Soldiers of Ice

Fifteen

Aghast at what she had seen, Martine shoved the shaman back onto the trail. Krote snarled a warning as she shouldered past to resume lead. “Be careful, human. Someday I will not be your prisoner.” The Harper drew her sword quickly and, twisting about, let the blade flash in the sunlight. She said nothing but sheathed the weapon and laid into her skis, setting a brutal pace. After a mile of winding through the wood, even Vil, a better skier than Martine, was panting hard.

Just ahead, the trail broke out of the woods and plunged and plunged down a steep slope to the clear meadows of a marshy stream. Just as Martine was about launch over the edge, Vil pulled up short. “Let’s rest here a minute,” he insisted. Fiercely determined to match the Harper’s pace, Krote breathed shuddering clouds of steam from the exertion.

Martine stood poised on the brink of the descent, upset at the delay. The longer she stood, the less irritated she became as she finally felt the effects of her pace. The sweat of exertion quickly cooled in the bitter wind that swept up the slope, drawing the heat from her flushed skin.

Calm down, she urged herself. You can’t exhaust yourself here. There’s still too much to be done.

As she stood gathering her strength, Vil sheltered his eyes to scan the slope for the best route down. “That’s odd,” he murmured suddenly. “What do you make of that?”

The warrior pointed a mittened hand toward a thick gray-white cloud that settled over the warren less than a mile ahead. Coiling arms of snow rose upward on spirals of wind, only to fall back to earth. It was like a storm blown down fresh from the mountains, but everywhere else the sky was clear. As the pair watched, the gray mass swirled and spread to swallow the adjacent trees within its white depths.

“It seems to be spreading in a circle,” the Harper noted with a sense of dread.

“Does your friend have any weather magic in his gear?” The question caught the woman off guard. “Jazrac? I wouldn’t know”

“It’s definitely not natural.”

Krote snorted. “Storms are things of cold.”

“Vreesar! You don’t suppose…?”

Vil nodded, his lips pursed tight beneath his ice-encrusted mustache. “Vreesar’s an elemental. He just might be able to stir up a storm like that.”

“Come on!” Martine launched herself down the steep slope. Rocks and trees sped past as she plowed through the icy snow The Harper skied blindly, barely managing to stay erect. Suddenly the slope ended and the Harper hit the fiat meadow, still on her feet. Skidding to a stop, she barely evaded Vil as the man shot past. Right behind the man came Krote. Martine quickly drew her sword and advanced toward the shaman.

“I must come with you or freeze,” the dog-man snarled as he struggled to stand at the bottom. “If you kill me now, there is no peace with the Burnt Fur.”

The Harper barely heard his threat. Seizing his arm, she shoved him toward Vil and then started across the frozen bog. Cursing, the gnoll delayed until Vil goaded him into a shuffling sprint, the fastest pace the gnoll could maintain.

The forest ahead of them abruptly changed. A billowing gray-white wall swallowed the forest one tree at a time. The swirling vortex seemed to reach out cloudlike arms and embrace each tree before dragging its victim into its dark depths.

They pulled to a stop, uncertain whether they should plunge into the whirling mass. The line between sunlight and storm was clearly demarcated. “What do you think’s happening inside?” Vil asked.

Martine peered into the gloom as she pulled back the thick hood of her parka and adjusted her helmet for battle. The storm facing them presented a gray wall that swallowed up the forest after only a few feet. “I don’t know,” she shouted over the howling wind, “but I don’t like it. That bastard Vreesar’s up to something.”

“If we go in there, well be traveling blind.”

“So what do we do? Just stand here?” the Harper asked in exasperation. “Help me tie him up.” She nodded at Krote. Unarmed, Krote could only submit. Vil played out a length of rope to serve as a leash to prevent the gnoll from disappearing once they were inside the storm. The gnoll turned to the warrior with bitter smile. “Vreesar plans to attack. My people may be warm tonight in your warren after all.”

“Not if I can help it,” Vil promised. “And if they do, where will you sleep, outcast?”

