose from the woods in the direction where Vil pointed. Surging from the trees was a lanky line of fur-clad, snowshoe-shod gnolls, wreathed in a swirl of white snow. Yipping and howling, the beasts charged in ragged waves, some breaking stride to let fly steel spears. As the six-foot shafts hissed through the cold air, a screech of anguish proved one had hit its mark. Suddenly the air was filled with spears that flew like lightning on the tightly packed gnomes. One scream became a chorus as a full score of the Vani fell under the iron-tipped bolts.

“Jouka, fall back—now!” Vil bellowed, his hands cupped around his mouth. Already the gnomes were aware of the danger and had begun to retreat in confusion. Fear and panic became their enemies now as much as the gnolls themselves.

“This way! Stay in order and don’t panic!” Martine found herself calling to the fleeing gnomes. The trap was not completely sprung, she saw. A gap in the line of gnolls lay open to the east. Some luck held with them, for the gnolls held their position on the ridge, either in confusion or because they were content to merely drive the gnomes away. With Vreesar screeching in rage at his own warriors, it wasn’t an opportunity that was likely to last.

“You, you, and you—into the bush and keep watch in all directions so they don’t flank us,” the Harper snapped, grabbing the three nearest gnomes and pushing them toward the gap. Their skis abandoned, the little men floundered through the snow. The rest of you, fall back through there.”

Vil added his voice to her commands; and under the direction of the two humans, the Vani tumbled madly for the woods. It was barely in time, for the elemental finally compelled the gnolls forward.

“Jouka!” Vil bellowed again. The Vani leader still stood in the center of the camp, trying to drag a wounded gnome with him. Seeing that sense was not going to overcome passion, Vil hurtled back through the camp and grabbed the gnome by the collar and shoved him toward the others. With a manic heave, the man threw the injured gnome over his shoulder and sprinted after Jouka.

A gray-haired gnoll lunged forward from the rest of his pack, closing on the burdened former paladin, but by then Martine had already unslung her bow. A feathered shaft shot through her fingers and pierced the beast’s shoulder. Squealing in pain, it toppled to the ground, giving Vil the time he needed to reach safety. Several gnolls, sprinting forward, hurled their spears. One glanced off the man’s plate armor, but he continued to run. Martine quickly released a volley of ill-aimed shots that, while they caused little harm, slowed the gnoll advance.

Clearing the last drift with wild leaps, Jouka and Vil rejoined the others. Without hesitation, Jouka barked out a quick series of orders.

“You know the way,” Martine shouted to the gnomish commander. “You lead. Vil and I will guard the rear.” Amazingly enough, Jouka did not argue, but let himself be caught up in the arms of Ojakangas, who had managed to recover his skis. Vil declined the set offered him, and Martine did the same. Of those gnomes who had escaped, less than half still had skis. Those that did doubled up, awkwardly balancing another gnome on the boards with them. Vil passed the wounded gnome off to one of them. “Where was your wizard during the fighting?” Jouka demanded angrily as they set out.

Martine said nothing as she floundered through the waist-deep snow, trying to match the speed of the gnomes. Over her rasping breath, the Harper strained to hear sounds of pursuit. She heard the mingled cries of the gnolls, some like wolves on the scent, others barking and quarreling as the creatures fell to looting the dead. Over it all, Martine distinctly heard the shrill voice of Vreesar. The pursuit was on, with only herself and Vil to act as the rear guard.

Martine took position behind a pair of tree trunks that formed a V, a good shelter for her archery. With arrows staked in the snow around her, she waited while Vil stayed close by, his sword at the ready.

The first three gnolls that broke the crest of the ridge received two arrows each. Five of the six were hits, Martine noted, and two of her targets squealed and flopped into the snow. The third gnoll did neither, for the shafts had transfixed him to the trunk of a tree. There he hung, making gurgling noises while his arms swung feebly like a broken puppet.

“On your left!” Vil hissed in her ear.

Another shaft hissed from between her fingers, speeding toward a shadow that darted across a sunlit patch. Martine didn’t see the arrow hit, but a yowl from the woods confirmed the accuracy of her aim.

“Any more?” she demanded, relying on Vil as her spotter.

“Nothing yet,” he whispered.

The pair waited, trying not to start at every shadow. They could hear the gnolls barking crude insults at the gnomes, though no more of the dogmen showed their faces.

