Soldiers of Ice

Two

Wakefulness came slowly to Martine the next morning. Sunk into the depths of Vilheim’s feather bed, which he had insisted she occupy while he slept on the floor, Martine had no desire to rise. The Harper lay staring upward at the semidarkness, listening to the bleak, cold wind that moaned outside the window. Gradually the dim outlines of the rafters and the black roundness of a hanging venison haunch took shape over her, illuminated by the dying glimmers from last night’s ash-banked fire.

What time she woke and how long she lay there, Martine could not say. Wake and sleep blurred together, one coming, the other going, in repeated cycles. Finally the dim shapes overhead lightened and filled as the eastern sun cleared the distant ridge and sent its rays through the gaps between the window shutter’s slats, followed by the clank of cooking pots as Vilheim prepared breakfast.

With a sigh, Martine clawed her way out of bed and groped her way through the worn blanket divider, another thing her host had insisted upon last night. Instantly cold air swirled around her bare legs, reminding her of where she stood. She pulled her tunic closer to her for warmth. “Morning,” Vil called out as he ladled water from a barrel and into a pitted old pot.

“Good morning to you, and thank you for the bed. Did any woman ever tell you you snore?” Martine cheerfully tweaked him as she rummaged through her clothes at the foot of the bed. Finding the warm leggings she sought, Martine pulled the curtain closed to get dressed.

“You’re the first,” Vil shouted over the makeshift wall. “Rose hip tea or hot goat’s milk?”

Goat’s milk sounded revolting. “Tea—” Martine began, only to suddenly awaken to the implications of the man’s words. “Wait… am I the first one to tell you you snore? Surely you’re jesting me.” Even as she said it, Martine realized it was none of her business. Damn, she chided herself. I’ve really stuck my foot in my mouth.

There was a cough from the other side of the curtain. “I meant that you are the first umm—woman to tell me that. Although the arrangements were always… well… pretty much like last night”

Martine remembered to think this time and decided not to ask any further questions. She was surprised her host hadn’t taken offense, especially since the man seemed possessed of a decided puritan streak. Perhaps he was trying to reassure her of his own intentions.

“Well, you don’t snore much,” she lied, hoping that would end the subject. She straightened out her tunic and stepped back into view.

Vil had just finished hanging the pot on the claw over the fire and was leaning against the mantel, carefully prodding the coals into life with a poker. A small swirl of embers rose from where Vil poked the ashes. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Mm-hm. It smells wonderful in here.” She wasn’t exaggerating; the air was tangy with the aroma of fruit and herbs. She took down the curtain to clear space for both of them at the small table.

“Cured venison, fresh cheese, whey, berry jam, and hardtack; tea or milk, as you prefer. I have a chance to make up for the meager table I set last night.” He laid out a simple meal for the pair, unwrapping clothbound packets of soft, fresh cheese and dry biscuits, followed by pots of thick jam and translucent whey. With a final flourish, he set a marbled haunch of meat in the center of the small table so that one leg wobbled perilously under the weight.

“Good meal, indeed!” Martine gaped. Pulling over the two chairs, she waited for him to say a blessing and then dug in. Eagerly she ate chunks of hardtack smeared with buttery goat cheese and red jam and topped with slivers of venison. Even the fresh goat’s milk, which she tasted dubiously at first, was refreshingly welcome after drinking only cold water and birch tea on the trail.

After a bit, when the silence made it apparent that Vil was rusty as a conversationalist, Martine asked, “Are you known among the gnomes?”

“We are… good neighbors, as I said last night.” Vil shaved off another piece of venison. “I respect their ways, and they tolerate me.” Behind him, the rekindled fire gave a popping sound as a pocket of resin ignited. “When I first came up here, I didn’t see a gnome for a year. I think they hoped I would go away. It was only after I built the cabin that any of the Vani came by.”

“Three years ago?”

He nodded as he finished his tea. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait that long. If we leave after breakfast, they should still be in council when we get to the warren. With any luck, they’ll see you today.”

This suited Martine just fine. She hurriedly finished her breakfast, only to have to wait until Vil finished eating. After helping him scrape the dishes and clean the table, Martine struggled into her coat and stood by the door, waiting. “Have you ever been on skis?” her host asked as he laced up his coat, refusing to let himself be hurried.