The gnoll snarled at the words, but he followed Martine as she stepped across the line between sunshine and storm.

The biting blizzard greedily devoured the three, wrapping them in its embrace. Barely ten feet inside, all sunlight had disappeared, leaving only a stinging white glare into which everything dissolved. The thick forest vanished and was replaced by individual trunks that faded as the group passed.

In her limited experience with winter, Martine had never been in a blizzard before, much less one summoned by magical force. Almost instantly she stumbled back, driven by the stinging gale. The wind-whipped snow tore at her face until she had to squeeze her eyes to mere slits, and the tears that formed barely started to run down her cheeks before they froze. A push from Vil, bent double against the gale, kept her moving forward.

“What now?” she shouted, her words snatched from her mouth by the wind.

Vil pulled close, dragging the shaman with him, and pressed his helmeted forehead close to hers. “Keep moving forward. Watch for anything that looks familiar,” he advised, ice and snow cracking from his beard as his lips moved. Even though he was shouting in her face, she could barely hear him over the roar. She waved her understanding and struck out again.

What direction, though? Already she had no idea whether she was plunging deeper inside or moving back toward the outside edge of the storm. The trail had all but vanished, leaving only maddening traces that never seemed to go in directions the ranger expected. Finally she sighted a tree she thought looked familiar. It was hard to be certain because it seemed to keep changing in the storm. She decided to head toward the pine tree she thought she recognized. From there, she targeted for the faint outline of another tree no more than ten feet ahead.

Intent on her goal, Martine bumped into the hummock lying across her path. As she did, her skis jolted to a sudden stop, and the ranger tumbled forward into the mound.

She struck something hard rather than soft snow. It must be a log, she thought, until she saw the red ice beneath the blowing snow. “Vil!” she shouted as she frantically scraped away the powdery blanket. Underneath, already cool and growing pale, was a gnome. His helm was split, his face shattered by a massive blow that had left no hope of his survival.

“Who—who is he?” the Harper asked haltingly.

“I don’t know. One of the gnomes from yesterday’s raid?” Martine pulled a mitten off and pressed her hand to the gnome’s cheek. “No. He’s still a little warm,” she shouted. “A scout, I’d bet What about the others?”

Suddenly a howl rang hauntingly on the wind. A gnoll? Martine couldn’t tell. The ranger looked quickly at the Word-Maker, to make sure the dog-man did not reply. Krote’s expression was blank.

She decided to head in the direction of the sounds. Any goal was preferable to aimless wandering. “Leave the gnome here. He’s dead,” the ranger shouted as she struggled to her feet against the wind. Vil lingered a few moments while he murmured a quick prayer. She didn’t wait and plunged ahead.

With every tree that loomed out of the snowy haze, with every hummock and deadfall, Martine expected to be confronted by a snarling rush of gnoll warriors. There was no way to tell if the enemy was near or far or even present at all, although the Harper was sure by now that Vreesar had not sent the humans back on the shortest trail.

It was luck, a fortunate turn on Tymora’s wheel, that guided them through the howling storm. They met no gnolls, even though both Vil and Martine seemed to see the beasts in everything. Suddenly the trees vanished and the tracks became more definite—well-cut grooves in the hardened crust. The three only had to follow these a little way before they came to the heavy doors of the east gate. Their pounding on the wooden gate could barely be heard over the wail of the storm.

The peephole shot open, framing a pair of weary, bloodshot eyes. “We’re back!” Martine shouted. “Let us in!” The heavy bolts rattled on the other side, and the gate parted cautiously. The Harper pushed the cracked doors open and hurried inside. Vil herded Krote in and got himself through the door as quickly as possible.

Two small guards, old Tikkanen and another, stood tense and hesitant as the trio entered. “Get those doors shut!” the Harper snapped. “There are gnolls outside.”

The old gatekeeper’s rheumy eyes widened. “Impossible!” he blustered. “Luski would have come back to warn us.”

