David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

Even as she stood eagerly wafting, the fierce war cries of the gnolls gave way to howls of panic, and the tightly knit mass of bodies abruptly exploded as the gnolls turned and bolted, those at the back thrust aside by others from the front lines. Females scooped up their kits and ran for the shelter of the lodges. Latecomers scrambled for weapons stacked near the lodge doors. Through a brief gap in the crowd, Martine saw Elk-Slayer, muscular and nearly naked, berating his warriors to form a wavering arc of spears against whatever approached.

Then Martine saw the intruder and understood the cause of the gnolls’ panic. It was her tormentor, the creature from the rift, icy bone-white, moving with clicking stiffness as it stalked into the center of the village. Its head snapped from side to side, its icicled brow hiding eyes that swept over the gnolls. The small, rasping mouth clicked together in threatening snaps, while its long arms swung to and fro, thin claws cutting gouges in the hard snow. Seeing the fiend, Martine paled and promptly forgot about caution. Relying on the confusion the creature’s arrival was creating, she clutched her bundle tightly and sprinted from the shelter of the lodge into the gap that separated it from the gloom of the forest. A gnoll charged past, forcing the ranger to veer madly, but the creature seemed to pay her no mind.

I’ve made it! she started to think as the trees drew nearer.

The second she entertained the thought, the woman knew it was precipitous. Before she had completed another two steps, a rough hand seized her. “Hah!” snarled a harsh voice as clawed fingers gouged into her tender shoulder. Her arm jerked in a spasm of pain and her bundle spilled from her grasp. Kicking and struggling, she tried to break free from the gnoll, but his grip did not loosen. With a fierce twist, she was pulled about to face her captor.

“I thought you might try to escape,” Krote grunted as he held her fast, his amulets jingling as she squirmed about.

“Cyric take you!” Martine tried to kick him, a move the gnoll easily avoided.

“Varka, bring the human,” the shaman barked to a warrior hurrying by with sword and shield in hand. Varka, a short, mangy creature, grinned wolfishly, and with a sharp poke of his sword, urged Martine into obedience. Realizing her chance to escape was lost, she sullenly pretended surrender, all the while still hoping for a chance to break free once more.

“Female, what is that creature?” Krote rasped as they hurried to where Hakk’s warriors uneasily faced off against the intruder. So far, neither the gnolls nor the fiend had done more than glower at each other.

“I don’t know. Its the same creature that captured me on the glacier.” Her near escape and failure had crumbled the Harper’s resistance.

Krote started to say something else, but his words were silenced by a warm buzzing as the fiend spoke.

“Warm thingz,” the newcomer droned slowly as it surveyed them all, talking as if they did not matter. “Many warm thingz: Good. You will be my slavez. I am your master.”

To Martine’s ears, the claim would have been preposterous were it not for the monotonous confidence with which the creature spoke. It was not a thing of this world, and there was no sure way to say what it was capable of doing. Beside her, Krote sucked in the cold air with a snarling hiss.

An eerie silence fell upon the tribe. Martine had expected outrage, or at least more of the wild tumult that had heralded the fiend’s arrival, but instead the gnolls seemed to go dumb. The warriors in the half-circle around the fiend wavered. Martine assumed it was cowardice until she realized they were waiting. The eyes of the warriors, indeed of all the crowd, turned to their chieftain, Hakk Elk-Slayer.

“What are you waiting for? Your tribe can kill it,” the Harper found herself urging the Word-Maker. Though still a gnoll prisoner, she feared the fiend more.

“Quiet,” Krote whispered. “The creature challenges Elk-Slayer. He must fight to remain chieftain.”

“What? Against that thing? What kind of a challenge is that?” Unable to contain her disbelief, Martine nodded toward the elemental.

“Quiet! It is the way things are done.”

It seemed to Martine that the fiend was as confused as she was by the sudden silence of the gnolls, for it swayed from side to side, glaring this way and that as it waited for an attack. The droning buzz of its voice went higher, perhaps in amusement, as it spoke again. “No fight? Good slavez…” The Burnt Fur are not slaves,” Hakk finally roared out. Even before the first faint echo rebounded from the dense woods, the chieftain sprang forward, using two hands to whirl a gnarled club over his head.

Crack! The resounding crash of wood striking bone broke the spell over the crowd. The elemental reeled from the blow, pinkish-clear blood seeping from a crack in the smooth carapace of its leg. The tribe roared in approval of Hakk’s assault, and the chieftain launched another blow while the creature was still reeling. The gnoll ran straight at the fiend, his club pointed toward its skeletal chest like a battering ram driven against a city’s gate.

Just before the wooden club drove home, the fiend twitted sideways and let the chieftain charge past. Long, icicle-like claws flashed, and suddenly the dirty white snow was splattered with red. Hakk wobbled and then dropped to his knees, his fingers clutching at his side in a futile attempt to stanch the flow of blood. The gnoll’s massive chest rose and fell in desperate pants. He dropped his club and doggedly lurched to his feet, sword in hand.

The fiend seemed to be in no hurry. Mockingly it waggled its bloodstained claws, flicking little drops of blood over the onlookers. The gnolls shifted and wavered with uneasiness, but none made a move to intercede. Krote’s hand, firm on Martine’s shoulder, restrained her from fleeing.

“I’ll kill you,” Hakk croaked as he advanced, more cautiously now, having gained a new respect for his foe.

The naturally armored fiend responded with a trilling buzz that Martine imagined was laughter. It was a morbid and heartless humor that the fiend punctuated by clacking snaps of its gleaming jaw. “Come, then, and kill me,” it intoned.

Hakk was not to be goaded so easily, and the two circled round each other. The tribe formed a ring surrounding the duelists, the warriors at the front with their spears and swords held in readiness. Krote pushed Martine, whom he still held firmly, into the forefront. There the shaman fingered his charms and amulets, his lips moving silently. Martine wondered if it was a prayer and, if so, what the shaman was praying for.

All at once the fiend staggered as its wounded leg wobbled beneath it. One clawed hand dropped to the snow as it recovered its balance, and in that brief instant, Hakk sprang forward with a wild, howling rush.

In a blur of movement, the fiend struck, and Martine saw instantly that its apparent weakness had been a trap. As the chieftain’s golden-furred body lunged beneath the fiend’s intentionally clumsy sweep, Hakk overconfidently left his side exposed. Even as Hakk’s sword flashed upward for the kill, the fiend’s head lashed downward, striking faster than Martine could imagine. Hakk’s strangled shriek mingled with a pulping crunch as the fiend’s razorlike teeth clamped on the gnoll’s neck. Elk-Slayer’s thrust was never completed, with the nerves that linked thought to action severed. The pair plunged to the ground, and the air filled with a buzzing roar as the fiend tore at the spasmodically flailing gnoll like a terrier with a rat. Blood splattered the snow. The gnolls recoiled from the gruesome scene, widening the circle around the carnage.

The end came with painful slowness. Even though the jerking convulsions had long since stopped, the creature still huddled over the body, savagely gnawing at the gnoll’s neck. The tribe was held frozen in shocked surprise, the first yips of fear radiating from the edges of the throng. Martine could only gaze helplessly in disbelief, suddenly terrified at how easy it would be to pick her out of the crowd. Warily she tried to edge backward, to put bodies between her and the fiend. The shaman noted her movement and seemed to nod conspiratorially. In any case, although he didn’t let her slip free, the gnoll pulled her back a step into the crowd.