“Yes.” Twice … and the first time was when I was ten, Martine thought.

“Good. It’s time to go.”

Outside, in the morning shadow cast by the mountains, Martine, with Vil’s paternal advice, laced the ungainly boards to her feet and set out to follow him across the snowy hummocks, wobbling along, barely steadied by her poles. The route he followed led through an icebound world of alternating light and dark. Where it could penetrate the forest branches, the dawn sunlight turned the soft snow-clad outlines of trees and roots into a dazzling domain of white. Elsewhere, deep shadows quickly closed in and clothed the landscape in darkness.

The air was rich with the scent of pines. Martine’s skin prickled from the cold. The trees loomed over the pair, their white-dressed boughs locked so close together that the bottom branches were hidden permanently from sun-light, leaving them scraggly dead sticks occasionally tufted with needled clusters. The great trunks stirred with the wind till the forest echoed with muted popping and creaking sounds. Winter birds confided secrets to each other and warned of the passing strangers:

After they had pressed on for an hour or so, judging from the rise of the sun over the eastern ridge, and Martine was lathered in a fine sweat despite the cold, they struck a narrow path that twisted round gnarled roots and tunneled through arched brambles. The path was clearly meant for creatures much smaller than even the petite Martine. She and Vil ducked, bobbed, and pushed their way through the tangles until finally Vil pulled aside the last thorned branch and slid easily into a small clearing at the base of a steep knoll. The hillside was a tumble of granite shelves and trees clinging precariously to the slopes, all draped with snow. The trail they were following led to the very base of the mound and then vanished or so it seemed to Martine at first glance. In truth, the path ended at a cunningly concealed arch, shaped to match the jutting rocks that framed it. Set back deep in the opening were a pair of squat wooden doors of weathered gray pine, cleverly carved with vines and rocks so that their shadowed surface mimicked the summertime slope of the hill. Together the doors were almost as broad as they were high.

With the tip of his pole, Vil rapped at the snow-dusted doors. The sound hollowly reverberated from the hillside. Barely a moment passed before Martine heard a muffled scraping from inside the hill. With a creak of wooden peg hinges, the doors swung inward, releasing a wisp of steam. The weak eastern sun reached through the slim gap and etched a thin line onto the polished floorboards beyond, the hint of snowy tracks marring the perfect smoothness of the wooden floor. The creaking stopped as a shadowy face peered through the crack, scrutinizing the visitors.

Apparently satisfied, the doorkeeper nodded briefly. _ “Welcome Vilheim, friend of the Vani,” croaked a brittle voice as the gnome swung the door wide.

“Greetings, Tikkanen. We have come to see the council. Are the elders in session?” Vil bowed as best he could in his thick winter coat, and Martine followed suit.

The object of their courtesy was a little man who stood no taller than Vil’s waist, stocky of build and buried in a thick cream-colored cloak that covered him to the very bottom of his chin. Despite his stocky build, Martine knew the little man was actually lean for one of his kind. Airy strands of long white beard escaped from the top of the collar and swayed like cloudy wisps in the breeze. The gnome’s face seemed ancient, reminding Martine of a shriveled apple. The doorkeeper’s rheumy red eyes were barely noticeable behind his bulbous nose, a pronounced characteristic of his race. Tikkanen’s nose was limned with thin red veins and colored with age spots.

“The council sits today, it is true.” The old gnome cleared his throat and then pointed at Martine. “Before you enter, Vilheim, will you testify for your companion, swear that she will abide by the laws and customs of the Vani, that she brings no evil to this warren, bears not the mark of a blood feud, and carries no curse upon her?”

Martine’s and Vil’s eyes met for a moment. She was uncertain just what he would say. After only a slight hesitation, he answered, “I swear this upon the honor of great Torm.”

The god of loyalty seemed an appropriate choice for such an oath, Martine decided, feeling relieved.

“Then enter, Master Vil and companion.” The gnome stepped aside with a grave nod, and the two visitors clomped into the small pine-floored antechamber. Vil had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the low beams. Martine was thankful for once that she was short. Behind them, the old gnome eased the outer doors shut to seal out the cold. In the guttering light of a candle, the pair undid the bindings on their skis. Tikkanen waited stiffly near the inner doors.