“Shut the doors, damn it!” the ranger demanded as she kicked off her skis. The fierceness of her command get them in motion. “This one you called Luski—did you send him outside?”

“Not me. The council posted him as a scout.”

Martine cursed as she stamped her feet to warm them. Vil already had his skis off. He forced the gnoll onto a small bench to remove the beast’s snowshoes. He looked up from his work. “Your scout’s dead, Tikkanen.”

That news motivated the gnomes. The gate was quickly swung closed and shot with bolts and bars. “Elder Sumalo must be told,” Tikkanen said excitedly once the work was done. Leaving his companion peering through the peephole at the storm, the ancient gnome waddled down the hall as fast as his short legs could take him, scurrying away to warn the others.

“Vil,” Martine said wearily as she sank onto one of the small benches, “can you take Krote back to his cell?”

The warrior nodded and roused the shaman, who rose resentfully. “Meet you back here?”

Eyes closed, she nodded, then listened as the former paladin trundled their prisoner away. Her mind was already drifting.

Twenty minutes and a short catnap later, the foyer of the east gate was crowded with gnomes. Jouka stood at the forefront in his spined armor. The survivors of the previous raid milled nervously about. Sumalo stayed to the rear, his charms tinkling with tuneless rhythm.

“Are you sure about the gnolls, humans?” Jouka demanded again as he stepped away from the window slot. “I see nothing but the storm out there.”

“And the storm doesn’t seem odd to you?” the Harper asked.

“It is winter. Storms come up quickly here.”

“No, Jouka,” Vil interceded. “This storm’s not natural.”

“And what about Luski?” Martine added.

“Brother Jouka,” the guard at the door shouted excitedly, “there’s something moving out there!”

Crrrack!

The gate exploded in a sudden crescendo of noise. A screaming rain of sharp wooden projectiles rode the shock wave of the blast, splintered from the shattered doors with all the fury of a hurricane wind. The jagged wood ripped clothes and flesh alike, tangled in Martine’s hair, and tore at her skin. The blow slammed the slight woman against the side wall, bruising her good shoulder.

Rising to her feet, the Harper drew her sword and took quick stock of the situation. A shrieking gnome stumbled past, half his ruddy face gouged by the wood. Other screams filled the air. At the back of the hall, the ranger could barely see Jouka amid the upheaval, thrown to the rear by the force of the blast. Vil was sprawled onto a bench opposite her, startled but apparently all right. The gnomes between them reeled in confusion.

The gate itself hung half shattered in the doorway, splintered boards held up by the heavy wooden bar that lay askew in the portal, partially blocking the opening. Cold air whistled through the gaps, one of which was large enough to see through clearly. Beyond, in the eerie golden light of the storm, stood the elemental, its slick body gleaming with the same whitish gold that bathed the ground. There was a look of intense satisfaction on its bestial face as it raised its hands before it. Silver white energy flashed between its fingertips, rapidly spinning into a hardened ball of glowing ice. “The creature threw back its wedgelike head with a cry of triumph, a sanguinary howl taken up by the gnolls Martine now saw clustered behind him. It echoed and reechoed through the chamber.

Deliberately the elemental turned his attention to the gate once more, raising the sphere that hovered between his hands.

“Get down, everybody!” Martine bellowed in the loudest voice she could, while at the same instant translating words to action. The Harper had barely flattened herself on the floor before the second explosion rocketed from the elemental’s hands. The ice ball smashed into the partially shattered gate like a stone from a catapult and exploded in a hail of icy, needlelike shards. This second blast felt harder than the first, since the broken gate afforded little protection. The hall shook, and fresh screams rang out as the razorlike ice ripped through gnomes still staggering from the first assault. Dirt sifted through new gaps in the ceiling boards. The gate bar flexed, then snapped with an explosive crack. The remaining door planks burst from the frame and flew across the hall like projectiles. The lintel over the door buckled and groaned, long splits rippling through the carved beam. Snow quickly filled the air through the gaping opening.