“What do you suppose they’re planning to do?” the ranger asked.

“They’re scared. They’ll shout insults for a while, and then theyll rush us.”

Martine nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Good time to move,” she offered.

“Right,” the man said. “Give me some of those arrows.”

Without wondering why, she grabbed a handful from her quiver and passed them to the former paladin. “Cover me.” Vil said. The warrior struggled to his feet and set out toward a fallen log in a doubled-over run. He disappeared behind the log in a frantic, ungraceful dive.

Panic started to rise in Martine, an unreasoning fear that she had been abandoned. When the man didn’t reappear immediately, she shifted about nervously and hissed, “Vil!” Nothing. The shouts of the gnolls were growing fiercer. “Vil!” she repeated, a little louder.

Vil’s black-haired head popped up over the log. “Quiet! Throw me the bow I’ll cover you.”

Unnocking her arrow, the Harper threw the bow like a spear. The throw came up short, and a for a fearful instant, she thought it would end up stranded between the two of them, but the curve of the bow acted like a sleigh’s skid, and it slid across the snow till it was just within Vil’s grasp.

Suddenly the woods rang with Vreesar’s buzzing rage, echoed by a chorus of howls from the gnolls.

Martine waited for the man’s signal, and when it came, she launched herself into a blind sprint. “Quick—this way!” Vil ordered, shoving her farther into the woods almost as soon as she hurtled over the log. Blindly obedient, she sprinted on to fling herself down beside a frozen stream. “Ready!” she panted.

The bow came sailing across the gap. Catching it before it crashed into the brush on the far side, the ranger moved down the bank a bit till she was behind their original position. She saw moving shapes, and without waiting to find out just what they were, she fired off a series of quick shots. A chorus of yelps and confused shouts came from the general direction of the movement. Then the shadows scattered once more into the woods.

Working from cover to cover, the pair finally managed to put some distance between themselves and their pursuers. There was no doubt the gnolls were still on the trail—the sound of their savage voices was evidence enough of that—but the creatures no longer could risk open movement, thanks to the stinging warnings from Vil and Martine.

Both humans were breathing hard and soaked with sweat, while their coats were sticky with pine resin from clinging to the cover of the tree trunks. However, neither was conscious of fatigue, being far too occupied with the chase.

It was Martine’s turn to leapfrog. She darted across a half-shaded clearing, moving from shadow to shadow in an effort to remain unseen. Her efforts almost came to naught when a tall figure moved out from the shadow of a tree trunk directly ahead of her. It was a gnoll, his attention focused just slightly off to her side. Martine froze in the shadow of a rock ledge like a rabbit caught in the open. The creature moved slowly, its canine head hung low as its body hunched over with the unmistakable poise of a hunter. In one paw, it held a cleaverlike sword; in the other, a small shield poised half at the ready.

Outflanked! The ranger instantly reassessed the situation, and indeed a quick scan of what she could see nearby told the Harper the beast was not alone. Dim; hulking shapes crept through the snow-draped woods to either side, barely visible yet close enough to respond to an alarm. Easing farther back into the shadow of the rock, she signaled Vil to stay down. They couldn’t risk a missed shot or a howl of pain that might alert the other gnolls. The dogman before her would have to be taken out by hand. Martine silently drew her sword and waited for the stalker.

The woman breathed only slightly faster than the gnoll stalked, waiting for him to close the gap between them. Not only did she watch him, but she also kept a wary eye on his brothers. When at last he had moved close enough to be jumped in a single sprint, the Harper raised her sword, only to hold back from the final lunge that would close the gap. She wasn’t concerned about losing her advantage over him, only whether she could drop him before an alarm was raised. She had to wait until the moment was right, a moment when the beast could die unnoticed by his companions.

The opportunity came when the gnoll passed on one side of a drift formed from a fence of tall, dried grass. With the drift on one side and a rock outcropping on the other, there was no better opportunity. Holding her breath, Martine waited until the gnoll had angled past her and then sprinted the last few steps between them to spring on the gnoll’s back. With a single motion, she rammed the sword into its lower back, thrusting the blade under the ribs and up toward the creature’s heart, while at the same time seizing the front of its helm. Her fingers closed on the metal, and she savagely wrenched the armor downward. Stooped forward for the hunt, the stalker crashed headlong into the snow even as its snout was jammed into its chest. The pair plunged through the frozen crust, where the gnoll’s howl of alarm was muffled in the thick powder. Martine threw her weight onto the beast’s back, jamming its face into the snow while she thrust again and again with her sword. The creature kicked and squirmed, choking on mouthfuls of snow when it tried to scream, but she clung on, pressing herself close till she breathed the gnoll’s animal stench.

