Soldiers of Ice

Eight

Martine was grateful for the wakefulness Krote’s spell provided. It was the first time her head had felt clear since the one called Brokka had brought her down from the glacier. She needed a clear head if she was going to escape.Carefully the ranger peered through a crack in the door curtain and looked out onto the white clearing beyond. Immediately alongside the entrance was the thick-furred leg. of a guard. The leg was at an odd angle, and the ranger guessed the gnoll was bored and leaning on his spear. She slid away from the entrance, trying not to reveal that she’d been spying. The guard would be a problem, though the fact that he was probably bored might help.

The first thing is to get together a survival kit… anything that can help me stay alive once I get away, she thought. Unless I can survive in the snow, there’s no point in even trying to escape. Whatever I can scrape together in this lodge will have to do.

The Harper fell to searching the birch-bark hut as quietly as she could. She set aside anything potentially useful, whenever possible hiding it under the furs of her mattress. There was precious little, but it was still better than nothing at all. By the time she was done, her hoard consisted of several sharp pieces of bone, a long fire-hardened stick that she could sharpen to a point, a leather pouch stuffed with tinder, a gourd dipper she could rig up as a firepot, and the flea-infested but warm furs she was sitting on. Working carefully so as not to bring the lodge down upon her, the ranger undid some of the bindings that lashed the frame of the hut together. The cords were made of strong sinew. Stretched between her hands, it would make a crude but effective garrote.

Martine meticulously rolled and tied the items into a bundle, pleased with her luck. Her finds provided more than she expected crude weapons, fire, and shelter. What remained were food and a better weapon, but as a prisoner, the woman doubted she’d be able to get her hands on these.

There was still the matter of the guard outside, and once she was past him, the rest of the tribe. If she had a knife, she reasoned, then she could cut her way out the back of the lodge, but a few experiments showed the wall was too firmly built for her to cut through with her crude bone tools. If she was going to get out, it would have to be through the front door.

With her sharp stick in hand and escape kit within reach, there was nothing for Martine to do but huddle by the door and wait. She waited as her fire, lacking more wood, died away to a ruddy bed of coals that warmed the hut but provided little light. She waited as the sun traveled across the sky till it slowly gave way to the mountain shadows that preceded night. She waited as the magical vigor faded from her nerves and her stomach started to knot with hunger.

Finally she allowed herself to doze, trusting her senses to wake her should any opportunity arise.

Perhaps her instincts failed her, or perhaps nothing happened, for the next thing she knew, the thin light of morning was seeping through the gap around the curtain. She heard voices shouting outside. Her legs were knotted from sitting all night, she discovered when she unwound herself to peer through the crack.

Across the clearing, the main lodge was the heart of pandemonium. Gnolls tumbled from the longhouse, shouldering each other aside in a savage rush to escape from something inside. Their shouts, barks, and howls quickly alerted the rest of the village. From every hut, close and distant, warriors snatched up spears and sprinted toward the commotion. The guard outside her hut wavered, torn between the conflicting courses of duty as guard and warrior. The beast’s hesitant steps toward the fray gave Martine hope, and she quietly tucked her bundle under her arm in preparation to make a dash for freedom.

Before the guard could reach a decision, a furry figure hurtled through the great lodge’s doorway and crashed against the backs of the slowest sprinters. Thundering after it came Vreesar, barely able to squeeze through the narrow doorway. Its chest was mottled with a ghastly pinkish stain, livid on its silvery whiteness like a fresh scar.

“Where iz the whelp who burned me?” With long, cold arms, Vreesar sifted through the terrified gnolls, seizing those closest to it, only to cast them aside once it was satisfied they were not its prey. Even at the distance between the two lodges, Martine could see the fiend’s ice spined brow tremble and twitch with fury. Abruptly it lunged forward and caught something with a triumphant cry. “Ahhh! You would try to kill me? Who told you to do thiz?”

The elemental hoisted aloft a squirming gnoll, not much older than a kit, judging by its size. Vreesar’s chilling claws encircled the gnoll’s neck tightly, but the fiend took sadistic care not to squeeze its prize so tightly that its struggling ceased.

“You burned me. Now you will freeze. That iz your punish—”

“Lord of the Burnt Fur, it is our custom that a chieftain does not kill warriors,” Krote Word-Maker interrupted boldly, almost shouting to be heard over the din. Standing in the dark doorway of the main lodge, the shaman had only just appeared on the scene. Like one accustomed to enforcing the burden of tribal memory, the Word-Maker spoke with the absolute certainty of tradition. His words silenced the gathered warriors as they expectantly awaited the outcome.

