Soldiers of Ice

Seven

A biting wind deadened Martine’s limbs as she stood before the dais of the great Vreesar, new chieftain of the Burnt Fur. With its conquest, the fiend had taken possession of Elk-Slayer’s lodge and quickly found the accommodations not to its liking. Heaping a miscellany of wood and baskets at the entrance, Vreesar sat poised on a throne made from a cradleboard laid between two stools. This crude dais was much more to the fiend’s liking, since it was safely away from the scorching fire pit at the far end of the lodge. Elk-Slayer’s furs and robes were banished, eagerly snapped up by the tribe members determined to gain something from the chaos. Instead of rich bearskins, the platform was coated with a heap of caked, dirty snow dug from the clearing. The door flap, formerly sealed with care against the hostile outdoors, was now pulled wide open to let the bitter breeze blow through.

No gnolls lounged half-naked in the steaming heat, as they had the night before. Those tribe members in the lodge huddled tightly together as far back from the entrance as they could, trying to capture the precious warmth of the smoldering fire pit.

It was a warmth the ranger did not feel from where she stood in the bare earth between Vreesar’s throne and the clustered gnolls. Since the occupation of the lodge, Vreesar had kept her near its crude throne. No more than three paces behind her, Krote squatted, waiting for the new chieftain’s words.

Atop the ice-encrusted dais, Vreesar gave no heed to the suffering of its subjects. The fiend was in no discomfort, clearly relishing the frozen winds that blasted through the open doorway. Martine suspected that it enjoyed more than just the cold, for it seemed to deliberately prolong every action as a means to torment all those assembled with the freezing cold.

“Where iz my tribute? Did your chieftain have nothing? You!” Vreesar hummed as it jabbed a finger at Krote. “You wait and wait like an ennchi waiting to tear the hope out of a carrioned soul.”

Martine shivered in cold fear. She did not know what an ennchi was, or a carrioned soul, but together they did not sound good.

Krote must have thought so, too, for his answer was long in coming. “This is Hakk’s longhouse. What he owned is here.” The shaman gestured to the spread of goods on the dirt floor in front of Vreesar. Standing just behind the array of items, Martine felt as if she were being presented as property, too.

The Harper held her breath as Vreesar languidly drifted one clawed foot over the fine of Hakk’s goods, pausing to touch a peculiar stone that rested among the dented breastplates, bone necklaces, and wooden carvings. Martine worried about what one sharp tap of the fiend’s toe might do to Jazrac’s seal. The wizard had warned her, after all, that the stone was breakable. One hard rap, and all her efforts to close the rift could end in failure.

The fiend kicked a carving with one taloned toe. “Fah!” it hissed contemptuously. “These are mere toyz. No strength in toyz.”

Martine trembled with relief. Thank Tymora for some small luck, she silently praised.

“Human, I meet you again,” Vreesar droned in chilling tones. The elemental leaned toward her, never leaving its seat.

Like a small child expecting a thrashing, Martine barely nodded her head up and down. In truth, the woman held herself in rigid control to prevent her body from collapsing in a spasm of nerves. There was no point in denying anything so obvious. This creature was clever and perceptive, not like the little one she had slain. There was no hope of fooling it into believing she had not been on the glacier.

You killed Icy-White?

How should I answer? This thing knows I did. What will it do if I tell the truth? Or is it trying to trick me into a lie? Martine felt her blood surge with panic. With a deep breath, she forced her body, but not her mind, to be calm.

“It wanted to play rough.” The Harper hoped her words sounded as tough and cynical as she thought they did. Barely suppressed fear made it impossible for her to accurately judge the tone of her own words.

The lodge filled with the fiend’s quavering buzz.

Oh, gods, I hope that’s laughter, or else I’m dead. The Harper could feel her nerves making her begin to tremble. The strain of the last few days made them diabolically hard to control.

Behind her, the gnolls milled in consternation, no more able to fathom the fiend’s mood than she was.

At last the buzzing subsided. The fiend swiveled its glittering eyes, sparkling beneath its shadowed brow, on her.

“You close my gate?”

Despite her dry throat, Martine tried to swallow before she answered. “No. What gate?”

“Again you lie!” it thrummed, springing down from the dais. With a kick, it sent Hakk’s possessions flying. Martine bit her lip and tried not to let her eyes betray her interest as Jazrac’s stone tumbled across the floor and came to a stop against the lodge wall.

With jerking, angular steps, the creature stalked around her, each stride drawing it closer to her until Martine felt the crystals of icy breath on her neck. “I want gate open,” Vreesar whispered, constantly circling her. “It iz cold and empty here—nice. Open the gate and I will make you my general. Open the gate and I will give you armiez of Icy-Whitez. You will rule the warm landz for me. I will make you powerful, human.”

