Soldiers of Ice (19 page)

His pride was fierce and far from broken.

‘Treat him well, Vani,’ Martine croaked fiercely as the gnome and prisoner passed by. “He saved my life.”

The gnome started to glare at the human disdainfully, but the passion in her eyes put him off. Chastised, he motioned the gnoll forward and the pair passed out of sight

Shortly after that, Martine felt the drag lurch from the ground, towed by Vil and a pair of gnomes. Bundled and lashed in, she could only let herself be jounced along as the party began the journey home.

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and uncomfortable to sleep, but now was not such a time.

The rhythmic swish of skis over snow, the chill in her limbs, and the monotonous parade of green pine branches overhead lulled the Harper to sleep. She had memories of waking several times, though each was barely enough to lift the veil that lay over her consciousness. There was little notable about these brief moments of lucidity—the rattle of a woodpecker as it drilled into a pine, the burn of painful sunlight as they crossed a frozen meadow. There was a brief moment of interest as they passed a Vani farmstead.

In her present state, Martine would never have even noticed it had not a pair of their party taken their leave here. The farm was a miniature warren, hidden in a hillock. Its only outward sign was a small door into the mound, hidden within a clump of birches. After brief goodbyes and a round of drinks, the trek began once More.

Only a final jolting stop broke her dreamless haze after that. Groggily she became aware of the barely familiar surroundings of Vil’s cabin—the hewn log walls, the scent of

woodsmoke, and the outline of a tree that arched over the cabin’s roof. Bound into the drag, the Harper could only wait impatiently as Vii undid the lacings. Krote was still with them, bound but unhurt, and although the gnoll’s pride was certainly wounded, Martine doubted the gnoll had expected any More.

“Vii, is there someplace he can be kept?” Martine wasn’t sure it was necessary to treat the shaman as a prisoner, but she also wasn’t quite ready to take the chance. Last night in the snow cave had been a matter of survival; now the situation was slightly different.

The former paladin scowled as he undid the last lacing, thinking. “Someplace, yes, but not in my house. The Vani will have to take him.”

Now it was Martine’s turn to scowl as she considered the wisdom in handing her prisoner over to the gnomes. “How 146

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do you know he’ll be safe?” she asked softly.

‘q’hey’re not beasts, woman,” Vii rumbled. “if he doesn’t provoke them, the Vani won’t harm him. You’ll have to trust them on this.”

The Harper wasn’t quite so sure about the gnomes, but she knew she was in no condition to be responsible for a prisoner. “All right, it’ll have to do,” she said with a nod before turning to the others. “Master Ojakangas, will your people take this prisoner and guard him? You can see that I am in no shape to do so.”

The broad gnome nodded. “This was expected,” came

his taciturn reply.

“You said I would be treated well, human,” Krote hissed, furious at being turned over to his enemies. Ojakangas jerked the rope around Krote’s wrists, warning him to be silent.

“I said you wouldn’t be harmed. You’re still my prisoner, WordMaker.” The Harper was too fired to argue the point.

Krote would just have to accept whatever happened.

“Thank you, Master Ojakangas. Guard him well.”

Prevented from killing their enemy, the gnomes, Jouka in particular, set to the task of binding Krote with such relish that Martine worried about their intentions. Still, there seemed to be no effort to seriously mistreat the prisoner, and she said nothing More as she watched the gnomes leave.

Once the Vani were gone, Martine turned and went into the cabin. Her body throbbed; her fingers and face burned as the warmth of the cabin penetrated her frost-kissed skin.

Her feet felt leaden and numb, sure signs of encroaching frostbite. Barely four steps inside the cabin, she collapsed in front of the fire and ungracefully fumbled at her boots.

When they were both finally off, she thrust her feet as close to the banked coals as she dared. Heels propped up, she shed her improvised cape and pawed at the remains of her Soldiers Of lee’

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parka, peeling away the sweat-stiffened clothes.

‘qhank gods we’re back!” the ranger said as Vii stomped through the door.