At last the creature writhed no more, though the Harper gave one last stab to be certain. Remaining in a crouched position, she watched for signs of any rescuers, flicking her head from side to side like a cornered mountain lion, but nothing appeared. The drift had screened her from sight of the others. Creeping forward, she reached the point where the snowy mound tapered down. There she could see the stalkers fade in and out of sight, still intent on their goal ahead. She had broken the line without their knowing. By hand signals, she let Vil know what she had done and then, ignoring the cold, wriggled on her belly through the gap. Vil followed suit, taking care not to be seen.

The pair burrowed like field mice for several minutes till they were sure there were no stragglers who might discover them. With a gasp of relief, the Harper sat up, the dying light of day shining on her as if she had surfaced from some deep, dark world.

Momentarily free of their hunters, the pair made the most of the opportunity, running through the snow as fast as they could. They crashed down slopes, bounding half out of control, and skidded across frozen patches between the trees.

“Where’d Jouka go?” Martine panted as they finally slowed their pace along the banks of a stream.

Vil bent double, his shoulders heaving. “Probably… made for… the river,” he gasped between huge breaths. The going should be easier there.”

“Which way?” Martine asked, staggering so she didn’t fall. She kept her arms wrapped round her sides so they wouldn’t burst from the pain.

“That way.” Vil didn’t point but set off in a stumbling jog. Sucking in a lungful of raw air, Martine followed after him. Vil’s guess proved right, and it didn’t take long for the two groups to join up at the frozen grass hummocks that marked the edge of the river meadows.

Martine noted that no more than twelve gnomes were with Jouka… twelve out of forty who had started the day. There were probably a few stragglers in the woods, but there was no doubt that many of the Vani had fallen at the gnoll camp. Twelve gnomes, tired and dispirited, stood among the hummocks with the same dejected blankness beggars develop when they have lost all hope.

“Is Turi with you? Or that wizard?” were Jouka’s first questions, the first asked eagerly, the second dark with the edge of threat.

Both humans shook their heads. To his credit, the gnome took the news well, displaying none of the anger or fear he must certainly have felt. The other news was quickly shared, and word of the gnolls’ pursuit gave new life to the weary band of Vani. They laid into their skis in a desperate race for the warren.

At every brief break, the gnomes strained their ears as they listened for sounds of pursuit. Their efforts were not unrewarded. From the wooded ridge along the river came the barking exchanges of gnoll trackers as they picked up the trail. The intention of the marauders was clear to all in the group. That knowledge gave further strength to the little homesteaders, a strength Martine could not match.

The Harper toiled to keep up, ignoring the fire in her sides as she slogged along in the flat pressed tracks of their skis. Her fingers and toes were numb from cold, a cold that was steadily sapping her drive. Only Vil’s strong arm, which sometimes pulled her up the steep grades, at other times guided her across half-frozen streams, enabled her to keep up with the pack.

By dusk, the race was in its final lap as the survivors neared the east gate. The snarling howls that rang through the eerily still woods told them the gnolls, fired by the lust of the hunt, were close at hand. Shrill barks were punctuated by the thick chop of metal against wood and the clang of beaten shields. Through the woods, the Harper caught glimpses of dark moving figures, awkwardly loping through the drifts. At staggered intervals, the creatures turned their muzzles up to bay at the fading sun.

The panting group finally crashed through the last of the brush, all pretense of caution and silence forgotten, and plunged toward the hillside that held the gate. Human and gnome floundered across the familiar ground, each drawing reserves from deep inside. At the front of the exhausted and dispirited party, Jouka hailed those inside with a gasping cry, his voice rattling with breathlessness.

The Vani ahead of Martine shrieked in pain and abruptly sank to the snow. A feathered shaft jutted from his shoulder. Martine heard the hiss of another arrow passing close by her ear. A quick glance back revealed a tall, ragged bowman, its wolfish ears perked up with excitement, clumsily nocking another arrow with its mittened hands.