Vreesar stopped behind her. Cold claws gently wrapped over the Harper’s shoulders, the sharp click of its fangs sounding next to her ear. “How do I open the gate?”

I’m a Harper. I can’t betray that trust. I must not betray that trust. Martine seized on these thoughts, focusing her mind on her duty as she steeled her body for her death. It would surely follow, the minute she refused Vreesar. All she had to do was say, “You can’t,” and the fiend would fly into a rage, and she would be dead. She knew it instinctively. A few quick words, some pain, and then freedom from this terror. It would be a true Harper’s death.

“I–I don’t know.” They were the wrong words, said before she even realized what she was saying. She wanted to refuse Vreesar, to deny the fiend all hope, but fear overpowered her. Her own death was too close for her to be brave.

“It can be opened again! It must!” The fiendish creature hissed in frustration. “How?” Its claw tips pressed into her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” Martine gasped, her knees starting to buckle as the pain of unhealed wounds flared beneath the creature’s talons.

With the flick of a clawed finger, Vreesar sliced a ribbon of red across her cheek. “Tell me or I cut more.”

The cut’s burning sting made bitter tears well in her eyes. Were she uninjured, it would have been a small matter, but now the cut added far more than it should have to her ledger of pain. “I was never told.” The ranger could barely gasp the words out.

“Uselezz!” Vreesar flung the shaken woman to the ground like a rag doll. Martine clutched the cold earth, relieved to still be alive, her body weak from the questioning.

Vreesar angrily turned to Krote. The shaman was still crouched at the very forefront of his people, intently watching the interrogation. His eyes took in every detail as his mind calculated the strengths and weaknesses of the tribe’s new chieftain.

“Did she have anything when you found her, shaman?”

“Only that” Krote pointed to Martine’s leather backpack in the dirt “and a sword. It was of no value.”

The hells it was, Martine thought in the midst of her fog of pain. Her sword was made of good magical steel. She had had to fight a pirate lord for it. From where she lay, the Harper waited for the Word-Maker to point out the stone, but he never did. Perhaps he’s forgotten about the rock, she thought hopefully. I can still get it back. Get the stone, escape, and get back to Jazrac that’s all I have to do.

The fiend snatched up her backpack and shook it When nothing fell out, it tore at the leather bag with its claws and teeth, all the while growling with inarticulate rage. Bits of shredded leather rained on the bare ground. Metal buckles jangled as Vreesar hurled them across the lodge.

“There iz no key here. Where are her other thingz?” The barbed fiend strode back toward Krote, claws flexing convulsively. Seeing the icy body with the needlelike teeth advance toward them, the gnolls scrambled backward.

“What about the little ones? Maybe they have it,” a trembling voice deep in the throng barked out. The suggestion was quickly taken up by other gnolls in the lodge. Belief or truth had little to do with their agreement; all that mattered was diverting the fiend.

“Little onez? Explain, shaman.”

“

“The gnomes, great chieftain. They live to the south, beyond our lands.”

“Iz their land warm or cold?”

The question flabbergasted the gnoll. “It’s snowy, the same as here, but their valley does not have the tall ice.”

“Warm, then,” Vreesar calculated, its icy brows tinkling as they knitted. “And they helped the human?”

“Perhaps.” Without better knowledge, the Word-Maker wasn’t going to commit himself one way or the other. Martine didn’t like the sound of these questions and cursed herself for being helpless.

“Are these gnomes powerful?”

Krote shrugged in puzzlement at Vreesar’s question. “I do not know. They are little people and do not raid our land. Some think they are grass-growers and do not know how to hunt.”

“Then they are weak.”

Krote shook his head firmly. “The stories of the Burnt Fur say the little people are strong in magic. If the stories are true, then they are powerful.”

Vreesar cackled, its laugh like shattering icicles. “I am magic. I am powerful. The little snow people are nothing, like mephitz, like Icy-White. If that iz all they have, they will be easy to destroy. We will attack them.” The fiend glared at the gnolls huddled near the fire pit, waiting for any to speak out against the plan. The frigid creature’s gaze was a fierce challenge none of the dog-men dared accept, and their silence signaled their acceptance.

It’s only a boast, Martine hoped as she heard Vreesar’s proclamation. It was bad to have let the fiend escape the rift. The attack on the Vani would be yet another black mark against her in the eyes of the Harpers. If a single one of these creatures could create such chaos, Martine knew she could never allow hordes of Vreesar’s kin to enter into the world. While the fiend ranted its threats and schemes, the Harper slid stealthily across the floor, moving in tiny increments toward Jazrac’s precious stone.