“Thank Torm indeed,” Vil wearily agreed. He selected finder for the coals and quickly had a small, welcome blaze coaxed from the embers. When the fire was lit, he sat on the sooty stone hearth, where he carefully eased off his boots.

“Heat… I never thought I’d feel it again,” Martine moaned as she lay with icy feet almost in the fire. Tiny curls of steam began to rise from her damp woolen socks. Already her soles were starting to itch and burn as the frostbite was slowly driven out of her toes. Even that pain couldn’t keep her awake, though.

An untold time later, the woman surfaced from oblivion surrounded by the startling warmth of a thick comforter.

After the comforter, the glimmer of firelight and the gnawing pain of hunger were the things she was most keenly

aware of.

I’m dreaming, she thought, staring at the scarred rafters over the bed. It took several minutes to realize she was once More lying in Vil’s bed, buried deep in blankets and a faded goose-down comforter. Her host sat at his rickety table whittling curls from a block of wood. “Oh, gods,” she gasped as the dull ache of consciousness moved through every muscle in her body. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“All night and the better part of a day,” the big man said as he set down his work.

Martine sank back into the featherbed.

“Hungry?”

”Yes!” she blurted. She was famished.

Vil fetched a big bowl of broth and set it carefully in her lap, then remained hovering over her to see if she needed some help eating. Although the spoon was unsteady in her 148

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hand, Martine slowly and deliberately scooped up a few drops of the broth and greedily slurped it down, determined not to be fed like a child. The soup was fatty and

over-salted but rich nonetheless with the pervading taste of smoked venison. Chunks of meat and fat and bits of ash swirled through the murky liquid, and it all tasted wonderful.

Only later, after she’d bathed and changed, did Martine finally start to feel human again. The gear she’d stored at Vil’s cabin provided clean clothes, and after a quick inspection of her ragged parka, she decided the best course was to burn it. The tears in the leather were impossible to patch, and she saw black specks moving in the fur trim—fleas, no doubt. The former paladin rummaged up a coat to

replace hers. It was More than a little large, but serviceable with some alterations.

With a sheet of foolscap and her writing kit, the Harper sat at the table. Finally, after so many days, she could compose a proper letter to Jazrac. So much had happened and there was so much to explain that the woman didn’t know where to begin—nor did she know just what she should say. The crash.., the elemental.., her capture by the gnolls… For what was supposed to be a simple job, I certainly made a hash of it, she thought ruefully.

Martine decided to use discretion.

fazrac;

Your seals worked fine, and I have the keystone. The riff is closed.

I had a run-in with some gnolls, and I’m sad to

report that Astriphie is dead. If you received any of my earlier messages, please don’t worry, because now I am safe. I’m in the valley of Samek. There’s a woodsman here who has taken me in. I will be back in Shadowdale Soldiers of Ice

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as soon as the passes are clear.

Again, do not worry about me. I’m fine. Looking forward to seeing you again. Tell Jhaele I miss her ale.

Martine

That should do it, the ranger thought as she gently bk the ink dry. Taking the bone-handled knife, she set it upi a corner of the page. She wasn’t quite sure how long leave the letter sitting out—at least a day, she guessed. ‘

it all right to leave this out on the table?” she asked h host.

The big man shrugged. “That’s fine. We won’t be arom anyway.”

“What?”

Vii clapped a hand to his forehead. “Sorry. I forgot. TI gnomes are celebrating the safe return of the search pm tonight.”

“And they invited us?” Martine asked dubiously. “5

were the cause of all their trouble, after all. Besides thought they didn’t like outsiders.” She was still tired, aJ

the thought of several hours of socializing with the gnom was already giving her the beginnings of a headache.

“I told you they were good neighbors,” Vii said, grinnir “Besides, they like parties. They use whatever excuse th can to have one.”

Martine looked at the rough outdoor gear she was we ing . “I didn’t bring clothes for something like thaL”

“Everybody will understand, I’m sure,” Vil counter(

“Besides, they brew a very tasty hard cider. You could prc ably use a few drinks after your ordeal.”

That, Martine had to admit, was a point she could not d pure, and so, feeling bemused by the unexpected invitati˘

the woman finally consented to go.