“Are they all this formal?” Martine whispered as she crouched down to unknot the snow-crusted lacings. “Tikkanen follows the old ways,” Vil whispered back. “And he is not deaf.” Martine bit her lip and spoke no more. “Leave your things in my care,” the gnome instructed when they were ready. “The council will see you at the first convenient opportunity.” He pulled open the inner doors, which were painted with ferocious-looking badgers. Vil bent down to pass through the low threshold, and Martine followed, ducking her head. Beyond the door, the hall was high enough for them both to stand up easily, although her companion’s head barely cleared the ceiling. Old Tikkanen closed the doors behind them, shutting out the remaining chill.

Here inside the warren, the hall was filled with light from a pair of wall sconces that held carved wands glowing with magical light. While Tikkanen clicked the door bolts into place, the humans brushed the snow from their leggings. Eventually the ancient doorkeeper shuffled past to lead them down the corridor into the heart of the underground warren.

This was Martine’s first visit to a home of the little folk. She had never been inside the dwellings of either dwarf or gnome, so she was fascinated by every detail. She had expected to see stonework and dank moss like a dungeon or cellar, or wooden beams like a mine, but not the bright wood paneling that covered the walls, ceilings, and floors. Far from dank and dark, it was bright and warm, with an airiness that Martine found welcome, for she had never been fond of the constricting quarters of eaves.

Their path led them through another set of doors. These were intricately carved with stylized patterns of birds, trees, and entwined vines. This third door sealed in the warren’s humid warmth, and beyond it they smelled the rich scents of pine, varnish, caraway, and baking ovens. As before, the way continued to be lit by magical sconces. Their route twisted deeper, past intersections and other doors embellished with carvers’ art, until at last Tikkanen ushered the pair into a small room, undoubtedly large by gnome standards. In the center of one wall stood a door studded with brass medallions.

“The council is inside. You must wait for them to summon you,” the doorkeeper explained before leaving. Apparently used to this arrangement, Vil settled into one of the high-backed benches against the wall. Carved for gnomes, the seat wasn’t more than a footstool to the lanky human. “Sit,” Vilheim suggested.

“I think I’ll stand.” Martine couldn’t look at the man; trying to maintain his dignity while his knees were tucked up practically under his chin, without feeling the urge to laugh. “It could be a long wait,” her companion cautioned.

Martine regained her composure by feigning great interest in the bare chamber. “I’ve been still too long.”

Vil was right. The wait quickly became interminable. Bored, Martine eventually perched awkwardly on another bench, idly flipping the little silver knife Jazrac had given her. “What do you suppose is taking them so long?” she muttered.

“They’re gnomes,” Vil answered coolly. Thinking he’d been asleep, Martine jumped at the man’s voice. The blade slipped between her fingers and stuck into the floor next to her boot with a quivering thunk. “The Vani have their own sense of time. You’d better get used to it. I’ve never seen anything hurry them,” he mumbled drowsily.

“They can’t have that much to do. It’s only a little valley.”

“The Vani have their own sense of what is important,” commented Vil, making idle talk as he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position. “They are important. This valley is important. I doubt anything else is. Certainly you and I rank low in their priorities. The elders are probably inside having birch-bark tea while they try to decide the fair price of a goose that was accidentally killed, or something like that. It’s the right way to do things as far as they are concerned.”

None of this sounded particularly encouraging. It galled Martine to be stalled so close to her goal, even though she knew a few hours, even a day or two, would make little difference. It’s the same old me, wanting everything to go just perfectly, she reminded herself. I just need to relax. Trying to keep that thought in mind, she sank back into the seat. The time stretched on and on, although the boredom was occasionally broken by visits from passing gnomes. A few even stopped long enough to give Vil an awkward greeting. They spoke with such thick accents, their r’s heavily rolled and their vowels sharply clipped, that it was almost impossible for Martine to understand them, but Vil apparently did not have any trouble. He carefully responded to each by name, occasionally asking about the health of a wife or child.