Krote’s ears flared at Vreesar’s declaration, his eyes suddenly darkening. Standing up to his full height until he almost looked the fiend eye-to-eye, the shaman alone rose to the challenge of Vreesar’s words. “Chieftain, we are one tribe. If we fight the people of the snow, many of our warriors will die, even with you to lead us. The little people have strong homes, dug into the dirt like the dens of foxex. The old songs called them fierce like the badger.”

“What iz badger?” The shaman’s point was lost on the otherworldly creature.

“A demon of the forest,” Krote explained. The badger is small but fears no one, not even bears. The gnomes to the south are said to have badger blood in their veins.”

“No creature fightz more fiercely than Vreesar,” the fiend hissed.

Krote still wasn’t ready to relent. “And if Brokka is killed, who will take his mates and find game for his kits? Or Varka? Or Split-Ear? Attack the little people and many mates will howl for their dead warriors.”

“That iz the way of femalez,” the fiend droned unconcernedly.

Martine froze as the elemental turned to resume its place on the dais. She could only silently pray that it hadn’t noticed that she had crept halfway to the wall, or if it did, that it thought nothing of it.

“Great chieftain, it will take our warriors much time to attack the people of the snow,” Word-Maker hastily pressed as he tried yet another tack to dissuade the fiend from its plan. Martine almost believed the gnoll was trying to distract the fiend’s attention. If that was so, he was succeeding admirably, for the elemental wheeled about, its icy joints clicking as it moved.

Krote stepped forward to face the fiend. Though the gnoll was gaunt and tall, the fiend was even taller and thinner. The bones and antlers that hung from the arches tangled with the hairlike barbs on its head.

“The winter is hard,” Krote insisted. “There is little food in the lodges. Our warriors must hunt to feed our kits, or they will starve. We must wait for the snows to melt.”

Vreesar turned upon the shaman and hissed, “Wait? No… the ice makez the warriorz strong. They will attack now”

“But what about the females?”

“They will fight, too, or starve. Femalez fight! Young onez fight All of them!” the fiend buzzed furiously through clenched, needlelike teeth. “Give the femalez swordz and the young onez knivez. Everybody fightz. All of the Burnt Fur must fight!”

A murmur rippled through the assembled gnolls. Voices raised in both eagerness and fear. Though loath to concede it, Martine was impressed that the shaman stood his ground, refusing to give in to the fiend. They were still distracted, and she inched forward.

“You will kill the tribe,” Krote predicted. He clutched the icon that hung from his neck. “This is not the will—” Krote’s words ended in the snap of his jaw as the elemental swung one lanky arm in a lashing backhand. “The shaman’s head whiplashed to the side as he reeled backward for three steps before his legs half-buckled and he dropped to one knee.

The creature didn’t press its attack but stood watching the gnoll. “I am the chieftain and not an imp of the godz, like you, shaman. Do you challenge me?”

Krote’s lips rolled back to bare his fighting fangs, and the shaman tensed for the attack. Like all the others in the lodge, Martine was certain bloodshed was imminent. Word-Maker’s flattened ears twitched eagerly. A low growl rumbled in his throat as the hackles on his neck rose:

The lodge came alive with an undulating buzz. “Attack me,” the fiend taunted in soft whispers. Even as it spoke, the creature gouged long furrows in the dirt floor.

Then the moment passed, and Krote slowly lowered his head in submission.

“Good,” Vreesar breathed, making no effort to conceal its disappointment. “No more challengez.” It turned away from the gnoll and stood over the sprawled Harper. “No escaping either,” it said, noting her movements, then kicked her in the side to emphasize the point. Her body collapsed into the dirt, leaving Martine clutching at her ribs while her breath came in sharp bursts.

“Hot Breath, you have friendz in thiz valley of little people? Family? Are you ready to see them die?” The fiend squatted beside her, tilting its head owlishly to meet her tear-filled gaze.

“I know no one there,” Martine gasped.

The fiend grinned brittlely as it knelt close to her. “Perhapz you lie again. Tell me where the key iz, or I will lead my people there and kill them all.”

“There is no key.”

“There iz alwayz a key. Every door haz a key,” the fiend insisted, “and you know where it iz. Tell me. Think of your friendz, the gnomes. I will kill them unless you tell me.”

“I don’t have the key.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. “So there iz a key! Where iz it?”

Martine winced at her blunder. She had just removed one uncertainty for the fiend. If she told Vreesar the truth—which she could not—the creature would kill her. If she resisted, it could just as easily kill her in a rage.

“I’ll never tell you,” she swore bitterly. She braced herself for another onslaught.

“Oh, yez, you will, human,” Vreesar droned soothingly. It seemed as if the fiend had suddenly lost interest in her. “Shaman, take my human away.”

