David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

“Heat… I never thought I’d feel it again,” Martine moaned as she lay with icy feet almost in the fire. Tiny curls of steam began to rise from her damp woolen socks. Already her soles were starting to itch and burn as the frostbite was slowly driven out of her toes. Even that pain couldn’t keep her awake, though.

An untold time later, the woman surfaced from oblivion surrounded by the startling warmth of a thick comforter. After the comforter, the glimmer of firelight and the gnawing pain of hunger were the things she was most keenly aware of.

I’m dreaming , she thought, staring at the scarred rafters over the bed. It took several minutes to realize she was once more lying in Vil’s bed, buried deep in blankets and a faded goose-down comforter. Her host sat at his rickety table whittling curls from a block of wood. “Oh, gods,” she gasped as the dull ache of consciousness moved through every muscle in her body. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Ail night and the better part of a day,” the big man said as he set down his work.

Martine sank back into the featherbed. “Hungry”

“Yes!” she blurted. She was famished.

Vil fetched a big bowl of broth and set it carefully in her lap, then remained hovering over her to see if she needed some help eating. Although the spoon was unsteady in her hand, Martine slowly and deliberately scooped up a few drops of the broth and greedily slurped it down, determined not to be fed like a child. The soup was fatty and over-salted but rich nonetheless with the pervading taste of smoked venison. Chunks of meat and fat and bits of ash swirled through the murky liquid, and it all tasted wonderful.

Only later, after she’d bathed and changed, did Martine finally start to feel human again. The gear she’d stored at Vil’s cabin provided clean clothes, and after a quick inspection of her ragged parka, she decided the best course was to burn it. The tears in the leather were impossible to patch, and she saw black specks moving in the fur trim—fleas, no doubt. The former paladin rummaged up a coat to replace hers. It was more than a little large, but serviceable with some alterations.

With a sheet of foolscap and her writing kit, the Harper sat at the table. Finally, after so many days, she could compose a proper letter to Jazrac. So much had happened and there was so much to explain that the woman didn’t know where to begin—nor did she know just what she should say. The crash… the elemental… her capture by the gnolls… For what was supposed to be a simple job, I certainly made a hash of it , she thought ruefully.

Martine decided to use discretion.

Jazrac:

Your seals worked fine, and I have the keystone. The rift is closed. I had a run-in with some gnolls, and I’m sad to report that Astriphie is dead. If you received any of my earlier messages, please don’t worry, because now I am safe… I’m in the valley of Samek. There’s a woodsman here who has taken me in. I will be back in Shadowdale as soon as the passes are clear. Again, do not worry about me. I’m fine. Looking forward to seeing you again. Tell Jhaele I miss her ale.

That should do it , the ranger thought as she gently blew the ink dry. Taking the bone-handled knife, she set it upon a corner of the page. She wasn’t quite sure how long to leave the letter sitting out at least a day, she guessed. “Is it all right to leave this out on the table?” she asked her host.

The big man shrugged. “That’s fine. We won’t be around anyway.”

“What.?”

Vil clapped a hand to his forehead. “Sorry. I forgot. The gnomes are celebrating the safe return of the search party tonight”

“And they invited us?” Martine asked dubiously. “We were the cause of all their trouble, after all. Besides, I thought they didn’t like outsiders.” She was still tired, and the thought of several hours of socializing with the gnomes was already giving her the. beginnings of a headache.

“I told you they were good neighbors,” Vil said, grinning. “Besides, they like parties. They use whatever excuse they can to have one.”

Martine looked at the rough outdoor gear she was wearing. “I didn’t bring clothes for something like that.”

“Everybody will understand, I’m sure,” Vil countered. “Besides, they brew a very tasty hard cider. You could probably use a few drinks after your ordeal.”

That, Martine had to admit, was a point she could not dispute, and so, feeling bemused by the unexpected invitation, the woman finally consented to go.

Two hours later, Martine found herself in the entrance hall of the warren, the sounds of revelry all about her. The whiny music of hardrangers , curious fiddles with extra strings that droned like bagpipes, and a hurdy-gurdy echoed from the smooth wooden walls. Gnomes laughed and giggled as they hurried to the council chamber, adapted as a dance hall. Their fat round faces seemed festive enough, but to the Harper, it seemed their merriment was forced.

The din reached its peak at the doorway to the council hall, which was already jammed. White-bearded musicians scraped and bowed from atop a rough table made from several hogsheads and boards. Bungs hammered into the barrels beneath them flowed freely with strong cider. Courting couples danced a furious reel across the floor while the uncommitted lasses giggled and whispered as they watched the young swains from the shadows of the arches. The quadricentenarians of the colony sat on the foremost benches, nodding numbly to the drone of the hardrangers’ strings, their liver-spotted fingers rippling to the runs of the tune. Married men sat clustered around the taps, the air over their heads thick with pipe smoke. Behind them, in the higher seats, their squat wives looked out on the dancers, dreaming of tunes when they once whirled on the floor.

Only the martial figures lurking near the back walls belied the cause of the celebration. Jouka was there, still stiff and grim, even off duty. Gathered around him were a few other members of the rescue party, young warriors who savored the heroic image of their elders. Martine noted that shy Turi had distanced himself from his brother. The quiet one sat in a corner, hands fidgeting with the hem of his robe.

Before she could move any farther into the chamber, the woman was whisked aside by a cluster of gnome maidens. The little damsels cooed and fussed around her, the festive spirit of the hall giving them the courage to overcome their innate bashfulness. Martine found herself subjected to a flurry of questions. Did all human women dress like her? Did they dance? Did they all carry swords and curse like farmhands? What were the men like? On and on it went, till the ranger felt positively dizzy.

The Harper was relieved to see Vil, holding a broadmouthed mug in one hand, rising a good two feet above the throng of smoking Vani. Breaking through her inquisitors to make her way to Vil’s side, Martine ignored the glares of the Vani men as she intruded into their clique.

“Ah, there you are, Martine,” the man cheerfully commented. “Drink?”

“Absolutely,” Martine said with relief. “If I have to answer any more questions, I won’t have any secrets left.”

Vil held up his mug and grinned. “I saw you trapped over there.”

The old men around them scowled at the Harper, though they said nothing since she wasn’t used to their ways. Martine noticed their reactions. After a quick sip, she raised her mug. “You Vani make a fine cider,” she said. “This is the best I’ve had anywhere.” The words weren’t far from the truth, for the cider was crisply sweet, yet just sour enough not to linger thickly in her mouth. Already she could feel the strong kick it carried.

The gnomes near her nodded in polite acknowledgment. Apparently placated by her compliment, they returned to the serious business of socializing. Martine listened in silence for several minutes, then gradually began to ask brief questions of her own. Seeing that she had gained acceptance among the circle of elders, Vil went out to circulate among the feasters.