Even before the dirt and snow had settled, the gnolls were charging forward. The gate was a shattered tangle, a barrier no more. The first line of the warren’s defenses had been destroyed in a matter of seconds.

“What was that?” Vil shouted as he scrambled forward to fill the breach. Martine jerked her sword free and stumbled up to join him, stepping amid the mewling bodies of the gnomes who’d been closest to the door.

“How should I know?” the woman gasped. “With Vreesar’s powers, maybe—”

The rush of the Burnt Fur cut short any further talk as the dog-men sprang through the wreckage. The first gnoll through the gap took both their swords full in the chest and died before it even had a chance to clear the threshold. It had not yet fallen when another wild-eyed gnoll elbowed the dying body out of the way, jabbing with a spike-headed axe as it kicked away the broken boards. The wolf-man was quick, beating back their blades as it bulled forward. Another gnoll with a maul battered the still-standing frame to widen the gap.

Jouka, his face blood-streaked and eyes ablaze, slipped between the two humans and darted beneath the gnoll’s axe to stab the beast in the thigh with his thick-bladed spear. Howling, the gnoll swung downward at its new tormentor, lowering its guard in the process. Martine hacked furiously at it, and the gnoll’s hand suddenly flew free of the beast’s body. The gnoll staggered back, screeching as blood jetted from the stump. Just as Vil moved in for the kill, the maul-wielder crashed through the remaining splinters and swung madly at the former paladin. Vil shifted targets in midswing and chopped the second gnoll across the face. The maul crashed down helplessly as the gnoll flopped forward with a gurgling spray of blood, its lower jaw and windpipe sliced away.

For a second, Martine thought the three of them just might be able to hold the tide at the gate. The gnolls in the front rank had been killed, and the reinforcements were already falling back, fleeing from the bloodbath in the doorway.

Then, too late to do anything about it, Martine saw Vreesar raising its hands for yet another blast. The elementals tiny mouth twisted in triumph as it callously condemned the gnolls in the sphere’s path to destruction.

“Gods—”

The rest of Martine’s oath was extinguished by an explosive roar. The shock wave, an invisible bubble of force, hit like a battering ram, jerking the Harper from the floor and flinging her slight body toward the back wall. The dying axe-wielder had caught the full force of the magical blast in its back. Now its body flopped forward with a flattish, splayed look, riddled by ice-torn holes. Its insides spilled through the huge gashes. Jouka was hurled across the debris-cluttered floor, bouncing against the overturned benches that blocked his way. Vil, whom she could barely see, reeled against a side wall as he awkwardly avoided falling ceiling timbers.

The ground came up hard, even though Martine’s fall was cushioned by a tangle of Vani. Her side, blistered and torn, took the brunt of her slide, so that Martine’s knees buckled as she crawled free from the struggling mass.

There was no rush into the gaping breach. The gnolls were apparently unwilling to charge lest their chieftain launch another strike. That delay was all the Vani had going for them. Reaching out, the woman seized dazed Jouka by the collar and dragged him from the center of the floor. “Get them out of here! We can’t hold out any longer”

Jouka didn’t argue. Instead, he merely nodded weakly. “Fall back!” he gasped, shoving nearby warriors toward the inner door. They required no further urging.

A strong hand grabbed Martine’s shoulder and hoisted her up. “Thank Torm, you’re alive!” Vil breathed huskily. “I fear the warren is lost.” He pulled her toward the temporary safety of the inner hall, for they both knew the respite granted by the gnolls would not last.

“We can still defeat them,” Martine objected. They were the last two through the inner gates. The doors quickly closed behind them. Tables and benches were braced against the doors—anything that could absorb the brunt of Vreesar’s icy blasts.

“At what cost, Harper? There are women and children here.” A Vani scream from the outer chamber, drawn out and agonizing riveted everyone’s attention. The gnolls were celebrating their victory. At least it will buy us more time, Martine noted grimly.

“Would you sacrifice them, too?” Vil demanded, speaking not only to the woman but also to Jouka, whose face was set hard. “It’s time to evacuate the warren.”

