David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s my good-luck charm,” she said with cheerful defiance.

“Another lie,” the shaman shot back in a tone that showed no glimmer of humor.

“True enough,” she countered wearily. “If it had been lucky, I wouldn’t be here.”

“What is the rock?” This time the question was more a snarl, and Martine knew she’d better sound convincing. The only problem was she was too tired and afraid to think of something clever.

“I don’t know,” she lied again. “I was paid to deliver it.” Krote furrowed his bony brow as he considered her claim. “Still another lie,” he finally said accusingly. “The Burnt Fur are the only people around here. You did not come to trade with us. The rock and Brokka’s story about lights on the tall ice these two are connected.”

Martine didn’t bother trying to deny his conclusion. From the way the Word-Maker had countered every tale, it was clear she was too shaken by exhaustion to lie convincingly. In desperation, the ranger chose to remain silent and let herself be led across the clearing.

Krote asked no more questions, and for a moment, Martine hoped that he had relented. Then, just as they reached the small lodge that was her cell, the shaman stopped abruptly. With a swift move, he wrapped his rough fingers around Martine’s neck. She floundered in his strong grasp, suddenly choking.

“Human woman,” the gnoll snarled in methodically grim words, “if you do not speak the truth by tonight, I will stake you outside naked. Then you will talk or freeze.”

Twisting in his grasp, the ranger finally sucked in a breath of frigid air. “You would heal me, then kill me?” she challenged. “No, Krote. You want me alive. I’m no good to you dead.”

Krote dropped his hand with a laugh. “I like you, human. You have much—umm—anger, strong feeling, for a female. That is good. In our tribe, females must be ready to fight to claim mates. The kits you bear Hakk will be strong and clever.” Laughter mingled with wheezing chuckles accompanied his claim. The tall shaman stooped to pull open the lodge’s door curtain.

Martine paled. Unschooled in gnoll ways, she still couldn’t miss the irony in Krote’s thin voice. The thought of bearing the spawn of a monster like Hakk shook her body to the core.

Still chuckling, Krote shoved her through the doorway of the lodge. Stumbling into the darkness, she let herself collapse weakly on the furs. Faintly she could hear the birch scroll, her letter to Jazrac, crackle beneath the layers of her fur bed and remembered the knife Hakk had given to Krote. Rolling over, she saw the gleam of the ivory handle jutting from the edge of Krote’s crossbelts.

Desperate plans raced through her mind. The thin shaman was clearly not a fighter, but right now the ranger doubted she had the strength to best a kitten. Guile was her only chance, if she could just think clearly.

“Who are you?” Krote demanded, interrupting her thoughts.

“I told you Martine of Sembia.”

The shaman thrust a stick into the fire’s coals, just enough to make the end smolder, and Martine sensed the interrogation was about to begin in earnest.

“Why are you here?” The gnoll jabbed at the coals.

The truth, to a point, seemed her, best response. “I crashed nearby.”

Krote raised one ear, though whether in interest or skepticism, Martine did not know. “Tell Krote about it.”

“A storm brought down my hippogriff.” Once again she had to resort to Sembian, not knowing the gnoll term for hippogriff.

“The storm on the tall ice?”

Martine guessed he meant the rift’s geyser, which from the base of the glacier must have looked like a roiling thunderhead. She nodded.

Krote pulled the stick from the fire and blew on the ember at its end until it glowed orange-red. “You are a spy for the little ones, right?”

“Little ones?” Martine slid back, trying to keep as much distance between herself and the gnoll as possible.

Krote smiled, his black lips pulled back to show yellow, cracked fangs and pinkish gums. “The little people in the south valley. They sent you here to spy on us.”

“No,” she said, emphasizing it with a shake of her head. “I didn’t even know you lived here!”

With a snort, the gnoll thrust the stick back into the fire, making Martine wonder just how sincere his threat had been. “My people have rived here since Arka, the chieftain before Hakk Elk-Slayer. Now the little people steal our hunting grounds.”

The shaman’s claim made no sense. Judging by what she’d seen of the Vani warren, the gnomes had been there a century or more, building and tending to their home. No gnoll chieftain, she guessed, could have that kind of lifespan.

“What do you mean, they stole your hunting grounds? Surely they were there first.” The Harper part of her, the part that always hungered for information, was speaking now.

“It is our right because we need it,” was the shaman’s sharp answer.

“Because you need it, the valley belongs to you?”

Krote’s long tongue licked his lips. “It is right of rrachk-kiah .“

“Rrachk-kiah?“

The gnoll groped for an explanation as he unexpectedly warmed to her interest It seemed as if he wanted to explain, to justify the ways of his tribe. Perhaps she had triggered a passion within him, part of what earned him the title Word-Maker.

“What is seen is owned,” the shaman continued. “The gods gave my people everything in the world. Everything we can see belongs to the gnolls. So the little ones steal our hunting grounds.”

“That’s… quite a claim.” Martine picked her words carefully, trying not to let any sarcasm creep in, despite the arrogant egotism of the gnoll’s beliefs.

“It is right. Why else would the gods make the world?” Word-Maker proclaimed.

A series of shouts from outside interrupted any need to reply. Krote’s ears twitched as he stepped to the door flap and peered outside. The woman braced herself to spring at him while he was distracted, but before she could act, the shaman whipped out a knife. Involuntarily a savage growl welled up in his throat.

The chorus of barking yelps from outside intensified. The dog-man suddenly whirled, pointed the knife in her direction, and barked, “Stay!” before disappearing through the door flap. It wasn’t the ranger but something outside that had triggered Krote’s reaction.

Martine sat dumbfounded for a moment, but only for a moment. Scrambling to her feet, she hastily gathered whatever she could find that might be of use in her escape—furs, a pouch, a sharp stick, even a few trinkets from the walls. Wrapping them into a tight bundle, she paused at the lodge’s flap to listen before venturing outside.

Whatever was happening, it was important, judging by the noise. From the mingled chorus of barking shouts, Martine imagined the entire tribe had turned out. The words were unclear, but the excitement was obvious.

This is my chance , the Harper thought as she crouched low by the entrance. With luck I can make it into the forest unnoticed .

Pulling back the door flap slightly, Martine was greeted with a view of an assembled throng, their backs facing her. The massed gnolls, some robed, others bare-skinned in the cold, were gathered in the center of the clearing, their attention transfixed by something the Harper could not see. The gathering piqued her curiosity, but not nearly as much as the chance of escape. Grabbing her bundle, she slipped through the opening and edged her way along the front of the lodge, moving quietly in hope of avoiding attention. Her breath steamed out in tense bursts, and each crunching footstep made her wince even though there was little chance of being heard over the racket made by the gnolls, which sounded like battle cries and war alarms. Had Vilheim returned with the gnomes? Or was it Jazrac? Martine paused, hope rising that someone might be coming to rescue her.