“Archers!” the woman squawked in hoarse warning. It was hardly necessary; another arrow dug into the snow close beside the bobbing line of retreating gnomes.

Ahead, the door cracked open cautiously as the gnomes inside peered out fearfully, alarmed by the cries and howls descending on them. Jouka’s barked commands urged them to greater speed, his voice harsh and coarse.

Martine thrust a hand under the arm of the fallen gnome. “Help me, Vil!” The big man grabbed the other arm, and the pair heaved the gnome upright. The bearded warrior choked off a scream as the protruding arrow twisted in his shoulder. The two humans dragged the gnome across the last few yards. Vil’s shield arm, held high as a screen to protect them from the gnoll archer, jumped when a deadly shaft pierced its wooden face and jutted out the back side.

The door gaped just wide enough for the trio to tumble through, slipping as they hit the polished wooden floor. Craning her head around, Martine saw a line of perhaps twenty gnolls already spread along the edge of the woods. The sudden thunk of arrows against the wooden gates testified to the presence of more than one archer.

Martine tugged her ice-encrusted mittens free with her teeth while a throng of Vani threw their shoulders against the doors. The sight of the gate shuddering shut and their chances slipping away caused the gnolls to charge with savage abandon. The doors met just as the first of the huge beasts thudded against the heavy wood. A frustrated chorus of animal howls rose from beyond the gate, and then the pressure grew, while inside the Vani grunted and heaved against the surge.

Slowly the Vani gave ground to the greater strength of the gnolls outside.

“Look out!” Vil shouted as metal scraped against wood and a sword thrust through the gap. The former paladin sprang to the portal and hurled his mass against the parting gates. “Martine—the bar! Help them!” he shouted, rolling his head in the direction of a trio of old Vani who were struggling to raise a heavy wooden crossbeam over their heads and slam it home to lock the gate. The Harper sized up the situation quickly and bent to the task. With a heave, she got a shoulder under the bar. Small Vani hands groped behind her, scraping the beam over her injured shoulder till it felt like gravelly fire. With a laud bang, the bolt dropped into the metal brackets.

The door shook and shuddered at the gnolls’ assaults but held firm. Everyone inside seemed to wilt with relief. Beside Martine, Vil sagged back against the gate in his wet clothes, his beard streaming with melting ice and perspiration. Her own her black hair was soaked with sweat. Her hands shook when she tried to steady them, and her breath came in uneven pants. At her back, the gates continued to shake as the gnolls futilely tried to batter them down.

Throughout the hall, the Vani, numb with relief, made their way through the tangle of discarded skis and swords to collapse in the quiet, dark corners of the hall. Sumalo hunched over the injured, his hands bloody from healing the worst of the wounded. A pair of spinsters in black dresses dictated the work of a team of womenfolk, who scurried after Sumalo with buckets of steaming water and linen bandages. Hot water and blood slopped across the shining floor, running in pink streams through the cracks between the boards.

“Vil,” Martine said urgently, “we can’t afford to rest yet.” Refusing to surrender to exhaustion, the Harper got her wobbly legs under her and strode among the spent gnomes, shaking them to action “Get up! Come on, don’t just lie there! You’re not safe yet. Pick up your weapons.” Grumbling, the gnomes rose and tottered about, gathering their gear. Vil heaved to his feet and put those who were able to the task of bracing the door. Runners went in search of beams, hammers, and pegs to reinforce it.

“Where’s your damned wizard friend, woman?” Jouka shouted as he pulled at Martine’s sleeve. “He killed my brother!”

Infuriated by the gnome’s tone, Martine wrenched herself free from his grasp, almost impaling her arm on the gnome’s spiked breastplate. “Let go of me! I haven’t seen Jazrac, and he didn’t kill your brother!”

“Fiend’s fires he didn’t,” Jouka swore, his prominent nose flaming red, his eyes wild with passion. “Turi’s not back yet. Nobody even saw him make it to the woods. Your friend should have warned us Vreesar was coming. He was in the rear.”

“I haven’t seen him, you—you stupid little midget!” the Harper exploded. The fear and exhaustion of the day stoked her irritation with the gnome into fury until she had to lash out.

