Soldiers of Ice

Seventeen

Everything’s gone wrong, Martine thought miserably. Jazrac’s dead, Vreesar has the key, and I can’t do anything about it. I should never have come. I’m not cut out to be a Harper, and now I’ve killed them all. The gnomes, Jazrac, Vil, me—we’re all either dead or as good as dead.

Martine sat in the snow next to her mentor’s corpse in silent despair. The pain in her side, the arctic chill, the days without sleep—all added to her feeling of utter hopelessness. All she had to do was sit here among the drifts and slowly let herself sink into death. It would be so easy.

It was the yipping calls of the gnolls that roused her. She and Jazrac had beaten back one wave of them, but already another was forming. Soon they would sweep through, following the trail of the refugees.

This isn’t right, a voice within her said. This isn’t the way Jazrac died. He died fighting for his beliefs. Get up, woman. Die fighting, like Jazrac. Die like a Harper’s supposed to die, the voice urged.

Blindly, automatically, the Harper lurched to her feet. Her hands felt as if they belonged to some other creature, and her side tingled with the cold. Feeling it was her duty, she futilely tried to drag the wizard’s body with her, but his chest was wedged beneath a fallen branch. The body wouldn’t budge. In her daze, the ranger managed to remember the ring, the one Jazrac had planned to teleport with, but even that was buried beyond her reach. Cold hands scrabbled at the snow, trying to reach the wizard’s lifeless hand, but it was to no avail: The gnoll calls were coming closer; Martine couldn’t wait any longer.

Sword in hand, the Harper crashed through the thicket, alternately ignoring the thorns that scratched her face, then cursing them when they caught her clothing and slowed her down. Smaller than even Martine, the gnomes had chosen paths that were nearly impossible for her to follow. More than once she dropped to her hands and knees to crawl through a gap in the thick thorns. Her only consolation was that the route would be even more difficult for the gnolls who followed.

When she was finally out of the brambled ravine, it still took the Harper almost an hour to reach Vil’s cabin. Snow borne on a stiff night wind helped to cover her tracks, but the same wind froze her blood-dampened clothes stiff.

“Martine! Jazrac!” a voice cried ahead of her and slightly off to the left.

“Over here!” the ranger tried to shout back, but the words choked in her cold-parched throat. Even speaking hurt through her chapped wind-cracked lips.

They must have heard her, however, for within moments, tall Vilheim, accompanied by a pair of diminutive gnomes, stormed into sight, weapons held ready for battle. Spotting the Harper wading through the snow, the man rushed to her side while the gnomes fanned out in both directions. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice a mixture of relief and concern. “Where’s the wizard?”

“Jazrac’s dead,” she mumbled. “What are you doing here?”

“Scouting.”

A wolflike cry echoed through the woods.

One of the two gnomes skied to a stop alongside the humans. “They’re coming, Master Vilheim.” Fear filled his voice.

“Lean on me, Martine.” The warrior pulled the woman’s arm over his shoulder, holding it in place with one hand while he wrapped his other arm around her waist. He was still on his skis, and she was surprised he could remain balanced, the way her weight tipped him off center. Nonetheless, Vil managed to half drag her along with him.

When the cabin came into view, a dim glimmer of light in the darkness of the woods, Martine was relieved to see the gnolls had not yet discovered the place. Heads bobbed back in forth in the flicker of torchlight. The woman thought the clearing around the building seemed slightly larger than before, but she couldn’t decipher why. As they neared, Martine saw a good deal of activity outside and then realized what had changed. A crude barricade filled the center of the clearing, surrounding the cabin. It was constructed of thin-trunked trees chopped from the clearing’s edge and heaved into place. In spots at the edge of the clearing, the concealing underbrush was cut or trampled for several yards into the woods. The gnomes had been industrious in the short time since their arrival.

