David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

As if on a signal, howls rose from the foremost gnolls. The pain and fear behind their voices was unmistakable. At the dueling ground’s center, amid the crimson-soaked snow, the fiend rose to its full height. Red streaked the ivory armor of its body, and blood glistened from its quivering, sharp chin. One bonelike arm reached over its head, and clutched in those claws was the severed head of Hakk Elk-Slayer, his dead eyes seeming to gaze out upon his tribe.

“Warm thingz!” the creature shrilled to the stunned gnolls, whirling about to face them all. “I am your leader now. You are my slavez!”

The gnolls wavered, caught between fear and their own traditions. Those closest to the shaman looked to him for guidance, but the Word-Maker had no answer.

As they hesitated, the fiend hurled the still warm head at the assembled warriors and sprang in a bounding hop upon the nearest gnoll. Seizing the terrified tribesman in its long claws, the fiend shrilled, “I am your master! Vreesar is your master!” Each claim was punctuated by a brutal shake.

“Y-Y-You… are… chieftain,” the gnoll stammered. Gradually the chant was taken up by those nearby until it grew into a fear-stricken chorus of confirmation.

Vreesar flung the quivering gnoll aside with an easy toss and triumphantly turned to survey its new subjects. All at once it stopped and pushed its way through the rapidly parting sea of gnolls.

Martine suddenly felt the burning gaze of the fiend’s eyes. Its foul voiced buzzed in her ears.

“Human, you are here! You must come to my new throne!”

A biting wind deadened Martine’s limbs as she stood before the dais of the great Vreesar, new chieftain of the Burnt Fur. With its conquest, the fiend had taken possession of Elk-Slayer’s lodge and quickly found the accommodations not to its liking. Heaping a miscellany of wood and baskets at the entrance, Vreesar sat poised on a throne made from a cradleboard laid between two stools. This crude dais was much more to the fiend’s liking, since it was safely away from the scorching fire pit at the far end of the lodge. Elk-Slayer’s furs and robes were banished, eagerly snapped up by the tribe members determined to gain something from the chaos. Instead of rich bearskins, the platform was coated with a heap of caked, dirty snow dug from the clearing. The door flap, formerly sealed with care against the hostile outdoors, was now pulled wide open to let the bitter breeze blow through.

No gnolls lounged half-naked in the steaming heat, as they had the night before. Those tribe members in the lodge huddled tightly together as far back from the entrance as they could, trying to capture the precious warmth of the smoldering fire pit.

It was a warmth the ranger did not feel from where she stood in the bare earth between Vreesar’s throne and the clustered gnolls. Since the occupation of the lodge, Vreesar had kept her near its crude throne. No more than three paces behind her, Krote squatted, waiting for the new chieftain’s words.

Atop the ice-encrusted dais, Vreesar gave no heed to the suffering of its subjects. The fiend was in no discomfort, clearly relishing the frozen winds that blasted through the open doorway. Martine suspected that it enjoyed more than just the cold, for it seemed to deliberately prolong every action as a means to torment all those assembled with the freezing cold.

“Where iz my tribute? Did your chieftain have nothing? You!” Vreesar hummed as it jabbed a finger at Krote. “You wait and wait like an ennchi waiting to tear the hope out of a carrioned soul.”

Martine shivered in cold fear. She did not know what an ennchi was, or a carrioned soul, but together they did not sound good.

Krote must have thought so, too, for his answer was long in coming. “This is Hakk’s longhouse. What he owned is here.” The shaman gestured to the spread of goods on the dirt floor in front of Vreesar. Standing just behind the array of items, Martine felt as if she were being presented as property, too.

The Harper held her breath as Vreesar languidly drifted one clawed foot over the fine of Hakk’s goods, pausing to touch a peculiar stone that rested among the dented breastplates, bone necklaces, and wooden carvings. Martine worried about what one sharp tap of the fiend’s toe might do to Jazrac’s seal. The wizard had warned her, after all, that the stone was breakable. One hard rap, and all her efforts to close the rift could end in failure.

The fiend kicked a carving with one taloned toe. “Fah!” it hissed contemptuously. “These are mere toyz. No strength in toyz.”

Martine trembled with relief. Thank Tymora for some small luck , she silently praised.

“Human, I meet you again,” Vreesar droned in chilling tones. The elemental leaned toward her, never leaving its seat.

Like a small child expecting a thrashing, Martine barely nodded her head up and down. In truth, the woman held herself in rigid control to prevent her body from collapsing in a spasm of nerves. There was no point in denying anything so obvious. This creature was clever and perceptive, not like the little one she had slain. There was no hope of fooling it into believing she had not been on the glacier.

You killed Icy-White?

How should I answer? This thing knows I did. What will it do if I tell the truth? Or is it trying to trick me into a lie? Martine felt her blood surge with panic. With a deep breath, she forced her body, but not her mind, to be calm.

“It wanted to play rough.” The Harper hoped her words sounded as tough and cynical as she thought they did. Barely suppressed fear made it impossible for her to accurately judge the tone of her own words.

The lodge filled with the fiend’s quavering buzz.

Oh, gods, I hope that’s laughter, or else I’m dead . The Harper could feel her nerves making her begin to tremble. The strain of the last few days made them diabolically hard to control.

Behind her, the gnolls milled in consternation, no more able to fathom the fiend’s mood than she was.

At last the buzzing subsided. The fiend swiveled its glittering eyes, sparkling beneath its shadowed brow, on her.

“You close my gate?”

Despite her dry throat, Martine tried to swallow before she answered. “No. What gate?”

“Again you lie!” it thrummed, springing down from the dais. With a kick, it sent Hakk’s possessions flying. Martine bit her lip and tried not to let her eyes betray her interest as Jazrac’s stone tumbled across the floor and came to a stop against the lodge wall.

With jerking, angular steps, the creature stalked around her, each stride drawing it closer to her until Martine felt the crystals of icy breath on her neck. “I want gate open,” Vreesar whispered, constantly circling her. “It iz cold and empty here—nice. Open the gate and I will make you my general. Open the gate and I will give you armiez of Icy-Whitez. You will rule the warm landz for me. I will make you powerful, human.”

Vreesar stopped behind her. Cold claws gently wrapped over the Harper’s shoulders, the sharp click of its fangs sounding next to her ear. “How do I open the gate?”

I’m a Harper. I can’t betray that trust. I must not betray that trust . Martine seized on these thoughts, focusing her mind on her duty as she steeled her body for her death. It would surely follow, the minute she refused Vreesar. All she had to do was say, “You can’t,” and the fiend would fly into a rage, and she would be dead. She knew it instinctively. A few quick words, some pain, and then freedom from this terror. It would be a true Harper’s death.

“I–I don’t know.” They were the wrong words, said before she even realized what she was saying. She wanted to refuse Vreesar, to deny the fiend all hope, but fear overpowered her. Her own death was too close for her to be brave.