“Martine, Jouka! Now is not the time for this!” Vil thundered as he pushed himself between the two. “Master Jouka, direct your people. They’ll listen to you better than they will to me.” Separated from the Harper by the former paladin, the gnome growled angrily and bustled off.

“As for you, Martine, back off,” Vil said, grabbing her shoulders and steering her toward the inner doors. She quivered fiercely against his grasp. “Turi’s still out there. Jouka cares a lot for him.”

“Damn him!” the woman spat out, still not completely under control. “I mean, damn it all. He’s right. Where was Jazrac when we needed him?” The question hung without an answer.

“You need rest,” Vil said. “Things seem under control here. Go get some sleep. I’ll alert you if anything happens.”

“I’ll stay here.”

“Go!” This time Vil’s words were not a suggestion. “Staying here will only provoke Jouka. Give him time to cool down. Get out of his sight.”

“What about Jazrac?”

“If you mean looking for him, forget it. We can’t risk losing anyone else. He’s on his own, just like Turi.” Vil didn’t wait for her to agree but walked the woman a short way down the hall, heading in the direction of their room.

Eventually Martine found herself standing alone outside the small guest room. Although it wasn’t her choice, sleep was a good idea right now. Opening the door, she ducked her head and stepped over the threshold. Inside, the magical tapers had been covered and only the faintest light leaked through the hoods.

“Hello, Martine,” said Jazrac, his melancholy voice whispering softly from the gloom.

Martine slammed the door in shock. “Jazrac, where in Cyric’s hells have you been? What are you doing here?” Martine clenched the door handle, furious to see the wizard huddled on the bed before her.

Jazrac looked at her. His once imperious gaze was lost in the gray hollows of his eyes. The regally manicured goatee and perfect coiffure were in disarray; bits of pine needles clung to his graying hair and beard. Streaks of sweat and pine resin covered his face. With clothes stained and only half-laced, Jazrac looked more like a drunkard than the proud Harper she knew.

“Does anybody know you’re here?” the woman hissed, her back against the door.

“No. I used a spell to get in,” the mage mumbled. Martine slowly crossed the room, still moving like a huntress. “Jouka wants your hide. I’m not sure I blame him,” she said. “What happened out there? The gnolls came right up behind us—right where you were supposed to be.” With a pained expression, the wizard leaned back and looked at the ceiling, avoiding Martine’s unforgiving gaze. “I… panicked.”

“What do you mean, you panicked?” she shouted in disbelief. There had to be a better reason, she knew. Jazrac was a powerful Harper, a wizard. He didn’t panic.

“I mean I panicked, that’s all! I ran!” Jazrac bellowed back, unleashing all his self-loathing on Martine. “When I saw them coming, I couldn’t do anything! I was afraid… afraid of Vreesar and dying and all that, so I forgot everything and ran: Do you understand now? Is that clear enough for you? Didn’t anybody ever run in your world—or did they all die gloriously?”

“You ran? How could you? You’re a Harper—”

“I didn’t want to die!”

“—and Harpers don’t run!” They just never tell anyone!”

Jazrac’s last statement stunned Martine into silence. TIM pair glared at each other across the room. Each shivered with passion, struggling to control the rage within.

Finally Jazrac spoke, his voice a pleading whisper. “Martine, I could have been here in a day with my spells. Why do you think I sent you here?”

She shook her head furiously, as if to deny him any understanding.

“I’m not a warrior,” the man continued with a touch of sorrow in his voice. “I’m not even a war wizard. I’ve spent my years reading scrolls and making magical artifacts, like the stones you used. I don’t fight. So when something needs doing, I make whatever device is called for and then I send someone like you to take the risk.”

“You… you do that, and then you have the nerve to come up here and lecture me about what a true Harper should do?” Impulsively Martine stepped forward and slapped Jazrac hard across the face. Even as she did it, she cringed in horror at the realization of what she’d done. “Oh, gods,” she breathed. Lingering respect mingled with the knowledge the wizard could still break her career.

A little of the imperious fire returned to the wizard as he sat up straight on the edge of the bed. “And I was right, too. You know it.” His pride faded as the energy to hold it drained from him. He was no longer Jazrac, her mentor, or Jazrac, the Harper, but just Jazrac, drained and flawed. Inside, Martine’s anger cooled along with her old fearful respect.

“As I said before, Jouka wants your hide.” The ranger’s voice was no longer angry but cold and flat. “A lot of gnomes died in that ambush.”