Several times Martine caught glimpses of little gnome housewives with blond-brown hair bound up in a bun. Two of them peered into the room for a peek at the human woman. After a brief look, they stepped out of sight to gossip and cluck in whispered voices. Martine decided not to disrupt their women’s game and kept her eyes almost closed, feigning sleep. If they weren’t so short and broad, Martine decided, they would be like housewives everywhere. Here they dressed in red and blue dresses and embroidered white aprons: In other lands, the clothes might be different, but the gossipy curiosity was unchanged.

Sometimes children, more honest in their curiosity, accompanied the women. They stood staring long after their mothers stepped away in embarrassment. Martine noticed that Vil generated no such attention. Perhaps he was a familiar guest and therefore not worthy of note. “I must be pretty unusual, eh?” she finally said to Vil. She was growing tired of watching others watch her.

The man yawned and nodded. “Well,” he finally allowed, “they’ve seen humans before me, mainly but you’re the first human woman and, by their standards, not a particularly ladylike one.”

“Thank you!”

“I meant ladylike in their eyes. Fighting is a man’s job among the Vani. Women raise the children and rule the home. Men hunt, farm, and deal with outsiders. You’re different. You go against their expectations.”

“The council’s in for a big surprise, then.” Gods know what they might think if they learned I’m a Harper, too. The thought became the flicker of a mischievous grin on her face.

“I guess they know already,” Vil commented as he stretched his cramped legs yet another time.

At last the brass-bound council door swung open. Standing in the doorway were two gnomes in blue robes girdled with sashes embroidered in red and green. Both were young gnomes, hardly elders, Martine noted. The first had close cropped, curly black hair and a contrasting full beard. “The other looked a little younger and had more belly on him: his face didn’t look as weather-beaten, either. His hair and beard were both black, long, and braided, the tips of his chin braids just brushing his chest.

Vil rose to meet the gnomes. “Greetings, Jouka Tunkelo,” he said to the leaner of the two. “And to you Turi Tunkelo.”

“Greetings to you,” the short-haired Jouka answered with a curtness that discouraged further conversation. “The council invites you to come inside.” As she followed the gnomes into the chamber, Martine wondered whether the last was said with disapproval or whether it was just colored by his dour accent.

The council chamber was a small amphitheater, square in shape and higher-ceilinged than the other room. The spacious height was necessary to accommodate three tiers of benches on three sides of the hall. A scattering of gnomes, all of them old, wrinkled gentlemen, sat in every posture on the seats. One, bent with age, leaned forward on a gnarled cane until his long white beard brushed the floor. Another seemed to doze, his bald head wobbling sleepily as he leaned back against the next tier. Others sat clustered in little clumps, serious little bearded men sipping at cups of tea. Judging by their beards, not a one of them, discounting the two ushers, did Martine guess to be less than a great-grandfather. At the same time, she knew the appearance was deceptive, for gnomes had life spans of two hundred or more years. These might be great-great-great grandfathers, for all she knew.

At the very center of the benches, in a seat of obvious authority, sat a most singularly dressed elder. While the others wore pants and jackets of linens and wool, the old gnome in the high seat wore a knee-length tunic of buckskin. This alone was not singular; several other gnomes wore items of buckskin, Martine noted. What made it notable was that the elder’s tunic was festooned with iron charms that hung from leather thongs, so many that the gnome clinked and rattled with every move. The charms, which seemed to be mostly crude sigils and icons, swayed against his stout chest, sometimes tangling themselves into his curly white beard. His thick silver hair was carefully held in place with a birchbark cap, more ornamental than functional. From his dress and the position of his chair, Martine figured the gnome to be the warren’s priest, although of what god she could not possibly say.

When the two humans reached the center of the chamber, the white-bearded priest rose to his feet, age and formality making his movements rigid. His charms swayed on the ends of their thongs, and their harsh tinkling signaled quiet to the rest of the audience.

“The Council of the Vani greets Vilheim, son of Balt, and his female companion.”

“Gracious is the council, wise Sumalo,” Vil replied. “Kind it is to be so generous with its time,” Martine added. Vil’s look, seen from the corner of her eye, told her she had said the right thing.