Vreesar peered back over its shoulder and stabbed the shaman with an incensed glare. “What do I care for your customz?” it crackled.

The gnoll snapped his fangs in surprise that anyone, even a thing as alien as the elemental, should ask such a question. That is what makes us the Burnt Fur,” he replied, his tone one of horrified amazement. “Great chieftain, without the laws, the right ways of doing things, we would be no more than—than the wolves of the forest. The old ways made you chieftain. If custom is not followed, then you will not be our chieftain.”

“Fear makez me chief,” Vreesar snarled evilly. The prisoner’s kicks grew weaker and weaker. “What do I care for thiz weak tribe’z customz? You are my slavez. Thiz pathetic creature tried to kill me, and az hiz master, I can kill him if I choose.”

Whether from bravery or foolishness, Krote stepped forward to stand directly in front of the chieftain. “Only if there is a duel. That is the correct way.” He spoke in a soft voice that the wind barely carried to Martine. “It was an accident. The kit did not mean to spill his soup on you. Spare his life, and the kit will die willingly for you in battle.”

The fiend paused as if considering Krote’s words, although at her distance Martine could not read any expression into the creature’s face. The Word-Maker stepped back a pace, trying to ease the tension of the scene.

“You are right, Word-Maker. The kit will die but not willingly.” The elemental clenched its hand more tightly. The young gnoll convulsed in a single twitching spasm as its larynx and vertebrae were crushed with a series of thick, meaty popping sounds that echoed over the silent clearing. Martine had heard that sound before, many years ago in the port city of Westgate, when a mob had hanged a pair of suspected thieves. Like those hanged men, the gnoll’s jerky struggles lasted longer than its life, the muscles flailing long after the mind had ceased to control them.

As if the dead body were no more than a soiled rag, Vreesar let the corpse drop. “My slavez will not be clumsy,” it hummed. Of all the warriors, females, and kits gathered before the longhouse, the elemental ignored them all save one—Krote, who still stood directly facing the creature. The Word-Maker was rigid with outrage.

Martine could read in the gnoll’s flattened ears and curled lips the warnings of a dog about to fight. So intent had she been on the confrontation that it came as a surprise when she suddenly noticed that she was alone. Her guard had vanished, apparently joining the onlookers who circled the pair. The ranger needed no more prompting. Grabbing up her bundle, she wriggled through the door and immediately sprinted for the woods. Having already failed once because she had been too cautious, she decided now to act boldly and trust Tymora’s wheel. By its spin, she’d either make it or be captured once more.

“Word-Maker!” The elemental’s shrill cry made the Harper’s heart drop, for in that moment, she was certain her flight had been discovered. Panic forced her to increase her speed.

I’ve got to reach the woods before them. I’ll be safe there. Martine knew her skills as a ranger would serve her well in the forest. The forest would become an ally. She knew how to travel without leaving a clear trail, how to conceal herself in the shadowed spaces between the trees.

“Word-Maker!” Vreesar shrilled again, its buzz keening like a furiously spun grindstone. “Do not defy me!”

Even as she sprinted across the last bit of open ground, Martine breathed a sigh of relief, for behind her the drama had not played out as she had feared. The onlookers would still be watching, her guard still away from his post, and her escape might yet go unnoticed.

There was a jumble of voices behind her, none of which Martine could hear clearly, and then Vreesar’s stinging drone once more pierced the clamor. “I do not care for your advice or your customz, Word-Maker. Get out of my sight before I kill you, too. Hide in your hut, weak one. Do not come into thiz hall again!”

The elemental’s orders gave Martine very little time. If Krote went to the hut, he was sure to discover her escape. Nonetheless, at the very edge of the clearing, the Harper deliberately veered from her course. The shelter of the thickets beckoned to her, but the woman resisted plunging through the unbroken snow. Just ahead was what she sought, a well-used trail that wound through the woods. Her plan, quickly formed, was to follow it until she was well away from the village and then strike out on her own. With luck, she’d hide her own escape route among the footprints of her captors.

At the entrance to the pine forest, she paused to scan for pursuers. Success hinged on secrecy, and if she had been discovered, the ranger wanted to know now There were no gnolls in sight. She didn’t wait for the cry of pursuit. Turning onto the path, she plunged into the welcome gloom of the winter forest. The trail almost instantly twisted out of sight of the camp, bending past tall pines, birch thickets, and the bare canes of last summer’s berry bushes.