“This is our home! This dirt is in our blood,” Jouka snarled contemptuously. “We will not run. Maybe you would be chased out of your home and idly watch it burn, human, but we make our stand here.” Jouka looked fiercely to his fellows for support, but instead of a passionate band of warriors, he saw a handful of tired and frightened family men who held no false illusions of honor. The dwindling screams from beyond their sight reminded all of the fate that might be in store for their wives and children.

“Jouka, the human is right,” Elder Sumalo gasped. The priest had been wounded in the first blast and now lay on a litter, bloody blankets bound around his side. “We cannot stand against their magic. Every door we close will be blasted like the first. We must think of our families.”

“Where will we go, Elder Sumalo? If we leave the warren, we’ll freeze,” Jouka protested. “It’s all the fault of this human—her and her plan.”

“Who is at fault is not the issue, Jouka. Survival is,” Martine countered. “Look, we can hole up at Vil’s cabin.”

“Unfortunately it lies that way.” Vil pointed toward the doors leading to the east gate. “We’ll never make it from another gate in this storm.”

Martine sagged against the wall. She just wanted to give up. Why had Jazrac even offered her…

“Jazrac! Gods, I forgot about him completely. He hasn’t left yet!” The Harper’s face brightened, and she turned to Sumalo and Jouka with renewed hope. “Gather the women and children in one of these rooms on the eastern side. Make sure they’re well away from the fighting and send someone to have the wizard join them. He can get us out.”

“The wizard is useless.” Jouka spat contemptuously. “He’s our only chance.”

A loud thud sounded against the doors, and everyone glanced at them nervously. “Gather everyone at the granary,” Jouka said stiffly as he relented reluctantly. When the inner door shattered under two ringing blasts from Vreesar, the gnolls charged into an empty chamber. Confused, the warriors ripped through the meager furnishings of the hall, howling in triumph. They were certain of victory. The gnolls broke into hunting packs and scattered down the empty halls.

“Now!” Vil cried out as the marauders cleared the first corner. The passage echoed with the sharp twang of crossbows fired by the small cadre of Vani accompanying him A loud shriek proved at least one quarrel had struck home, but Vil didn’t wait to see. “To the next position—go!” he bellowed. The gnomes sprang from their hiding places and ran down the hall, past where Martine lurked with another small band of warriors.

After several minutes, the gnolls reappeared cautiously, peering around the corner. “Hold your fire,” the Harper hissed. The Vani next to her trembled slightly. The head disappeared, and then a single gnoll slowly stepped forward, nervous and wary. Martine waited as he advanced two cautious steps forward. “Fi she shouted. The gnoll shrieked and slumped to the floor. “Back, everyone!” she barked as the gnomes pulled out quickly. They had barely reached Vil’s new position around the next corner when a handful of magical ice hurtled down the passage and burst in a small explosion right where they had been.

“Be careful, Vil. Vreesar’s up there somewhere,” Martine said softly.

“You too, Martine,” he said with unmistakable concern. “You sure you don’t need help?”

“Krote’s only one gnoll. You’ll need every available gnome. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m—I’m only afraid I’ll never see you again,” the big man said awkwardly.

“They’re coming, Master Vilheim!” the Vani lookout cried.

“Go, Martine—and let the blessed gods go with you.” The former paladin turned his back to her as if he welcomed the interruption, so Martine left him to his command, feeling touched by the man’s sudden concern.

Martine limped through the dim halls, wary because of the chance the gnolls might break through the defenders. The distant noise of battle mingled with fainter sounds—a baby crying, a confused murmur of voices. The normally warm warren was cold, the warmth lost to the night air through shattered doors.

At last she reached Krote’s pen, and she gave small thanks to Tymora. She had secretly feared that one of the Vani—Jouka, perhaps—might have taken it upon himself to rid the valley of one more gnoll, but that apparently had not happened.

“Word-Maker!” she called into the pen. “Come out here.”

The mound of matted straw at the back stirred, and a pair of feral eyes glinted in the dim light. “My brothers come. Is true, human?”