Panting, the group reached the solid logs of the barricade and began scrambling over it. The howls of pursuit were clear now, and the Harper could catch glimpses of movement through the trees. Outlined by the glow from the cabin windows and the torches, she knew they were easy targets. The hiss and thunk of an arrow into one of the logs confirmed her fears. Two, then three more whistled out of the night. One of the Vani screamed as an arrow struck him squarely in the shoulder. The little man toppled into the compound.

“Get him!” the Harper croaked to the gnomes guarding the perimeter, pointing to the injured gnome, who sat dazed in the snow at the base of the barricade. “Vil, are there any archers?”

“Not enough.” Noticing that the Harper did not carry her bow, the man thrust his wooden longbow into her hands. “Take mine. You’re probably a better shot.”

The wood was cool and smooth under her fingers. Instinctively Martine field-checked it, sliding the bowstring between her fingers, checking the mounts at top and bottom. The bow was supple, the string a little overstretched, but it would do. Vil stepped behind her and gripped her shoulders in his gnarled hands, guiding her sight toward the trees. “See those shadows over by the bent pine?” he whispered, as if the gnolls would hear. His scratchy cheek pressed against her neck as he sighted down her temple.

Focusing her attention on the area Vil had indicated, Martine finally saw a shadowy shape, tall and feral, then two, then three move out from under the sheltering trees and into the moonlight, stalking. Martine judged the distance and the light.

“I see them.”

“Then send them this present. If we kill a few, that should encourage the others to stay out of range.” The warrior pressed a slim shaft into her hand. With experienced precision, the ranger nocked the arrow and drew back without looking. As she brought the bowstring to her cheek, she noticed that the leaf-headed tip glowed a silvery blue, radiating its own light. She paused; the tip wavered.

“Yes, it’s magical,” Vil assured her, reading her thoughts: “I’ve been saving these, but I think now’s the time to put them to use.” Martine focused on the target. Behind her, Vil slid away to direct the shooting of the others, like a master of archers guiding his unit through a drill.

The bowstring released with a twang, and a silvery streak shot through the darkness. The Harper didn’t wait to follow its flight, but busily nocked another arrow.

A spitting howl was proof of her aim. Sighting in again, the Harper spotted her target, twisting and staggering, one clawed hand clutching at a shoulder. Twang! A second shot sped through the air. She had another arrow nocked and drawn before the creature screamed a second time. The third shaft hissed away at another target before Martine paused to check her work. The first gnoll clutched spasmodically at the moon, its torso heaving. The third arrow struck its target just above the clavicle and below the throat. As the second gnoll reeled and tried to stumble away, moonlight flashed off the arrowhead projecting from the back of its neck. The beast took a jerky step and then sagged against its milling companions. The dying gnoll slid facedown into the snow. Another gnoll jumped, struck by another arrow, and then the area around them erupted in little fountains of snow as the few Vani archers released a fusillade. The gnolls broke for the shelter of the deeper woods, leaving behind their wounded companions.

“Hold fire! They’re retreating!” Martine shouted triumphantly.

A clatter of arrows hailed the shelter of their barricade. The Harper ducked for the cover of the fallen trees. A thick gnomish curse sounded near her as an arrow grazed one of the defenders. The gnome clamped back the pain, determined to stay at his post at all costs.

“Good work!” Vil praised. “That’ll hold them for now. Put the torches out, keep watch through the logs, and don’t stick your heads up.” The warrior commanded the Vani with easy confidence. This was clearly not his first big battle. The fires hissed in the snow as the gnomes put his commands into action.

Vil crawled to where Martine sat, cradling the bow in her arms. “What happened out there?”

Martine looked at him dully, for a moment not comprehending the question. “Jazrac’s dead,” she said finally. “Vreesar killed him.”

“What about Vreesar?”

“It’s gone-off to get the stone. Jaz hurt it, badly I think, before he died.”

“Praise Torm for small favors,” Vil breathed. “At least we won’t be fighting Vreesar tonight”

“It’s corning back, Vil, with more creatures like it! I’ve got to stop him. Its my duty,” she mumbled.

