David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

The Word-Maker nodded. “And if you kill me, human, you freeze. This night we need each other.”

Martine nodded, her sore shoulders screaming at even that slight turn of the head. With tinder and Jazrac’s knife, Martine kindled a tiny fire in the entrance that barely warmed them.

Dinner consisted of moss and tender bark, the best the ranger could gather in the snow. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but her captivity had left her starving. Krote was not that desperate and so only watched her eat.

“Inside,” Martine said after the unappetizing repast. As the gnoll squeezed in through the entrance, Martine gave one last look skyward. Selûne’s Tears, a waft of star motes that hung off the crescent hook of the butterfat moon, weaved through the sparse branches of the wind-blasted pines along the cliff face. The sky was clear and bitter. Night birds lurking in the icebound woods called to any listening ear, speaking to each other of their might and wisdom Something, a breeze or a small beast, snuffled beyond the rim of light. The night forest excited her; even here, it was a world she understood and loved, more so than the timid towns and villages she had sworn to defend as a Harper.

A grunt from Krote broke the mood. Drawn back from her reverie, the Harper numbly crawled inside, taking care to keep her sword ready. Now came the time when she had no choice but to trust the shaman. Trust out of necessity did not come easy.

In the near darkness, the Word-Maker had twisted and squirmed his rude bed closer to the ice-sheened wall, distancing himself from Martine’s space. Even so, the two, woman and gnoll, were still pressed tight to each other. Martine placed her drawn sword along the wall, just in case. Only exhaustion would grant her any rest tonight.

As she lay in the darkness, the ground chill insinuated its way through the layers of her leather parka, into its sweat matted fur lining, through torn and stained clothes, past skin, until it reached muscle and bone. Martine could feel it creep through her body. The cold wanted to kill her, to stalk down the warmth within her and leech it into the snow until she was left an ice-filled husk. In the near darkness, these thoughts obsessed the woman. She had camped in the woods as much as she had lived indoors, but never could she remember a night so hostile.

“Gods, I’m freezing,” she chattered softly.

“So am I,” her companion answered unexpectedly from the darkness.

Tentatively the pair inched closer to each other. Neither wanted to get close to the other, but they needed each other’s warmth. Finally their bodies huddled together. The gnoll stank, and where his fur poked through, it scratched her, but the contact kept the cold at bay. Finally the Harper drifted into a dim semblance of sleep.

When the cave walls began to glow autumnal gold, Martine at first dismissed it as another waking dream. The light persisted, until she finally realized it was no fantasy. Wriggling through the narrow entrance, she gratefully drew in a lungful of clear morning air. Accustomed to the den, she had forgotten just how thick, rank, and humid the snow cave was until she was outside of it.

It was incredibly bright outside, the kind of brightness that comes when all the moisture has been frozen out of the air, allowing the sun’s rays to burn unhampered onto the ice-sheeted ground, where the sunlight reflects back up and for a brief moment crosses itself to intensify the glare. On such mornings, it seems as though the whole world has risen up from an ocean of light.

Retrieving her sword, the Harper tugged on the Word-Maker’s boot until the gnoll finally woke. She had expected the shaman to wake quick and alert, as matched the feral reputation of gnolls, but Krote, it seemed, was a terrible sluggard. Only after a fair amount of growling was she able to get the gnoll outdoors.

“Why get up? It was warm in the cave,” the shaman grumbled as he suppressed a yawn.

“I want to cross the pass before noon. Once we’re in Samek, we should be able to find a farm or something.” Martine was already stowing her bundle for the journey.

“What will happen to me? The little people are not friendly.” As he spoke, Krote held his wrists up, asking to be unbound. Catching the suspicious look in her eye, he added with an angry snarl, “Wrists hurt. I could have killed you in the cave.”

Martine drew the bone-handled knife and absentmindedly stroked the blade as she considered the gnoll’s request. “Your oath, shaman. I cut you loose and you come with me. No tricks.”

“So you give me to the little people?” he snorted. “You’re my prisoner. The Vani won’t hurt you.”

“Your oath, human?”

“By the blood of my family.”

“That is good. I give you my oath, human but only until we reach your valley.”

“Only if you swear by Gorellik, your god.” Martine bit her lip.

Krote scowled. Martine was getting better at reading the gnoll’s expressions. “Gorellik sees all and knows Krote gifts his word. We will travel in peace, Martine of Sembia.”

“Praise to Mielikki,” Martine added, beseeching in her heart the blessing of the Lady of the Forest. It might mean everything or it might mean nothing, but Martine instinctively believed the Word-Maker’s oath to be valuable. Now that she had it, the Harper cut the bonds with some sense of confidence.

The pair started the day’s march without delay. To an untrained eye, it would have seemed as if they were traveling through more of the same as yesterday the same gray pines, the same dazzling whiteness, the same rocks, the same streams but to Martine’s practiced eye, there were important differences. Gradually the pines no longer grew as high and the brooks gurgled with less water, both clear signs that they had begun the climb up the pass. The snow was deeper, too. Krote waded on through drifts up to his waist, drifts whose smooth tops carne as high as the smaller ranger’s chest. Woodpecker drills echoed through the woods while the squawks of the ravens grew less frequent. Overhead, an eagle circled a nearby meadow, patiently waiting for a marmot or a field mouse.

By midmorning, Martine’s hope was revived. There was no doubt they would clear the ridge today. At worst, it would be one, perhaps two more days before they reached the Vani warren. The prospect of rest and hot food renewed her flagging energy.

The huntress was waiting, feet stomping impatiently, as Krote crossed a fallen tree spanning a frozen stream. Just when the gnoll was halfway across, six small shadows stepped from the thickets that lined the far bank. Their spears were ready, their bows drawn. Unarmed and exposed, Krote froze on the log bridge as his muzzle flared and his ears stiffened straight back, ready for a fight.

The six small shadows were short and stocky—Vani gnomes. The grins of their successful ambush played across their faces.

“Don’t hurt him!” Martine yelled as they sprang onto the slick log. “He’s my prisoner!”

“Hold! Don’t harm him!” rang Vil’s bass voice from the woods.

Martine wavered with uncertain relief. Am I saved? Can I stop struggling and sleep? Her exhausted mind was too befuddled to do more than vaguely imagine the reality before her. She fought back the sudden flood of exhaustion that came with trying to comprehend.

Dumbly the Harper scanned her rescuers, staring at them like mirages. She thought she identified Jouka Tunkelo’s belligerent scowl, although it was hard for her to see clearly enough. Ice crusted around her eyes, and her pupils burned from hours in the brilliant snow. The blurry faces of the gnomes were little more than thick stockings, black bristling beards, and slitted wooden goggles that shut out the glare of the snow.