The gnome priest nodded slightly in approval. “We grant you the right to present your case.” There were a few murmured grumbles at this point, although Sumalo, perhaps hard of hearing, paid them no notice. “May Gaerdal Ironhand bestow on us eyes to see through falsehood, ears to hear the truth, and tongues to speak with wisdom.” The priest picked up a peeled birch rod from the seat beside him. Pressing it to his lips, he murmured a phrase incomprehensible to Martine. Sumalo held out the rod toward the humans. Vil hesitated, then accepted the branch and kissed the wood lightly. “Forgive me, Torm,” he whispered.

Feeling no religious compulsions, Martine took the rod and performed the ritual to satisfy her audience. “May your god guide me,” she invoked, figuring it did not hurt to ask, before passing the rod back to the priest.

“The bond is now forged,” Sumalo pronounced as he held the rod aloft. “Let the outsider speak.”

Until this moment when every gnome’s face was turned toward her, Martine hadn’t expected to be the center of such attention. The ranger had never been one to get up before a crowd and speak; in fact, she had always preferred the isolation of the forest. Now she could feel her face flush; it felt as if a cold fist were squeezing the pit of her stomach. The speech she had rehearsed in her head all morning evaporated from her memory. “Uh—elders,” she stammered, “I am Martine of Sembia, a huntswoman by trade. I come to you with a simple request. I’m bound for the Great Glacier and was… uh… hoping that someone here could be my guide.” It was all sort of blurted out as she hurried through a considerably shortened version of what she had intended to say.

With her speech finished, Martine waited for some reaction. The gnomes on the benches waited, too, not accustomed to such brevity. Finally, after a long, awkward silence, the Harper felt compelled to say, “That’s really all I came to ask.”

With slow understanding, the councillors came alive with a wave of murmuring. Within moments, they were deep into their discussion, seeming to forget the humans standing before them. Martine watched with puzzlement the seriousness the elders displayed over her simple request and the vociferousness of their debate.

“Gnomes… I told you so,” Vil whispered over the ranger’s shoulder so only she could hear. “Never a simple answer. There always has to be a debate.”

“Do you know it’s winter?” demanded one of the younger elders.

“Soon,” she corrected:

The first question broke open a floodgate of others, and Martine found herself besieged on all sides. She couldn’t understand many of their questions, posed in thick gnomish accents, and often had to look despairingly to Vilheim for translation. With every answer, she did her best to choose her words politely and carefully. How do you plan to get to the Great Glacier?”

“Are you a wizard?” That question raised a worrisome buzz from the council.

“No, I have a hippogriff named Astriphie. We could ride him.”

“What business do you have on the glacier?”

“My own, good sir.”

“Why do you come here?”

“In truth, for no more than I said to hire a guide.” After how many minutes and how many questions she did not know, the hollow thump of the priest banging the birch rod on the floor interrupted the interrogation. “Enough talk,” Sumalo announced. “Brothers, we will vote.” Standing in the center of the floor, Martine wondered if she should sit or leave the room. She looked at Vil, but he only shrugged to show he was as perplexed as she. Mumbling, the old gnomes settled back into their seats, their white heads bowed. Slowly, one after the other and in no particular order, each raised his head and looked at the priest. At first Martine wondered if it was some kind of thought speech, until finally she started to notice the almost imperceptible gestures each made. Finally the gnomes were finished and once again looked at her. Standing to his full, short height, Sumalo spoke. “Our answer to you is this: Come back in the spring, Mistress Martine of Sembia, when the weather is good for travel. Now is the season of the hearth, the time of rest for our people. It is bad luck to stray far from the warmth of the fire. Spring is the time to begin journeys, when good luck will be with you. Go now and return when the sap flows in the maples. Let your gods guide you wisely.”

Martine’s shoulders sagged, crestfallen. Struggling to hold back bitterness, she somehow managed to find the composure to speak. “I thank the council for hearing me, but I cannot wait for spring. I must reach the glacier now.” The Harper bowed slightly to all assembled.

After Vil said his good-byes, the two departed. Outside the council doors, Tikkanen met them and guided them back to the outer doors. Once they were bundled and had their skis on, the two humans set out through the woods. Martine set a punishing pace until finally, exhausted, they reached the woodsman’s lonely cabin.

Once inside, Vil built a fire while Martine squirmed out of her bulky gear. Freed of its weight, she collapsed into one of the hard-backed chairs, exhausted and discouraged.