Vil put a firm hand on her shoulder and pulled her gently toward the cabin door. “Right now you need some rest. Get yourself inside and find a place to bed down if you can. It’s pretty crowded. I’ll get some shifts set up out here and join you in a little while.”

The cabin was more than a little crowded, Martine saw immediately. There was barely sufficient space for all the refugees from the warren. The storeroom entryway was filled with the handful of Vani men who remained. Despite their small numbers, they were packed into the tiny area so tightly that there was only space to sleep sitting up leaning against each other. Most either slept or sat round a smoky pine fire built in the center of the floor. Wives came to sit with their husbands before returning to the task of comforting the new widows. Others tended to the walking injured among them, bandaging their wounds with embroidered scarves and once-precious lacework. Krote sat in the coldest corner, bound hand and foot. He watched Martine with yellow eyes as she stepped through the crowded group.

The main room of the cabin was filled to bursting, with mothers, their babies and other children, and older Vani. Nearly all of Vil’s scant furniture had been piled outside onto the barricade. Only the bed remained, and it was loaded with infants. The rest of the floor was covered with makeshift beds of blankets and mats. There was barely space to step across the room. Steam from the tightly packed bodies condensed in the doorway when the outer door was opened.

Vil’s treasured bath was no better. Peeking inside, Martine saw that the small space was filled with about eight wounded Vani, being tended by the womenfolk. The ranger noted with relief that most of the injured didn’t seem to be seriously hurt. If necessary, they could be put back on the line. Most of their wounds were cuts or gashes from splinters of wood and ice received in the initial assault on the warren. The bad news was that one of the few who were hurt was Elder Sumalo. The old priest was sleeping fitfully on a hard wooden pallet, a blood-encrusted bandage wrapped round his bare chest. Without him, without the gifts of the Great Crafter, there was no healing for the others.

It was clear from the cramped conditions that Martine and Vil could not stay there. The only space that seemed possible was in the crowded entry, with the Vani warriors. Returning there, the Harper, with much shifting and squeezing, cleared a space for herself and Vil. With her knees tucked up under her chin, she claimed a blanket and almost immediately dozed off.

The rattling of the door roused the Harper, and she opened her eyes just in time to see Vil and a few others slip inside the room. There was a brief flurry of movement as the next shift of guards stepped over everyone to get outside. The cold from outside caught them in its frigid embrace, as if welcoming the heat it would leech from their bodies. After the door was closed, trapping a fresh glitter of frost within, Martine could hear the cabin groan while the timbers redistributed their heat.

Vil settled next to Martine and huddled close so the small blanket could cover them both. The other gnomes wormed in among their companions—except for Jouka. Still wearing his spiked badger suit, he couldn’t very well squeeze into the tight spaces next to the others. His only choice was to join Krote in his cold corner near the outside door. The gnome glared up at his bound enemy, and Martine swore the gnoll bared his fangs.

“I do not like this, Master Vilheim. We should have more guards posted. How do you know the gnolls will not attack?” Jouka grumbled, all the time staring balefully at the prisoner next to him.

Vil sighed. “The gnolls won’t attack tonight. Think it through. Right now they’re probably looting your homes. With any luck, they’re getting drunk and maybe even fighting among themselves. Second, they’re not that desperate. They’ve got food and shelter, so I don’t think they see any need to hurry. Third, the moon’s just past full. The gnolls are too smart to rush this place on a bright, moonlit night: The only thing that could get them to change their minds is Vreesar, and he’s gone.” He shifted his long legs, trying to find a comfortable position. “I’ve fought plenty of gnolls over the years, so you’ll just have to trust me. What do you think, Martine?”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“Why ask her? It was her mission, her plan that got us into this mess.” His black beard bristling, Jouka puffed up his chest, ready to argue. His fellow gnomes were silent, many watching him with interest. “This is all the fault of interfering humans,” he growled, glaring at Martine. “She came here and caused this trouble. If we had been left alone, none of this would have happened. Now she hides here with that.” The gnome pointed toward Krote, sitting beside him. The gnoll snapped at Jouka’s finger, but the gnome pulled it back quickly.

