David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

The chieftain stopped pacing and reclaimed his position on the wooden platform. Martine snapped back to full consciousness. “I have chosen!” Hakk barked loudly to the pack. Ears eagerly perked to listen, the gnolls ceased their murmured barking and focused their attention on the platform.

“Brokka, you are a brave hunter. You bring the tribe much meat.” At these words, the old gnoll smiled toothily at the rest of the pack. Praise from the chieftain probably translated into improved status better meat, better females, Martine guessed.

The chieftain wasn’t done speaking, however. The ranger tensed again, fully expecting him to pronounce a grim judgment for her. “Let the tribe know I offer three fine robes and the first meat of our next kill for the human. Does my hunt brother agree?”

Martine hadn’t enough skill to read Brokka’s emotions accurately and could only guess that the gnoll was surprised. Still, considering the honor just accorded, the gnoll was not in a position to refuse. “Elk-Slayer is kind. He gives me more robes than the human is worth.” Apparently the old gnoll knew how to play the game:

“It is good,” the chieftain said. The pronouncement ended what little bargaining there was. With cold yellow eyes, he sized up his new possession, still sprawled on the floor. “Word-Maker!” he roared.

“I am here, Elk-Slayer.”

“I claim the female for my harem. I will not eat the human unless she displeases me. Will this bring me honor?”

“A human female among your wives every lodge will speak of it”

Wives! Weak or not, the word electrified Martine. She was to be one of this brute gnoll’s wives? She was about to lurch to her feet to protest this arrangement when a cold glare from Word-Maker stopped her. The look was clear; it. carried in it neither lust nor kindness, but rather a cautionary warning to stay out of something she did not understand. The Harper sagged back to the ground, quaking with anger that quickly turned to violent shivering as her weakened body finally surrendered control.

“Krote Word-Maker, say the words to finalize my claim.” The chieftain’s voice rang deeply through the lodge, triggering an excited buzz from the assembled tribe.

The gaunt Word-Maker nodded sharply and turned to the pack. “Hear the words of the servant of Gorellik. Hakk Elk-Slayer has claimed the human female. To take her is to challenge him. To injure her is cause for blood feud. This female is claimed. Gorellik approves this.” The words were recited as an old formula, familiar and easy in their utterance.

At first the tribe’s response sounded like a low grumble of snarled voices laden with discontent. The Harper’s ears proved wrong, however, as the growl quickly resolved itself into a rhythmic chant. The drumming of paws slapping against the earth rose higher and higher. Though the accompanying words were garbled by the clustered voices and unfamiliar phrases, Martine caught the unmistakable strains of a mating chant.

I’ve just been married! she realized suddenly.

The realization left her stunned, both by the deed itself and by the haste at which it had been accomplished. Married to a gnoll! Fortunately weakness and fear blotted out any thoughts of what her new duties might be, leaving only the vague realization of the hopelessness of her situation. Blackness swirled into her vision, leaving only the two, chieftain and shaman, before her in the firelight.

“Word-Maker!” her new husband barked over the rising chorus. The female must not die. Heal her or suffer the consequences.”

The other gnoll bristled instinctively at the command, lips curling slightly to expose yellow fangs. Then, just as quickly, the Word-Maker recovered his composure. “I will do it,” he grunted with a nod toward the chieftain. “Take her to the spirit lodge.”

Someone seized Martine under the arms, tearing open the half-frozen bandage on her shoulder. Fresh blood oozed out through the crystals. Martine tried to stand, but her legs gave out beneath her as a new wave of pain assaulted her body. She could barely feel the ground as she staggered along, half-dragged by her captors.

Even the bitter cold outside did little to revive the Harper. Packed snow crackled as her captors led her across the clearing, jerking her upright each time she stumbled over the gnarled ground. In the dim light of the late-rising moon, they reached a little leather and birch hut, a round gray shape against the darker border of the trees. In a moment she was inside its steamy warmth. With ungentle grace, her captors dropped her onto a mass of greasy furs. To Martine, the flea-bitten pelts felt like down.

“Leave now,” a voice, the shaman’s, barked. There was a rustle of closing curtains, and the last of the cold blasts ended with it The ranger was already sliding into darkness and relief when cruel pain jerked her back to wakefulness. Eyes bolting open, she stared into the animalistic face of the Word-Maker as he squatted over her. In one clawed hand, he held a knife; in the other, he held bloody strips of clothing. There was a sharp tearing sound and more pain as he sliced away the frozen shreds of her parka.

In a matter of moments, her hands, shoulder, and toes burned like fire as the lodge’s heat penetrated her frostbitten skin. Martine’s muscles trembled uncontrollably. The gnoll pressed a bony knee into her stomach and snarled, “Lie still, human. I will not let you die.” The words were more threat than promise.

Finally the shaman finished cutting his patient free from her garments, leaving her gashed shoulder exposed. With a sharp claw, he scraped away the frozen blood and dirt in each gouge, releasing new welling streams that flowed down over her skin. With each scrape, the ranger felt hot jets of pain. Finally the shaman sat on her torso to pin her down. Martine ground her teeth in a futile effort to keep from screaming. Nothing remained of the real world but the gnoll’s grinning face and her own agony, until finally the pain was so intense it no longer mattered.

At last the gnoll stopped, and the spasms subsided. Dimly the ranger could see him holding an unfamiliar charm, circling it over her wounds. “Bones knit. Skin seal.” The shaman chanted his droning prayer over and over as he rubbed one hand over her injured shoulder.

Almost immediately the pain in Martine’s wounds took on a new dimension. The dullness of overstressed nerves transformed as new pains jangled alarms. Tendons and muscles shifted under the tingling fire emanating from the gnoll’s palm. Her whole arm jerked spasmodically as strange signals aroused her dormant muscles. Without stopping his prayer, the shaman slid his hand across the woman’s body, letting the power of his spell penetrate. Deep in her chest, Martine felt her ribs clutch and seize, then settle into a soothing numbness. The frostbitten fire surged in her extremities.

Then suddenly the pain, all of it, old and new, abruptly ended. The absence of any feeling was almost as excruciating as the pain itself. Dimly Martine realized she lay soaked in sweat, her jaw clenched so tight she thought it was locked.

It was done. Word-Maker took his hand away and ended his prayer with a final harsh benediction, then prodded and poked at Martine, examining his handiwork. “Gorellik has favored me, outsider,” the shaman remarked as he packed away his charm. “He has shown his blessing to a human and let us both live. Your wounds are healed.”

Martine barely heard the gnoll, so overwhelmed was she by the emptiness that replaced her pain. Thank him, a small voice within her said.

“Thank—thank you,” the Harper stammered brokenly. In a language she seldom used, her words were stiffly formed. The cold, the battles, and the healing had left her drained, until even speech was a prodigious effort. She tried to raise a hand, but her muscles were limp and helpless after her ordeal.