“I know. I just don’t know what to do.”

In silence, each sought an answer. Finally Martine held out her hand. “Do you still have the stone? Give it to me.” His eyes furrowed in puzzled suspicion, Jazrac hesitated. Then, pulling a leather sack from under the bed, he produced the keystone and laid it in her hand. The rock appeared no different from before. It was still pitted and veined with its own internal fires.

The woman went to the door. “Stay here till I come for you.

Outside, the ranger hurried down the halls, hoping she could remember the way. At last she arrived in the cold, dirt floored section that contained the animal pens. As she knelt beside a cage, she noticed Hakk’s doll, still lying in the dirt where’d she thrown it. Carefully she brushed it off and pushed it back through the bars.

“Word-Maker?”

“I hear you, human,” echoed the shaman’s hollow voice from the other side.

“Do your people want war with the Vani?” she asked. “Ask the new chieftain of the Burnt Fur,” Krote replied bitterly.

“The pit fiends take Vreesar! I mean your tribe… would they make peace?”

“The pack has no quarrel with the little people.” Martine heard a scuffling in the straw, and then the dog-man slid into the light.

“If I give you the chance, can you convince your people—your pack—to make peace?” Martine squatted down to look Krote in the eyes.

“What do you want, female?” the gnoll growled.

“Will you?”

“The price is my freedom,” the shaman insisted.

“Only if they agree,” Martine countered. “Well?”

Krote licked his chops. “I will try. They may not listen to me.”

“Good enough. Now slide to the back again.” Despite the gnoll’s promise, the Harper didn’t trust him completely. As Krote crouched at the pen’s far wall, Martine cut the ropes that bound the door shut. Once the door opened, she signaled him out and then followed the stooped gnoll through the halls.

The pair retraced her path through the windowless corridors to the room where Jazrac waited. Krote bared his fangs at the gnomish women they passed along the way, taking delight in the way they shrank in terror against the passage walls.

“Jazrac, I need you,” Martine called from outside the door. “Now,” she added when the wizard did not respond immediately.

The door clattered open and the Harper wizard came out, tidying his disheveled clothing in a weak attempt to regain some smattering of his dignity. He paused, hands hovering over his doublet, when he saw Krote. “What’s he doing here?”

“I’ve got an idea,” was all Martine said. She was still angry with the wizard, uncomfortable even talking to him. Most of all, though, she couldn’t abide the thought that he might criticize what she intended to do. “You said Harpers should fix things. Well, I’m going to fix something.” She motioned Krote and Jazrac down the hall.

“Where are we going?” Jazrac asked as he fell in beside her.

“To the council chamber. I’m guessing that’s where Sumalo and the others are—making plans.”

When they approached the council halt, the somber tone of voices inside confirmed Martine’s guess. On entering the outer chamber, where the dance had been held, the three passed through a silent crowd. Wives of council members and some older gnomish children were clustered near the council doors, trying to catch every word of what was said inside. Around them orbited the smaller children, who didn’t really understand what had happened but sensed its importance from the reaction of their elders.

Now the Harper herself could hear the grim litany that echoed from inside.

“Burl?”

“He’s hurt but he made it back.”

“And Heikko?”

“I think he fell at the gnolls’ camp.”

“That makes seventeen.”

“Ojakangas?”

“He’s helping to guard the south gate.”

Martine pushed into the edge of the crowd blocking the door, with Krote and Jazrac following. A ripple of alarm spread through the crowd, and the gnomes parted like water before them. The women eyed Krote with fear, but their expressions changed to hostile scowls when they saw Jazrac. Stories of his role in the massacre were no doubt among the whispers that they passed from ear to ear.

The commotion at the door alerted those inside of their arrival. The hall, always before well filled with elders, was half empty, particularly the upper tiers. Those who were present sat near Sumalo’s chair, where the priest was carefully making notes on a birchbark scroll. All work stopped the instant Martine guided Krote into the hall.

“What are they doing here?” Jouka demanded of Sumalo, as if the priest had something to do with Martine’s arrival. The priest set his quill aside. “Harpers, you were not summoned here,” he said sternly, “and you are not welcome. It’s because of you and your plots that I must add these names to the record of the dead.” The whitebeards around the priest loudly grumbled their agreement.