The woman undid the lock and quickly stepped back, her sward held ready. The lanky gnoll eased slowly from the pen, stiffly unworking his cramped joints, even though the ceiling was too low for the seven-foot tall shaman to stand straight.

Martine motioned him to start down the passage. “I don’t want to kill you, Ward-Maker, but I will if 1 you force me to. Do I have your word you won’t attack?” The question was almost a demand.

Krote stopped his canine stretching to look at the Harper and then ask with silken cynicism, “Why should I believe your words? You said you would free me.”

“I will.”

“Why?”

Martine tossed back her stringy, short hair. “Because you’re the Word-Maker and you believe in your words—don’t you?”

Krote stood silent, ears twitching to the echoes that rolled down the corridor. “I give you my word, human. I will not attack. My people will kill me anyway.”

“Good enough. Now go—quickly.”

They hurried down the corridor, gradually increasing their speed to an easy lope. They moved through the dark passages toward the nervous din of the Vani. The hallways were deserted, not surprising considering the battle that raged through the underground halls, but it felt strange nonetheless.

Finally they reached the granary Jouka had chosen The last of the refugees were just arriving. The way quickly became jammed with cloaked older Vani women, young wives cradling their newborns in swaddling, and children clinging to their mothers’ skirts. The council elders, too old to fight but carrying canes and swords, were directing the last preparations for escape, urging families to hurry as they finished bundling packs of food and blankets: Hostile eyes followed the gnoll, an enemy in their midst.

“Martine!” a deep bass rumbled from the hallway. It was Vii, with the last of the rear guard, sprinting down the hall. The gnomes of his command slipped into the room and immediately struggled to slip into the few remaining supply packs already prepared, all the while keeping an eye on the corridor.

“Now what?” Vil asked.

“We hope Jazrac can cast the spells needed to get us out of here.”

“You don’t know?” Vil’s face suddenly creased with concern. “I thought you had this planned.”

“Almost. We just need a little luck.” With that, the Harper pushed her way through the crowd, peering over their heads for Jazrac’s tall form. At last she found him, looking somewhat confused.

Martine was shocked to see the normally resplendent wizard, a man who valued immaculate grooming as much as his spells, looking so haggard. His lean face sagged; his eyes made hollow depressions underscored by gray bags. Even the carefully groomed goatee that Jazrac could almost use like another finger jutted soullessly downward.

“Jazrac, over here!” She raised her hand high above the milling crowd. The wizard stumbled over to where she stood near the outside wall. He’d clearly slept no more than she had, though he lacked the energy the surge of battle had renewed in her.

“What are we doing here? Shouldn’t we be doing something?” the wizard asked in confusion.

“We are. I have an important question to ask you. When you sneaked back into our room after the raid, you used a spell, right?”

Pain crossed the wizard’s face. “Yes… a passwall spell.”

“Can you cast it right here and now?” The Harper pointed toward the nearby outside wall.

“As a matter of fact, I have memorized it again. But why—”

“Just do it! We don’t have time to talk,” Martine blurted with relief. “Just open a passage to the outside and get these people out of here!” _

The wizard’s worn expression brightened slightly. “I am, as you have reminded me, a senior Harper.”

“Jazrac, you don’t have to playact for me.”

“Perhaps I can atone, if only in part, for past sins… Please stand back, everyone.”

As Martine helped to clear a space around the wizard, Jazrac straightened his clothing. Then, his hands stroking the wall, the wizard uttered a series of garbled phrases. As he spoke, the wooden wall seemed to evaporate like water Then the dirt, and finally a layer of snow, all faded into nothing. A hallway, broad by gnome standards, had been cat straight through the hillside. The howl of wind and a blast of cold air proved it was not an illusion.

“It won’t stay open for long,” the wizard said urgently. “Jouka! Vil!” Martine shouted. “Guide everyone to the cabin.”

With a calmness bred by fear, the gnomes formed into lines and hurriedly filed through the magical passage toward the storm that raged outside.