The temperature was frigid, whipped colder by the strong winds that swirled through the trees. She welcomed the wind, though, for the fine powder it swept along with it would quickly drift over the trail, making it harder to distinguish her tracks from all the others. Without weapons, food, or proper gear, Martine needed every advantage possible. Even though the snow was fairly well packed, following the trail was arduous without skis or snowshoes. It didn’t take long before the cold was forgotten. Sweat worked into the thick weave of her clothes, where it froze, making her legs and arms crackle with each step.

A half-mile along the trail, perhaps more, the ranger heard the first sounds of alarm. A series of baying howls, like jackals calling together the pack for a hunt, drifted through the woods. In the silence of the forest, the voices of the gnolls were unmistakable from the hoots of the owls or even the occasional call of a lone wolf.

Maybe they won’t find the trail right away, Martine thought as she ran. No, wishful thinking like that gets people killed, her warrior instincts reminded her. They’ll find my path soon enough. It’s time to get off the trail.

With that in mind, Martine stayed on the path until it skirted a granite upthrust, one of many that marked the lower slopes of the surrounding mountains. The weathered stones rose from the undulating snow in a series of spires, tilted and tumbled to form irregular terraces. Few trees grew around the base, leaving a windswept area where the snow had thawed and frozen with each sunny day until the snow was a hard crust of wind-rippled ice.

It was the perfect place, since she would leave no tracks on the hard bare ice, so Martine abandoned the trail and clambered over the rock, taking care to avoid the patches of snow that clung to the cracked stone. Slipping through a cleft in the spires, she came out on the back side of the outcropping. There she waited, crouched in the lee of the stone, screened from the wind-driven snow, listening to the brutal squawks of the ravens answered by the titters of the chickadees. Already her fingers were cold and her feet numb inside her fur-wrapped boots, but her patience was at last rewarded when she heard the barking voices of gnolls nearby. The hunters were on the trail.

She set off into the deep snow, this time heading back toward the gnoll village. Martine knew she didn’t have to leave the rocks. She knew she didn’t have to go back. She could have turned her footsteps south and made for the pass to Samek. Still she slogged through the drifts that coiled around the pine trunks, always taking care to stay in the deep woods, well away from any trails.

Duty drove her back.

Jazrac’s key was still in the village, against the wall in the main lodge, and she had to go back and get it. It’s my duty as a Harper, she thought. That’s what Jazrac or Khelben or any of the others would tell me. I’ll never be a true Harper if I’m afraid to go back. I’ll have failed, and they’ll all know it. I have to go back.

It’s all part of a plan, she convinced herself. First I lure the gnolls out of their village, then I slip behind them, get the stone, and escape. They’ll never find me, because I’ll be behind them. It’s a brilliant plan or is it? Martine didn’t know, couldn’t know, until it either succeeded or failed.

Using the sun and a few landmarks she had noted, Martine backtracked slowly. The voices of the gnolls grew louder until she was certain they were just off her left flank. The huntress took shelter in a thicket until they passed and the voices had faded farther up the trail.

When their barked commands were no more than dim echoes, Martine angled back onto the trail. It was a risk. There might be a straggler or even a second search party, but she needed to make better speed. Breaking trail through the deep snow was exhausting her, and that was a condition she couldn’t risk, especially without food. With exhaustion would come uncontrollable shivering, then frostbite, collapse, and a dreamlike death as the cold overcame her. As a precaution, she found a stout branch. Swung with two hands it would make a fair club the crudest of weapons, but a weapon and therefore useful.

As she trudged along the trail and read the signs of her pursuers, Martine caught a flash of movement off to her left. As quickly as she could focus her vision on the spot, the shape vanished, leaving only the glimpse of a burly, stoop-shouldered shadow. A gnoll? She couldn’t be sure. It could be a bear, or even a change in shadow as clouds drifted across the sun. Hefting her cudgel, the ranger slowly approached the spot where she had sighted it, silently picking her way from shadow to shadow.

Ten feet and several moments later, a gnoll suddenly stepped from behind a tree trunk, sword drawn but oblivious to her presence. With a great roundhouse swing, Martine smashed her stick against the side of the creature’s head and was rewarded with the metallic twang of wood cracking against a helm. Her cudgel split with the force of her blow, and the jolt rang down through her arms. The gnoll dropped like a felled ox.

Martine sprang astraddle the body, doubting that she’d killed her foe. With numb hands, she fumbled in the snow to recover the dropped sword. Stepping clear, she pressed the blade to the gnoll’s throat just as the creature began to stir.

