David Cook: Soldiers of Ice

Panting on its belly, the gnoll peered over the edge and watched Wolf-Ear’s frozen body flow down the crevasse until it disappeared over the icy waterfall as the bizarre river plunged toward the valley below.

“A mug of ale, Jhaele,” the small black-haired woman ordered as she strode through the door and plopped herself astraddle the hard bench of the great trestle table in the center of the taproom’s commons. “Aye, Martine,” the landlady echoed. Her long platinum tresses gleamed in the light from the open door.

“No, wait. Best make it tea,” the young woman called from the table. She drew her sheath knife and began to fidget with it, idly poking the tip into the tabletop.

The landlady nodded and sighed. “Tea, then.” Wood tapped metal as she scooped a ladleful of water from the pot that hung over the fire. “Now, what’s troubling you, dear?” the landlady asked kindly, looking back toward the other woman.

“It’s Jhaele, how did you know I’m upset?” Martine blurted.

The hosteler ambled over to set a steaming mug on the table with a solid thump. “For one thing, you haven’t been in here a minute, and already you’ve got that knife of yours out. If you spent as much time hunting as you spend carving at my furniture with that knife, you could be dangerous.” Martine was suddenly conscious of the small blade in her hand and the lines she’d been absentmindedly etching on the unvarnished tabletop.

“Sorry.”

“It’s a tavern table. It’s seen worse.” The older woman dismissed Martine’s worries with a reassuring pat on her shoulder. “So what troubles you?”

“It’s just that Jazrac wants to see me.”

“Harper business, eh?”

Martine almost gave a start until she remembered how everybody in this dale seemed to know everyone else’s business, even secret business such as that concerning the Harpers. “I suppose,” she allowed. “He’s been my sponsor, vouched for me, and I’m still not a full member, you know”

I’m saying more than I should, the woman realized even as she said the words.

“Ah, I didn’t, but that helps to explain things.” Jhaele gave a wry smile that only someone who has heard countless secrets could do. “Don’t you worry. He’s a hearthlover, a stay-at-home. He probably wants you to do some legwork for him while he hovers around Elminster.”

“Maybe,” Martine allowed tentatively as she took up the mug. “But his message said he had important news for me.”

“Hmph. With wizards, everything is important,” the landlady chuckled as she turned to tend the fire. Jazrac was waiting for Martine on the footpath that led to the mill. He looked old, but not so old as to be grandfatherly, nor was she so young by comparison. The wizard met her with a sweeping bow more showy than polite, his seasoned head bent till the sharp tip of his salt-and-pepper goatee brushed against his chest. The rich velveteen cloth of his robes, impractical dress given the rustic surroundings, rustled as he rose to his thin, imperious height.

“Greetings, Master Jazrac,” Martine said with a schoolchild’s nervous courtesy and a small bob of her body, as much of a curtsy as anyone would get from her. In her buckskin trousers and fur half-cape, such niceties were lost anyway. “You have news for me?”

“Indeed, great news. Come, let’s walk,” he offered and said nothing more. The wizard deftly steered her onto the MM Path, clearly relishing the air of teasing mystery he was creating. Martine bit at her lip and followed, since there was no other choice. Jazrac was born to be overly dramatic, she knew. It was one thing she had learned in the several years she’d known him. He could have been a thespian had his magical talent gone undiscovered.

Though she was bursting with curiosity, Martine followed the older man into the faded brown woods. Behind them was Shadowdale, a collection of thatched houses clustered around a muddy crossroads. The curling spire of the Tower of Ashaba rose above the rest and was just visible through the branches of the trees. Jazrac led the way by half a step. Martine cocked her head to look up at him, dark bangs of bobbed hair spilling sideways across her forehead.

“Martine, my dear, I know it seems as if you’ve been doing nothing but playing messenger ever since you joined the Harpers.” The huntress bristled at the condescension in his tone. “Certainly you’ve been kept busy. In fact, some of the others wondered if you might be in need of a rest. Four months trekking in the wilderness is more than enough time with no inns, no baths—barely even a bed, I imagine.”

Rest? I don’t need any rest: What have I done wrong? Martine thought. Her eyes flashed with alarm even as she strove to keep her expression calm.

Jazrac didn’t notice any reaction, or at least paid no mind. With a muttered, twisted phrase, he made a pantomime sweep of the path ahead, velvet sleeve aswirl. The light breath of wind in the barren treetops suddenly arched and swirled down at his command, blowing the dead foliage into the woods till the leaves caught their sharp corners along the bank of the nearby millstream.

Martine barely glanced at the tattered shapes as they swirled away, unwittingly drumming her fingers on her thigh while waiting for her companion to continue. She was accustomed to Jazrac’s little magical displays. She fearfully guessed his next words—praise for jobs well done, a suggestion that she needed more time or more guidance, then an offer of a mission suitable to her talents. Undoubtedly it would be another package to deliver or a fellow Harper to accompany on a mission, all so she could watch and learn. Only a few more such as these and surely they would advance her. A little more patience and seasoning were all she needed. In all this, Jazrac meant well; the wizard had generously watched over her career up to now. Martine’s thoughts madly raced to review the scenario she was certain would follow.

The wizard interrupted her reverie. “Anyway, I want to tell you how pleased I am—everyone is—with your efforts. You seem to have… well, that Harper stuffing in you. Rare thing, too. So if you want to take a rest for a month or two, you deserve it.” He looked down at her with the best consoling gaze his thin, creased face could manage.

Martine stopped walking and was about to give a not very carefully worded protest when Jazrac continued. “Or,” he said ever so slowly, the corners of his mouth curling up in a tiny smile, “you could take on another mission a solo job, a chance for you to really show your mettle. Are you interested?” Taking a slow breath of the bracing autumn air, Jazrac paused and then added, “It could be the big break you’ve been waiting for a chance to prove you really are a full-fledged Harper.” The wizard waited for some reaction from his protégé.

For a moment, Martine kept silent, surprised by Jazrac’s offer. The stream and skittering leaves sounded a soft background to their walk, underscored by the creaking and scraping of the aged waterwheel driving the grindstone at the mikes nearby.

“I don’t need rest!” the slight ranger blurted, her alto voice rising eagerly. “Tell me about this mission.”

Jazrac smiled with smug satisfaction at his protégé’s response. “Do you have any idea just how thin we Harpers have been spread of late?”

Martine’s reply was a quizzical look.

He caught her hand, and with his sharp, bony fingers gently recited the litany. “Waterdeep, Impiltur, Thay, Chult, gods know where else. It seems as if every distant land has some problem that needs solving. Now something’s happening in the north, up past Damara. There’s been some kind of eruption, and we want you to investigate.”