“What will you do now?” Vil asked while adding bits of tinder to the fire.

The woman shook her head in resignation, her short, sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. “Go on to the Great Glacier, of course. I’ve got a job to do.” With a groaning sigh, she considered just how much she had banked on the gnomes’ help to accomplish her mission. Now, without a knowledgeable guide, the chance of quick success was almost nonexistent. The same was true of her opportunity to impress the other Harpers with her efficiency.

Her fingers brushed Jazrac’s knife, and then it was in her hand. Weighing the dagger in her palm, she thought about writing to Jazrac for advice, an idea she quickly discarded. Without thinking, she twirled the blade between her fingers effortlessly and flipped it point first into the tabletop, where it stuck, quivering.

Vil rumbled in disapproval.

Martine quickly whisked the blade back to its sheath. “Sorry. Nervous habit. If you’ll have me as guest one more night, I’ll be gone in the morning.” She rubbed her hand on the table to smooth out the nick.

“Of course.” Vil stood to his full height. “You’re determined to go north, then?”

The Harper nodded.

Vil hung a pot of water on the firedog and swung it over the flame. “If you’re willing, I could guide you,” he offered almost casually:.

“You?” Martine asked, realizing how she sounded even as she spoke. “I mean, I know you could, but aren’t you—”

“Too old?”

“too busy?”

Vil chuckled. From him, it sounded strange. “In wintertime, there’s hardly a thing to do but split wood and hunt up here, and I can hunt at the glacier. I admit I know less about the north than the gnomes do.” The old warrior sat on the hearth and still managed to be taller than Martine in her chair. “But I know more than you.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to help.”

Just as she was about to voice another protest, Martine reconsidered Vil’s offer. There was no mistaking the earnestness in his eyes.

“How soon can you leave?” The question was cautious, designed to still give him an excuse to say no, but Martine could only remember Jazrac’s old advice about allies that no one ever helps without a good reason. What was Vilheim’s reason? She wondered if the old wizard would have agreed to let him accompany her.

“As soon as you’re ready. Tomorrow?”

“Seriously?” It was Vil’s turn to nod. “Then tomorrow it is,” Martine agreed, still not comfortable with her choice. The next morning found the pair airborne as Astriphie labored under the double weight of two riders. Vil sat behind Martine’s saddle, bloodless fingers clutching the saddle’s angled back. Although the wind was bitter at this height, it was more than the cold that made him shiver. Even with a rope lashed around his waist, the man clearly did not feel safe. Martine tried to distract him, but between the wind’s howling bite and the hippogriff’s labored pants, it was only possible to communicate by shouting. After a few minutes of that, Martine knew she had to stop or lose her voice.

Nonetheless, the woodsman’s ability to guide from the air impressed the ranger, considering that common landmarks seemed to transform themselves from a height of a thousand feet. At Vil’s direction, Astriphie was making a straight course for a low gap in the mountains to the north. Unlike the pass at the southern end of the valley, which had been a smooth, open snowfield that stretched above the timberline, the northern pass stood out dark green as the trees marched right up and over the crest of the ridge.

To the left and right of the gap, the mountains sloped down like weak shoulders till they joined the curve of pass. Below them, Vil pointed out the river that flowed from the pass, a churning white ribbon that cut though the green foliage. That, he shouted, was their path until they crossed over to the north ridge.

Gradually, pulling higher with each beat of Astriphie’s wings, the trio passed over the ridge, crossing from the gnome-occupied woods of the south to the cold and feral north. Beyond the ridge lay another valley penned in by mountains. It stretched out like a narrow finger to the north until it abruptly ended, truncated across its length by a sparkling wall that at this distance seemed to flow from between the mountain peaks like frozen treacle. In the morning sunshine, the distant glacial ice looked like a diamond set in silver. The wall’s many facets glittered and glowed, beckoning them forward.

“Amazing!” Martine leaned back as she shouted so Vil could hear. The Harper had never seen such a great wall of ice before. The jewel-like glacier rose over a bed of dark, brooding green, a virgin forest that seemed to shrink before the ice’s advance. The glacier towered over even the tallest trees and then stretched backward into the mountains until everything disappeared in a tangled horizon of smooth ice rivers and rock.

