David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

“Four days… I told you, Martine.” The thicket rustled and cracked as Vil stepped through the center of the Vani line. Seeing her, he stopped abruptly. “By Torm, what happened?”

“Avalanche… Vreesar… gnolls… cold.” The jerky words were clear to her, her memories filling the gaps between each. The sight of her rescuers drained her of the instinctive fear that had kept her going for the last several days. Suddenly, after days of ordeal, the woman was tired, raw, wet, freezing, thirsty, hungry, and more things than her numb mind could comprehend. “I’m… alive,” she croaked even as she wavered.

“Don’t hurt Krote. I gave my word.” As if her will had kept her standing long enough to say that, the ranger’s legs gave out from under her and consciousness slid away into a dream.

There was a faint feeling, deep in the core of Martine’s body, that she was flying perhaps ascending to the planes of her ancestors, she thought bemusedly. It ended abruptly in a thump. The landing launched a dull wave of pain that spread throughout her body, transforming the gray haze into turbid and unrestful darkness.

It was warm, wet liquor, strong on caraway and heady alcohol, that revived her. Vilheim Baltson, four days unshaven, knelt over her, carefully forcing a thimbleful of spirits through her lips. The curious faces of gnomes clustered behind him, but Krote was nowhere in sight. She tried to rise to find the gnoll, but the man’s firm hand pressed her down.

“Drink,” he advised, tipping the small cup to her lips. Martine sputtered and then let the warmth trickle down her cold-scorched throat. Another thimbleful followed the first The alcoholic warmth numbed the pain she felt “Where’s the Word-Maker?” she whispered.

“The gnoll? He’s unharmed. Take my word for it. Don’t worry.”

Martine didn’t worry. She knew Vil was good for his word.

“Vreesar’s hunting for me.” Martine surprised herself, remembering to warn them about her pursuers.

Vil nodded. “Then we should get going. Drink some more.” He pushed the cup into her trembling fingers and then turned to the gnomes behind him. “Master Jouka, the woman cannot ski. Can you build a drag for her? She says there are more gnolls coming.”

Martine wanted to correct Vil’s error, to tell him that Vreesar wasn’t a gnoll, but the words wouldn’t form. Soon the forest rang with the bite of axes against wood.

Once the drag was built, Vil helped Martine onto the frame and bundled her in dry blankets, all the time fussing over her wounds. I must be a sight , Martine decided, judging from Vil’s concern.

As she was settling into her bed, Krote was dragged into her view. A burly, thick-browed gnome, Ojakangas by name, pulled the shaman along by a rope that bound his wrists. The Vani had given Krote a pair of snowshoes, but other than that, they showed him none of the kindness she had received.

“Move, dog-man,” the guard rumbled, jerking the weary gnoll onto the trail. The gnome acted without cruelty or kindness, only a matter-of-fact coldheartedness. The Word-Maker staggered a bit as he followed, but held himself stiff. His pride was fierce and far from broken.

“Treat him well, Vani,” Martine croaked fiercely as the gnome and prisoner passed by. “He saved my life.”

The gnome started to glare at the human disdainfully, but the passion in her eyes put him off. Chastised, he motioned the gnoll forward and the pair passed out of sight.

Shortly after that, Martine felt the drag lurch from the ground, towed by Vil and a pair of gnomes. Bundled and lashed in, she could only let herself be jounced along as the party began the journey home.

At some other time, the trip would have been too rough and uncomfortable to sleep, but now was not such a time. The rhythmic swish of skis over snow, the chill in her limbs, and the monotonous parade of green pine branches overhead lulled the Harper to sleep. She had memories of waking several times, though each was barely enough to lift the veil that lay over her consciousness. There was little notable about these brief moments of lucidity the rattle of a woodpecker as it drilled into a pine, the burn of painful sunlight as they crossed a frozen meadow. There was a brief moment of interest as they passed a Vani farmstead. In her present state, Martine would never have even noticed it had not a pair of their party taken their leave here. The farm was a miniature warren, hidden in a hillock. Its only outward sign was a small door into the mound, hidden within a clump of birches. After brief good-byes and a round of drinks, the trek began once more.

Only a final jolting stop broke her dreamless haze after that. Groggily she became aware of the barely familiar surroundings of Vil’s cabin the hewn log walls, the scent of woodsmoke, and the outline of a tree that arched over the cabin’s roof. Bound into the drag, the Harper could only wait impatiently as Vil undid the lacings. Krote was still with them, bound but unhurt, and although the gnoll’s pride was certainly wounded, Martine doubted the gnoll had expected any more.

“Vil, is there someplace he can be kept?” Martine wasn’t sure it was necessary to treat the shaman as a prisoner, but she also wasn’t quite ready to take the chance. Last night in the snow cave had been a matter of survival; now the situation was slightly different.

The former paladin scowled as he undid the last lacing, thinking. “Someplace, yes, but not in my house. The Vani will have to take him.”

Now it was Martine’s turn to scowl as she considered the wisdom in handing her prisoner over to the gnomes. “How do you know he’ll be safe?” she asked softly.

“They’re not beasts, woman,” Vil rumbled. “If he doesn’t provoke them, the Vani won’t harm him. You’ll have to trust them on this.”

The Harper wasn’t quite so sure about the gnomes, but she knew she was in no condition to be responsible for a prisoner. “All right, it’ll have to do,” she said with a nod before turning to the others. “Master Ojakangas, will your people take this prisoner and guard him? You can see that I am in no shape to do so.”

The broad gnome nodded. “This was expected,” came his taciturn reply.

“You said I would be treated well, human,” Krote hissed, furious at being turned over to his enemies. Ojakangas jerked the rope around Krote’s wrists, warning him to be silent.

“I said you wouldn’t be harmed. You’re still my prisoner, Word-Maker.” The Harper was too tired to argue the point. Krote would just have to accept whatever happened. “Thank you, Master Ojakangas. Guard him well.”

Prevented from killing their enemy, the gnomes, Jouka in particular, set to the task of binding Krote with such relish that Martine worried about their intentions. Still, there seemed to be no effort to seriously mistreat the prisoner, and she said nothing more as she watched the gnomes leave.

Once the Vani were gone, Martine turned and went into the cabin. Her body throbbed; her fingers and face burned as the warmth of the cabin penetrated her frost kissed skin. Her feet felt leaden and numb, sure signs of encroaching frostbite. Barely four steps inside the cabin, she collapsed in front of the fire and ungracefully fumbled at her boots. When they were both finally off, she thrust her feet as close to the banked coals as she dared. Heels propped up, she shed her improvised cape and pawed at the remains of her parka, peeling away the sweat stiffened clothes.

“Thank gods we’re back!” the ranger said as Vid stomped through the door.

“Thank Torm indeed,” Vil wearily agreed. He selected tinder for the coals and quickly had a small, welcome blaze coaxed from the embers. When the fire was lit, he sat on the sooty stone hearth, where he carefully eased off his boots.