“And she brought Vreesar here, too, seeking her magical stone. First she risks all our lives by hiding it, and now we’re all in danger because she gave Vreesar the stone as part of some plan of hers.” Martine shifted uneasily. Jouka’s grumblings were starting to get nasty, and the other gnomes were listening to him.

“Such a good plan it was… now we no longer have a home; he ended sarcastically. The other Vani said nothing, their expressions wrapped in thoughtful concentration. With no one else speaking in her favor, Martine prepared to defend herself. Just then Vil’s firm hand steadied the Harper.

“Let him rage,” the former paladin advised. “He’s lost a great deal.”

Martine bit her lip and nodded. Even though she knew Vil was right, it was difficult to accept the man’s wisdom this time. Seeing that she would not rise to the bait, the sullen gnome slowly let his accusations fade into a murmur of discontent. Someone poked up the fire and laid on more wood, stirring up a cloud of sparks. The weary Vani murmured among themselves, softly debating the wisdom of Jouka’s words.

“Is he right?” Martine whispered to Vil. Vil leaned his face close to hers. “No.”

The answer came too quickly to satisfy Martine. “He could be. If I hadn’t come here, then Vreesar would never have come here either. The Vani would still be safe in their warren.”

“Or dead in the snow,” the man countered. “Vreesar would have crossed the rift whether you arrived or not.”

“But I came to help, and now look at everything.”

“So, you think all this is your fault?”

“Damn it, Vil, I’m a Harper. Helping is what I’m supposed to do.”

“Martine, you are only one person. What did you expect?” Martine felt the deep concern in the man’s voice. “What do you think would have happened if you hadn’t come?”

“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. With her dagger, the woman poked at the packed dirt just beyond the edge of the blanket.

“Vreesar would have come through unchallenged, bringing more and more of his kind with him,” Vil speculated as he shifted into a more comfortable position. “Sooner or later a whole army of them would have moved south, probably with the gnolls. The Vani wouldn’t have stood a chance then. You’ve already made a difference. At least there’s only one of Vreesar’s kind. The gnomes have a chance to fight.”

Vil’s words didn’t exactly console Martine. “It was supposed to be an easy mission. I tried so hard to impress the other Harpers, and now look at the mess everything is in. A fine Harper I make. I don’t know what to do, and then when I do something, everything goes wrong.” She stabbed at the dirt. The gnome next to her shifted his feet uneasily.

Vil sighed. “Do you think if the job was easy they’d have sent a Harper?”

Martine studied the man’s face in the gloomy firelight. The stubble on his chin was becoming a full-fledged beard, streaked through with gray. lines of sweat and dirt clung in the creases of his weather-beaten skin. “I don’t know. Jazrac said it was like a test.”

Vil shook his head. “If nothing else, Jazrac was cautious. He wouldn’t have sent you if he didn’t think you could do the job. Quit worrying about what others think and do what’s right.”

“That’s not the way Jouka sees things.” Martine had managed to gouge a small hole in the dirt floor by now. “Martine, Jouka seeks only to blame.” Vil paused, trying to find a way to make his point clear. “There’s an old story. A fox catches a mouse out gathering acorns. ‘Cursed be the oak,’ moans the mouse. beneath the fox’s paw. The fox says, ‘Foolish mouse, why do you curse the tree? It didn’t hurt you:’ And the mouse answers, ‘If the oak hadn’t dropped the acorns, I wouldn’t have been gathering them, and you would never have caught me.’ Hearing the little mouse complain, the fox laughs and laughs so much that he lets his paw slip, and the mouse pulls his tail free. Off runs the mouse, only to be caught in the jaws of a snake. ‘Oh, cursed be the fox,’ moans the mouse, ‘for letting me go, else I would not have been caught’”

“So what happened to the mouse?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the snake ate him.”