“Where to now?” Vil bellowed.

Martine realized she didn’t actually know what she was looking for. Jazrac had been long on explanation about his elemental rift, but the wizard had never really told her what to look for. He had said it was on the glacier, but that was all. Martine didn’t realize then how vast a glacier could be. Still, she couldn’t admit not knowing what to do after dragging her host this far into the wilderness.

“When we get there, look for some kind of a disturbance, something unusual on the glacier.” Although her answer seemed a safe bet, she was thankful that the yelling effectively hid any doubt in her voice.

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long for your mount to get us there?”

“An hour, maybe less,” the Harper answered as she scanned the valley floor, trying to gauge their distance to the ice wall. Just then she thought she spotted something below. “What’s that down there?” Used to traveling alone, Martine pulled Astriphie into a quick dive, prompting Vil to clutch frantically at her waist. “Hold on,” she remembered to caution tardily.

“Look down there,” she asked, pointing toward a small clearing as they leveled out once more. “What’s that?”

Vil strained, his eyes tearing against the cold, until he made out what had caught her attention. It was a thin stream of smoke rising from the edge of the clearing. As they swooped closer, he made out a cluster of long narrow huts in the shadow of the trees.

“Gnolls this is their valley. They are the reason the Vani would not come here.”

“The gnomes were afraid?” There was no mockery in Martine’s question.

“Each respects the other’s valley. Usually there is no trouble. Besides, it is best not to rouse the hornet’s nest.” As he spoke, three figures darted from the huts for the dark shelter of the woods. “Best to fly high. They are skilled with the bow”

Were she alone, Martine would have swept as low as she dared for a better view. Instead, she heeded Vil’s warning and pulled Astriphie back up.

“Are there many of them?”

“The gnolls? It’s not a large tribe, but more than the Vani… enough to be a threat.”

Vil’s answer sounded ominous. Although there were more questions she could have raised about the skills of the gnolls, their hunting patterns, and even their totems, Martine lapsed into silence, the cold and the shouting getting the better of her throat. There was a great deal you could learn about such creatures from things like totems, she thought idly. Take a bear totem it meant the tribe respected strength and solidity, a good sign all in all, even in savage creatures like gnolls. On the other hand, if the totem were, say, an ice worm, that wasn’t a good sign. Tribes that chose totems like that were too often cruel and ravenous like their god.

Given the proximity of the glacier, she wouldn’t be surprised if this group had chosen the latter. The closeness of the ice probably made for sudden death. Hard lives bred hard gods.

A tug at her coat reminded Martine of her duty. “There!” Vil shouted at her ear to be heard over the wind. “Over there!” Tentatively easing his grip, he pointed to a swirling plume of ice, a jet of frozen crystals, that heaved and spurted like the irregular storms of the sea against the crested shore. The icy column rose up until it expanded like some swollen vegetable a cauliflower instantly came to Martine’s mind.

“See it? Is that it?” Vil shouted again, uncertain if she had heard him.

“It must be. It’s certainly unusual,” she howled back. Martine had no doubt it must be her goal. What else but a geyser of hoarfrost would mark a rift such as Jazrac had explained? She understood now why the wizard hadn’t bothered to describe it. With a rekindled confidence that she could end this quickly, Martine leaned the hippogriff in a broad arc that would carry them toward the plume.

When they had less than a mile to go, the air around them changed, the temperature plummeting with ferocious suddenness. Bone-gnawing cold attacked every inch of exposed skin, even penetrating through the layers of fur that had managed to keep them warm till now. Astriphie rocked and struggled mightily against the increasing buffets of the frenzied gale.

The trio were close enough now to make out vaguely, through the swirling gaps of wind burning ice, the starshaped fissure, crudely heaved upward in cracked blocks. The main ice jet, for now it was apparent there was a small group of lesser fumaroles, pulsed with the otherworldly tide that forced its icy discharge up from the center of the fissure and sent it flowing down one of the jagged arms. The tighter the gap became, the higher the plume shot as the pressure increased until it hit the end. Lightning couldn’t have raised greater thunder as the geyser broke over the splintered end, blowing out chunks of glacial ice visible even at a distance.

Vil shouted something, but most of it was lost: “—so close!”