As she was taken from the lodge, the Harper couldn’t resist a wistful glance at the stone. The ranger stopped the instant she noticed Krote watching, but by that time it was too late. The shaman had already taken note. If he didn’t know now, the ranger was certain Krote would quickly figure it out.

Outside, Word-Maker shoved her toward the small lodge. Martine was so exhausted she barely noticed when they arrived at her crude prison. Once inside, the woman collapsed onto the furs, ready to surrender to sleep. Krote had other ideas, though. With a firm touch, he pressed his thick-padded hand against her side, seeking out the broken rib.

“What are you doing?” Her words were groggy, confused.

“Healing you.” The shaman waved a primitive icon over her side. “You must not die when the thing questions you.”

Now the Harper was truly confused. Was this an act of kindness, or was it a cruel desire to prolong her suffering? “Why?”

Without pausing, the gnoll explained. “You are from the warm lands, where humans live, and know many things about them. You must not die before teaching me these things. Remain still.” Krote didn’t wait for her to respond, but began chanting the words to his spell, the same one he had used before on her wounded shoulder. Once again a warmth pervaded her from his hands, flowing into her body. Deep inside, her body twitched in response. Suddenly intense pain shot through her ribs. She writhed in agony, but the gnoll fiercely pressed her down. Martine bit her lip, determined not to scream.

Almost as swiftly as it came upon her, the pain washed away, leaving her feeling stronger and more vigorous than before. The exhaustion that had afflicted her had disappeared, as if she’d had a full day or more of rest.

Krote carefully hung the icon back around his neck. “Now teach me, human,” he insisted as he sat crosslegged on the opposite side of the hut.

“Teach you what?” Martine sat up, wary of the gnoll and perplexed at the same time.

From a leather pouch, the gnoll dug out a roll of birchbark. “Teach me the symbols,” he demanded as he tossed the scroll over to her. “You made it What does it mean?”

Martine recognized what it was as soon as Krote produced it. It was the letter she’d written in desperation to Jazrac. There could be no doubt now that it had gone unread.

“What is it?” the Word-Maker demanded.

“It’s called writing,” Martine explained. In nearly any other circumstances, Martine would have been incredulous to discover someone completely ignorant of writing. Many folks throughout the Realms couldn’t read, but at least they were aware of letters and words. The shaman apparently didn’t even comprehend what they were.

“It’s like speaking on paper,” she continued. Her explanation couldn’t compromise her mission, nor could she believe that teaching the gnoll writing would threaten anyone, either herself or the gnomes of Samek But it could gain her an ally in the tribe an ally who might prove useful later. Furthermore, she saw an opportunity that she might be able to get a message off to Jazrac after all. All she needed to do was trick Krote into using the bone-handled knife.

Unrolling the brittle sheet of bark, she began the lesson. Slowly and carefully she played the role of tutor, a part she wasn’t particularly suited for. It took more verbal skill and patience than she had to explain the mysteries of writing.

Fortunately for her, the title Word-Maker was no misnomer for Krote. She was impressed by the gnoll’s quick mind and prodigious memory. He could watch her make the strokes of a letter with a piece of charcoal and repeat them perfectly.

Martine decided to take a chance. Pushing a smooth split log in front of the gnoll, she said, “Carve what I show you. Then you can practice on your own.”

Martine knew it was a gamble and tried not to show her eagerness: Her heart leaped as Krote drew Jazrac’s knife and held it ready to carve.

“All right. Copy this,” Martine instructed as she smoothed out a piece of leather. Carefully she drew the symbols in a neat row for Krote to copy. These are all different letters you can practice later. Just do them in this order when you do.”

With a generous smile, she slid the leather to Krote. In neat block letters, it said, “CAPTURED BY GNOLS. M.”

“You must teach me more,” the shaman insisted, not ready to stop.

Martine shook her head. “You must practice—like a young cub learning to shoot a bow. Then I will teach you more.” The whole success of her plan hinged on the shaman carving the message for her. And while he was doing that, she could plan her escape.

“I will practice,” the shaman said with reluctance as he rolled up the leather. “Remember, you must not die when our new chieftain questions you.” Martine was sure she heard a note of distaste in the shaman’s words when he said “new chieftain.”

“I have no intention of dying, Word-Maker,” she assured him as the gnoll left the hut.

Martine flopped back onto the flea-infested furs as all the tension drained out of her body. “Tymora be praised!” she sighed. She’d done it. She’d tricked the Word-Maker into sending her message. It hadn’t been easy. Now she could only hope that Jazrac looked into his crystal ball at the right time and understood what he saw. Too much still hinged on luck for her to feel secure.

I have to escape soon or I’ll be dead, she thought frankly.