Martine leaned wearily against the former paladin’s shoulder. “So if Jouka’s the mouse, what am I? The fox or the snake?”

“Well, I sort of thought of you as another mouse,” Vil said with a dry chuckle.

Martine snorted. “Are you sure you’re not still a paladin? You always seem to be worried about others.”

Vil tried to shrug the question off. “I don’t know.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve been feeling more… paladinish lately. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe I should seek Torm’s forgiveness.” Vil shifted again, still trying to find a comfortable position for his lanky legs.

“What about the freedom you have now… you know, like you told me?”

Vil smirked. “An illusion. I have all this freedom, and what do I do? I hide up here in the north, doing nothing but chopping wood. I’ve been hiding up here, hiding from everything I lost—the people I knew, the things I did. Maybe I thought they’d all forget who I once was, and then I could go home. What kind of freedom is that?” He turned to look at her. “I didn’t realize it until all this happened. I’ve just been moldering up here. Now I feel as if there’s a purpose again.”

Just in time to die in a senseless war, Martine thought to herself. She couldn’t think of a quick, understanding reply to Vil’s sudden confession. “You’re tired. Get some sleep,” she said instead.

Realizing that perhaps he’d said too much, Vil nodded and settled back against the wall. Within minutes, his snores joined those of the gnomes around her while the cold wind whistling between the boards provided a mournful accompaniment.

Martine lay awake, cradled in the man’s arms. She was tired, but her mind was churning as she thought about what Vil had said, about Jazrac’s death, about Jouka, about the threat of Vreesar. Slowly thoughts formed as she forced herself to think like a Harper and not some hesitant apprentice. A new plan was forming in her mind, bold and dangerous. It held no guarantee of success, but it was, she thought, a plan worthy of a Harper.

Gingerly Martine slid free of Vil’s arms. The man snorted and stirred, and Martine thought he might wake, but he only rolled over to fill the space she’d abandoned. The woman picked her way across the small room to where Krote huddled, his rags pulled tight round his furry body, trying to keep in every bit of warmth.

The glint of the gnoll’s eyes greeted her. Knowing he could see her, Martine signaled him to keep silent and knelt in front of him, light glinting off the knife she carried. She looked at Jouka carefully to make absolutely sure the gnome was asleep. His spiked breastplate rose and fell in the slow rhythm of slumber.

“Word-Maker, listen to me,” she barely breathed, turning her attention back to the shaman. The gnoll shifted uneasily when he saw the knife. “Hold out your hands.” Suspiciously Krote raised his bound wrists, and she set to sawing the ropes apart. “I’m letting you go.”

“Why?” the gnoll demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“I want you to help me kill Vreesar.” There was no point in trying to be clever.

The gnoll’s eyes widened in disbelief “What did you say, human?”

“You’re free. I’m letting you go—and I’m asking you to stay,” Martine said as she continued to saw at the ropes. “I need your help to kill Vreesar. If you don’t choose to give it, you can go out the door right now. I’ll make sure the gnomes don’t hurt you.”

As the ropes fell away, the gnoll flexed his clawed fingers, which were purple and numb under his brown fur. “You trust me?” His voice was an incredulous snarling hiss.

“Yes.” Martine did trust the gnoll, but for no reason that she could name. “You live for your honor, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the shaman rumbled. “Why should I help you?” The Harper turned her attention to the ropes around his ankles. “I’m guessing you don’t have much choice. As long as Vreesar lives, you can’t go home.”

The gnoll’s lips parted in a wolfish grin: “Mahr-tin, you not like little ones. You think like gnolls. You are right. I help.”

Martine nodded as she undid the coils around his feet It was the closest thing to a compliment she’d likely ever get from the shaman.

Helping Krote to his feet, Martine cleared her throat loudly until the noise roused the slumbering gnomes. As they stared up in astonishment at the unbound gnoll towering over them, Martine made her pronouncement. “I’m going to kill Vreesar and put an end to this. Who wants to come with me?”