Martine shook her head furiously at what she guessed he had said. “Closer. The less time on the ground, the better.” She hoarsely shouted her explanation, although it was unlikely Vil could hear any better than she. With a firm command, she pushed the hippogriff, its normally keen eyes now flashing with fire, closer and closer. “We’ll move in quick and”

The concussive boom of the roaring flux devoured the rest of her words. Astriphie’s wingbeats faltered, momentarily pitching the group into an unplanned dive. Behind her, Vil’s weight shifted, threatening to overbalance the hippogriff. Dropping the reins from one hand, Martine thrust her arm back and levered the slipping woodsman back into his seat. The effort burned her throat in frozen gasps and triggered a fit of wracking coughs. The fire of ice scorched her lungs, left her mouth filled with pasty spit.

The shuddering gasps left her unable to steer, and by the time Martine recovered, it was too late. Astriphie, uncontrolled, had panicked and plunged iceward while attempting to wheel away from the fissure, the source of the beast’s terror. Just as the hippogriff slipped into a steep-banked turn, the geyser spewed forth another shuddering blast.

The great pinioned wings were spread almost full against the outrushing force of the wind, catching it like the swollen sails of a yacht leaping before the ocean breeze. Frantically sensing the danger, Martine pitched her slight body hard into the rushing wind the way a sailor on that same yacht would lean himself as a counterbalance against the tipping hull. Understanding the need for her move, Vil leaned with her. For a perilous moment they held the balance, the arc of a perfect parabola suspended between the shattered white ground and the roiling sky. We can make it, Martine exulted.

And then it was over. Astriphie’s voice, a whinnying screech of pain, sundered all hope. The hoarse cry barely drowned out the sickening popping noise as the hippogriff’s uppermost wing crumpled, flexing back over Martine and Vil to angle in directions it was never meant to point. The imaginary parabola collapsed as the rushing wind seemed to roll the crippled hippogriff completely over.

Suspended time was replaced by a whirling blur of snow and sky as the hippogriff tumbled from the heavens. The beast frantically beat at the air with its remaining wing, the other flopping uselessly with each roll, feathers raking the Harper’s face as she struggled to guide her frenzied mount down. Behind her, Vil could do no more than cling to whatever purchase he could gain, more than once finding himself suspended helplessly by the single safety rope around his waist.

Loosing the now useless reins, Martine lunged to the side, flattening against the hippogriff’s unsocketed wing as the fall righted the creature. The agonized screech from the pain she caused echoed in the woman’s ears, but the great wing responded and struggled to spread itself full once more. It was barely enough time, for the ground, all icy barbs and jagged ridges, was speeding up toward them. There was no hope of slowing their furious glide, indeed barely any chance of remaining righted. As the glacial landing field swelled closer, Martine knew it meant the death of her brave steed and almost surely its riders.

“Cut free!” she screamed, one thick gloved hand fumbling for her knife. “Cut yourself free and jump!” With the jagged ice splinters that lay below, it wasn’t much of a chance, but it was their only one.

Martine heard a sharp twanging sound behind her, and the plummeting hippogriff lurched as its load suddenly shifted. The Harper thought she heard a human howl, and then it was lost in the sweeping gale.

The ranger’s mittened hand closed on the handle of something she could only hope was her knife, and with a blind slash, she hacked at the saddle’s restraining belts. Half her body, suddenly freed of its bonds, swung upward as if it had lost all weight. Instantly she lost her position, and the hippogriff’s wing folded, slamming against her with a force that almost knocked the blade from her grasp. Beating back the feathers with one hand, Martine slashed furiously at the last strap. As she was still sawing at the leather, she tumbled away from the doomed mount, and at the same instant, the last strap gave way. She flew off the rump of the hippogriff, her feet flying over her heels just as Astriphie’s wings cracked into an upthrust sheet of ice. The roar that filled the glacier was superseded by the squealing, popping, pulpy grind as the hippogriff gouged a bloody track across the dirty white snow.

Martine saw none of this, however, for in the instant Astriphie hit, she was twisting futilely in midair in an attempt to land on her feet. Then all at once the white was upon her tearing, ripping, and beating as she smashed through the frozen crust and sank into the needlelike snow beneath it.