Two hours later, Martine found herself in the entran 150

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hall of the warren, the sounds of revelry all about her. The whiny music of hardrangers, curious fiddles with extra strings that droned like bagpipes, and a hurdygurdy echoed from the smooth wooden walls. Gnomes laughed and giggled as they hurried to the council chamber, adapted as a dance hall. Their fat round faces seemed festive enough, but to the Harper, it seemed their merriment was forced.

The din reached its peak at the doorway to the council hall, which was already jammed. Whitebearded musicians scraped and bowed from atop a rough table made from several hogsheads and boards. Bungs hammered into the bar-reis beneath them flowed freely with strong cider. Courting couples danced a furious reel across the floor while the uncommitted lasses giggled and whispered as they watched the young swains from the shadows of the arches. The quadricentenarians of the colony sat on the foremost benches, nodding numbly to the drone of the hardrangers’ strings, their liver-spotted fingers rippling to the runs of the tune. Married men sat clustered around the taps, the air over their heads thick with pipe smoke. Behind them, in the higher seats, their squat wives looked out on the dancers, dreaming of times when they once whirled on the floor.

Only the martial figures lurking near the back walls belied the cause of the celebration. Jouka was there, still stiff and grim, even off duty. Gathered around him were a few other members of the rescue party, young warriors who savored the heroic image of their elders. Martine noted that shy Turi had distanced himself fi.om his brother.

The quiet one sat in a corner, hands fidgeting with the hem of his robe.

Before she could move any farther into the chamber, the woman was whisked aside by a cluster of gnome maidens.

The little damsels cooed and fussed around her, the festive Soldiers of Ice

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spirit of the hall giving them the courage to overcome their innate bashfulness. Martine found herself subjected to a flurry of questions. Did all human women dress like her?

Did they dance? Did they all carry swords and curse like farmhands? What were the men like? On and on it went, till the ranger felt positively dizzy.

The Harper was relieved to see Vil, holding a broad-mouthed mug in one hand, rising a good two feet above the

throng of smoking Ľani. Breaking through her inquisitors to make her way to Ľil’s side, Martine ignored the glares of the Vani men as she intruded into their clique.

“Ah, there you are, Martine,” the man cheerfully commented.

“Drink?”

“Absolutely,” Martine said with relief. “If I have to answer any More questions, I won’t have any secrets left.”

Ľil held up his mug and grinned. “I saw you trapped over there.”

The old men around them scowled at the Harper, though they said nothing since she wasn’t used to their ways.

Martine noticed their reactions. After a quick sip, she raised her mug. “You Vani make a fine cider,” she said.

Fhis is the best I’ve had anywhere.” The words weren’t far from the truth, for the cider was crisply sweet, yet just sour enough not to linger thickly in her mouth. Already she could feel the strong kick it carried.

The gnomes near her nodded in polite acknowledgment.

Apparently placated by her compliment, they returned to the serious business of socializing. Martine listened in silence for several minutes, then gradually began to ask brief questions of her own. Seeing that she had gained acceptance among the circle of elders, Vil went out to circulate among the feasters.

Martine’s conversation was limited by the growing intensity of the fiddlers’ tunes. The musicians segned easily from waltzes to polkas, with a liberal sprinkling of schottisches, 152

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hornpipes, reels, and furious jigs. With each round, the pace quickened, till finally the floorboards trembled with the thundering capers of the dancers. Mart/ne gave up trying to shout over the din and savored her cider, letting the warmth of the drink blank out the pains, concerns, and tensions of the day. Spotting Vil nursing his tankard, the

Harper topped off her own mug from the free-flowing tap and rejoined him, reeling only slightly as she strode across the floon

“Want to dance?” she asked.

“What?” Vil’s beard bounced as his jaw dropped in surprise.

“I said, do you want to dance?” Martine repeated, More loudly this time.

“Me?”

“Of course you! The others are a little short, even for me.” Feeling the exuberance of the drink, the Harper grinned and tugged the man to his feet.

m not much of a dancer, Vd protested lamely.