“What… what happened?” the gnoll groaned, and the Harper instantly recognized the voice. By some capricious whim of Lady Tymora, it was the Word-Maker who lay sprawled before her. A trickle of blood soaked the fur that stuck out from beneath his helm, but the wound didn’t appear to be serious.

“Lie on your back, arms up, hands together,” Martine ordered, all the while smiling in grim amusement at this sudden reversal of their situations. The shaman groggily complied, and she quickly bound his wrists with some of the sinew she had salvaged from the hut. “Not one sound,” she ordered next, sword still held at his throat.

Krote obeyed, clearheaded enough to recognize the peril of his situation. She began searching him for other weapons. “Why are you here?” the shaman asked in a whisper. With the blade held close to his jugular, he took care not to alarm his captor.

“The rock… the one in my gear. I need it. Is it still in the lodge?”

His answer was a choked laugh. Before she could demand what was so funny, her hands patted a hard lump in one of the shaman’s pouches. Quickly she opened it and pulled out the familiar reddish cinder that was Jazrac’s stone. In the same pouch, she discovered the wizard’s bone-handled knife.

“I knew you wanted it, so I took it,” Krote explained, grinning. “Am I right? Is the rock why you came back? It is the thing Vreesar seeks, true? The way back to his home?”

“Get up,” she ordered abruptly, ignoring his questions. The discovery of the rock and the knife eliminated the need for several steps in her plan, but now it left her with a new problem. She couldn’t leave the Word-Maker behind. Already the shaman had correctly guessed too much. Vreesar would almost certainly learn the truth from the gnoll. Nor could Martine bring herself to kill the shaman now that she’d caught him. The practical solution was too coldblooded for her to stomach.

Like it or not, I’ve got myself a prisoner, she thought ruefully.

“Move,” the ranger snapped, furious with the situation, herself, and her ever-present sense of right and wrong. Once more she doubled back, this time turning in the direction of Samek. Dragging along Krote as a prisoner didn’t improve her chances of reaching the gnomes safely. She doubted he’d be of much value as a hostage, and there was every chance the gnoll would betray her at the first opportunity.

With the shaman in the lead, the pair followed the gnoll trail once more, traveling the same direction as she had before. It was a good plan. Certainly any tracker would be confused, although there was considerable risk that they might run into the returning gnolls. Knowing these things did nothing to lessen her nerves, which were as jittery as a rabbit’s.

They reached the granite outcropping that marked the place where she had begun to backtrack. Kneeling, Martine examined the trail she had not taken. It was with some relief that she noted the tracks of the hunting parry continued on. They missed my backtrack, she thought, pleased with herself even though she knew they might return at any time.

Leaving the trail once more, the Harper guided her prisoner over the ice and rocks, rousing the dark ravens from their roosts. As before, she used the hard surfaces of granite and ice to make their trail disappear, although this time she did not backtrack toward the village but instead headed south toward the dark saddleback ridge that was the pass to Samek.

Descending from the rocky ledges, Martine plunged into the darkest heart of the woods. At sword point, she forced Krote to plow through drifts that sometimes reached well beyond his knees. There was no hiding their trail now, should her pursuers somehow find it. Speed was all important, and the race was against cold and exhaustion as much as those who hunted for her.

The forest here was virgin pine, the kind cut elsewhere for their long, straight logs. The Harper doubted that any axe had ever touched most of this wood, for the trees were incredibly tall and barren except for bursts of needled boughs near the top. The drab green canopy was laden with snow, casting the forest floor into a perpetual quasitwilight.

Their journey wasn’t easy. The snow ranged from shallow to deep as it drifted around the tree trunks. Frequently brambles conspired to block the way, and steep ravines stood in their path at several points. Massive deadfalls, where several trees had fallen in a single storm, created impassable snarls that could only be bypassed. All around these fails, uprooted pines leaned perilously on their neighbors. The woods softly resounded to the creaking trunks and the dismal hiss of the wind. Ravens spoke of their passage, the birds’ harsh voices ringing far through the mute woods.

Although Martine was born to the outdoors and knew it well, this forest was different from others she was familiar with. The endless tracts of pine were not like the woods of oak and elm in Sembia and the Dalelands. The forest here was tall; muffled, and cold.