“It’s because of him!” Jouka cried accusingly, spying Jazrac. The gnome hopped down from the bench and stood with hands on hips. “Where were you during the battle, wizard? Where was your magic? My brother and friends died because of—”

“Elder Sumalo, I ask permission to speak,” Martine asked, trying to prevent the meeting from becoming a shouting match.

“—because of you, you craven—”

“Elder Sumalo, please!” Martine persisted.

Thump! The speaker’s rod banged on the hollow bench. “Jouka Tunkelo! Hold for a moment!” The force of Sumalo’s words silenced the gnome, though he remained rooted to the spot, glaring at Jazrac.

“Martine of Sembia, what do you have to say to us?” Martine prodded Krote, and the gnoll moved stiffly to one side. The shaman’s lips curled with a slight trace of a fanged smile as he listened to the squabbling among his enemies.

“I have a plan to stop the fighting and get Vreesar out of the valley,” the woman began as she stepped into the center of the hall.

“What is it, human?” Jouka sneered. “Are you and the brave wizard there going to kill this fiend yourselves?” Martine turned stiffly to face the belligerent gnome. “No… I’m going to give him this.” From her pocket, she pulled out Jazrac’s stone and held it up for the gnomes to see. “This is the stone Vreesar wanted.”

“Martine, you can’t!” Jazrac blurted in alarm as he stepped forward to try and reclaim the stone.

The ranger snatched her hand back. “I can and will, Jazrac. Harpers have a duty to solve problems, not let others do it for them.”

“But that thing will reopen the gate! What happens to these people then?

Sumalo and the others shifted uneasily when they heard this news.

“I said I have a plan. Jazrac, do you have a spell that can get you back to Shadowdale quickly?” Martine pressed. She could see that the council was wavering, and she needed to make her point quickly.

“I can teleport with this,” the wizard said, meaningfully tapping the ring on his finger.

The woman breathed an inward sigh of relief, for her idea hinged on the wizard’s magical abilities. “Then my plan is this,” she pronounced, turning back to the council. “Vreesar wants the stone. Once the creature gets it, it’ll head back to the glacier. The elemental isn’t interested in you Vani or your warren. I’ll give him the stone and then he’ll leave.”

Jouka snorted. “What about the gnolls?”

“And the rift?” Jazrac added.

Martine had her answer ready. “That’s why I brought Word-Maker with me. He says he’ll get the gnolls to make peace”

“I will try, human,” Krote growled, “in exchange for my freedom.”

Martine winced at the gnoll’s correction. Her plan was risky enough; she didn’t need to have the shaman make it sound any worse.

Elder Sumalo stirred on his chair, his iron charms clinking. “As the wizard said, this creature called Vreesar will reopen this gate, and then there will be even more of them.”

Martine hesitated. The time had come when she finally had to give up her pride. Pointing to the wizard, she explained, “Mat’s where he comes in. Jazrac uses his ring to get more help from the Harpers because the job’s too big for me. We take the chance that reinforcements come in time.”

“Him? The coward?” Jouka scoffed. He turned his back and clambered back onto his bench in disgust.

“Yes, him.” Martine had no choice but to leap to Jazrac’s defense. “He simply goes home and gets help. You won’t have to rely on him to fight. And he doesn’t even have to come back.” Martine knew the words must have stung Jazrac, but when she looked at him, his face showed no sign of any reaction.

The elders stroked their white beards thoughtfully. “And if Vreesar kills you and takes this—this thing?” Jouka demanded, still seeking fault with her plan.

The ranger was ready for this question, too. “I plan to hide it before we meet. That way he can’t just kill me and get the stone.”

Sumalo turned to Jouka and said, “If the woman is killed, her plan can still go forward. She is not needed after that.” Martine had not considered that. Thinking about it now was hardly comforting. She noticed that Jouka was smiling grimly.

Now it was Jouka’s turn to stroke at his beard A’s he leaned back on his bench and considered. The others on the council waited expectantly for him to announce his decision. Clearly, as one of the Vani’s few warriors, Jouka’s word carried great weight.

Finally the gnome leaned forward, placing his small hands on his small knees. “Since the woman wants to take the risk, I say we let her. Let the Harpers fix their problems. We risk nothing.”

Except a hundred more creatures like Vreesar if we fail, Martine thought grimly.