A feeling of dark watchfulness tingled at the back of Martine’s neck, and she knew it was the spirit of the forest. Others, townsfolk and farmers, never felt it That sense was knowledge only true woodsmen knew by the way the wind rustled the leaves, the direction the water flowed, or even how a rabbit left its tracks. This forest’s spirit was ungenerous and unforgiving, barely tolerant of intruders. Martine didn’t feel any warmth in these woods like those of her homeland.

Exhausted, the Harper finally called a stop as she leaned, perspiring in the chill, against the trunk of a tree. Krote squatted, his jaw slack and tongue hanging as he panted clouds of frost, almost as spent as she and glad for the rest.

“You do not need to threaten me with the sword. I will not escape,” the shaman finally growled as he brushed snow from his dirty bindings.

Martine thought she heard an edge of bitter irritation in his voice. “Why not?” she asked doubtfully.

“I cannot go back.”

“Why not?” It seemed all she could manage to say. Krote’s lips curled in a snarl. “Vreesar banished me. If I go back, I die.”

“I heard him bar you from his lodge. That’s not banishment” Martine poked her sword at the snowbank, carving little holes near the gnoll.

“Lodge and tribe are one.”

“How come he didn’t kill you? He killed Hakk and that other gnoll.”

Krote waggled an ear at her words. “You saw that, human? I live because even Vreesar fears the gods.” Krote jangled the charm that hung around his neck. “Kill me and you anger Gorellik, the god of my people.”

That was enough talk for Martine. She didn’t like the implied threat in the shaman’s words, and so with a rough shove of her foot, she got the gnoll back on his feet.

For the next hour, the woman plodded in silence. It took all her effort just to keep her attention on the trek, and she had no desire to talk through her cold-burnt throat. The path became even harder to follow as dusk fell, the thick shadows hiding jarring bumps and holes. Her leg muscles were beyond aching, numb with incessant pain. Sweat weighted her clothes. Even with the growing cold of nightfall, she drove them on by moonlight. Moonlight was almost a euphemism, silver Selûne not yet even half full and barely penetrating through the black-needled boughs. Silver rivers ran through the trees, broken by black rapids of bare rock and exposed moss.

Martine had no idea how many hours or days it had been since starting when she finally called their march to a halt Krote, exhausted as well, stood still among the dimly lit trees. “If we stop, we freeze,” he warned grimly.

Freezing almost seemed appealing to Martine, but the gnoll was right. They needed protection from the night cold.

“We’ll dig a shelter,” she said, pointing to a large snow bank at the base of a bluff. She began to scoop away handfuls of snow. Krote did not resist or argue but mutely held up his bound hands for her to cut them free.

In a short time, the two had tunneled out a chamber a tomb fit for an ice queen, Martine felt barely big enough for them to lie down in. “This is where we sleep,” the woman explained as she re-bound the gnoll’s wrists. She didn’t have enough cord to tie his ankles, so she could only rely on common sense and trust. “If you run away, you’ll freeze in the cold. If you kill me, you’ll freeze here. Understand?”

The Word-Maker nodded. “And if you kill me, human, you freeze. This night we need each other.”

Martine nodded, her sore shoulders screaming at even that slight turn of the head. With tinder and Jazrac’s knife, Martine kindled a tiny fire in the entrance that barely warmed them.

Dinner consisted of moss and tender bark, the best the ranger could gather in the snow. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but her captivity had left her starving. Krote was not that desperate and so only watched her eat.

“Inside,” Martine said after the unappetizing repast. As the gnoll squeezed in through the entrance, Martine gave one last look skyward. Selûne’s Tears, a waft of star motes that hung off the crescent hook of the butterfat moon, weaved through the sparse branches of the wind-blasted pines along the cliff face. The sky was clear and bitter. Night birds lurking in the icebound woods called to any listening ear, speaking to each other of their might and wisdom Something, a breeze or a small beast, snuffled beyond the rim of light. The night forest excited her; even here, it was a world she understood and loved, more so than the timid towns and villages she had sworn to defend as a Harper.

A grunt from Krote broke the mood. Drawn back from her reverie, the Harper numbly crawled inside, taking care to keep her sword ready. Now came the time when she had no choice but to trust the shaman. Trust out of necessity did not come easy.

In the near darkness, the Word-Maker had twisted and squirmed his rude bed closer to the ice-sheened wall, distancing himself from Martine’s space. Even so, the two, woman and gnoll, were still pressed tight to each other. Martine placed her drawn sword along the wall, just in case. Only exhaustion would grant her any rest tonight.

As she lay in the darkness, the ground chill insinuated its way through the layers of her leather parka, into its sweat matted fur lining, through torn and stained clothes, past skin, until it reached muscle and bone. Martine could feel it creep through her body. The cold wanted to kill her, to stalk down the warmth within her and leech it into the snow until she was left an ice-filled husk. In the near darkness, these thoughts obsessed the woman. She had camped in the woods as much as she had lived indoors, but never could she remember a night so hostile.

“Gods, I’m freezing,” she chattered softly.

“So am I,” her companion answered unexpectedly from the darkness.

Tentatively the pair inched closer to each other. Neither wanted to get close to the other, but they needed each other’s warmth. Finally their bodies huddled together. The gnoll stank, and where his fur poked through, it scratched her, but the contact kept the cold at bay. Finally the Harper drifted into a dim semblance of sleep.

When the cave walls began to glow autumnal gold, Martine at first dismissed it as another waking dream. The light persisted, until she finally realized it was no fantasy. Wriggling through the narrow entrance, she gratefully drew in a lungful of clear morning air. Accustomed to the den, she had forgotten just how thick, rank, and humid the snow cave was until she was outside of it.

It was incredibly bright outside, the kind of brightness that comes when all the moisture has been frozen out of the air, allowing the sun’s rays to burn unhampered onto the ice-sheeted ground, where the sunlight reflects back up and for a brief moment crosses itself to intensify the glare. On such mornings, it seems as though the whole world has risen up from an ocean of light.

Retrieving her sword, the Harper tugged on the Word-Maker’s boot until the gnoll finally woke. She had expected the shaman to wake quick and alert, as matched the feral reputation of gnolls, but Krote, it seemed, was a terrible sluggard. Only after a fair amount of growling was she able to get the gnoll outdoors.

“Why get up? It was warm in the cave,” the shaman grumbled as he suppressed a yawn.

“I want to cross the pass before noon. Once we’re in Samek, we should be able to find a farm or something.” Martine was already stowing her bundle for the journey.

“What will happen to me? The little people are not friendly.” As he spoke, Krote held his wrists up, asking to be unbound. Catching the suspicious look in her eye, he added with an angry snarl, “Wrists hurt. I could have killed you in the cave.”

Martine drew the bone-handled knife and absentmindedly stroked the blade as she considered the gnoll’s request. “Your oath, shaman. I cut you loose and you come with me. No tricks.”

“So you give me to the little people?” he snorted. “You’re my prisoner. The Vani won’t hurt you.”

“Your oath, human?”

“By the blood of my family.”

“That is good. I give you my oath, human but only until we reach your valley.”

“Only if you swear by Gorellik, your god.” Martine bit her lip.

Krote scowled. Martine was getting better at reading the gnoll’s expressions. “Gorellik sees all and knows Krote gifts his word. We will travel in peace, Martine of Sembia.”

“Praise to Mielikki,” Martine added, beseeching in her heart the blessing of the Lady of the Forest. It might mean everything or it might mean nothing, but Martine instinctively believed the Word-Maker’s oath to be valuable. Now that she had it, the Harper cut the bonds with some sense of confidence.

The pair started the day’s march without delay. To an untrained eye, it would have seemed as if they were traveling through more of the same as yesterday the same gray pines, the same dazzling whiteness, the same rocks, the same streams but to Martine’s practiced eye, there were important differences. Gradually the pines no longer grew as high and the brooks gurgled with less water, both clear signs that they had begun the climb up the pass. The snow was deeper, too. Krote waded on through drifts up to his waist, drifts whose smooth tops carne as high as the smaller ranger’s chest. Woodpecker drills echoed through the woods while the squawks of the ravens grew less frequent. Overhead, an eagle circled a nearby meadow, patiently waiting for a marmot or a field mouse.

By midmorning, Martine’s hope was revived. There was no doubt they would clear the ridge today. At worst, it would be one, perhaps two more days before they reached the Vani warren. The prospect of rest and hot food renewed her flagging energy.

The huntress was waiting, feet stomping impatiently, as Krote crossed a fallen tree spanning a frozen stream. Just when the gnoll was halfway across, six small shadows stepped from the thickets that lined the far bank. Their spears were ready, their bows drawn. Unarmed and exposed, Krote froze on the log bridge as his muzzle flared and his ears stiffened straight back, ready for a fight.

The six small shadows were short and stocky—Vani gnomes. The grins of their successful ambush played across their faces.

“Don’t hurt him!” Martine yelled as they sprang onto the slick log. “He’s my prisoner!”