David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

Martine’s conversation was limited by the growing intensity of the fiddlers’ tunes. The musicians segued easily from waltzes to polkas, with a liberal sprinkling of schottisches, hornpipes, reels, and furious jigs. With each round, the pace quickened, till finally the floorboards trembled with the thundering capers of the dancers. Martine gave up trying to shout over the din and savored her cider, letting the warmth of the drink blank out the pains, concerns, and tensions of the day. Spotting Vil nursing his tankard, the Harper topped off her own mug from the free-flowing tap and rejoined him, reeling only slightly as she strode across the floor.

“Want to dance?” she asked.

“What?” Vil’s beard bounced as his jaw dropped in surprise.

“I said, do you want to dance?” Martine repeated, more loudly this time.

“Me?”

“Of course you! The others are a little short, even for me.” Feeling the exuberance of the drink, the Harper grinned and tugged the man to his feet.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Vil protested lamely.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoilsport. I don’t care if you’re one of those one-legged fachans that haunt the forest. Drink up,” she ordered as she tossed back the last of her cider. The fiddlers launched into a reel.

“I’ll never keep up with this!”

She hauled him onto the floor, ignoring his pleas. The gnome dancers cheerfully opened a space for the giant couple. “Just watch them.”

Before he could begin to absorb her advice, she seized his hands and swirled them into the high-stepping reel. Gamely Vil struggled to keep pace, his face an agony of concentration as he watched her feet and tried to match the whirling steps. As a consequence, he was always at least a half a step late, and forever doing higgledy steps to regain the rhythm.

They spun and crashed into the small couples around them like a tavern skittle caroming from pin to pin. Martine’s obvious enjoyment and Vil’s flustered apologies only added to the entertainment of the other dancers.

The song ended, but for Martine, it had been too long since she had released herself to such simple pleasures. The fiddlers, perhaps sensing her mood, launched into a rousing polka that swept the pair around the dance floor once again. Despite himself, Vil was managing to gain enough confidence in his simple steps to look up from her feet and smile occasionally, although his head still counted out the musicians’ beat.

With heels flashing, they circled the floor dizzily, Martine leading Vil through the capering steps. With its undersize furnishings and people to match, the warren became a child’s dollhouse. They whirled past wizened toadstools posing as solemn ancients, past dames dressed like dried pippin dolls, past warriors lining the walls like martial puppets, past courting lovers—who teased each other like children. For an instant, all Martine’s cares evaporated with the soaring music. The fiddle bows flew faster as she shed her mantle of formal reserve.

When the polka came to a sudden halt, the Harper collapsed, panting, against her partner. His chest rose and fell strongly, slightly winded by their turns. She let herself savor the sharp tang of his sweat and feel the rough muscles of his chest.

Atop his barrel, the lead fiddler uncricked his neck, then threw his long white beard over one shoulder and placed the fiddle in the crook of his arm. While the other fiddlers rested, the old gnome coaxed the first aching chords of a mournful air from his instrument. Gradually minuscule dancers warrior husbands and their wives, hopeful lovers, and aping children crowded into the center of the hall. Martine held Vil on the floor as the dance began, her head still pressed close against him. Gently the dancers swayed about the floor, the two humans at the center like a living maypole at a spring festival. Unconsciously, Vil’s arms closed about her.

The fiddler’s tune seemed to draw out the community’s concerns, the droning strings of the hardranger ominously rumbling of some future fate. The drinkers on the benches fell silent as the musician’s bow sang with the voice of the winter wind and the moonless night.

The music lingered in the air even after the last note died, and everyone held his breath, savoring the memory of the mournful tune. Finally the other dancers slowly stopped, but still no one spoke for fear of breaking the spell. Vil and Martine remained in their embrace, unaware how closely they held each other. Only slowly did the life return to the party. Then, with clear reluctance, Martine slid out of Vil’s clasp and allowed herself to be led off the floor.

“Dancing certainly brings up a thirst.” Vil’s words were strained as he picked a path to the hogsheads.

“The little fiddler was very good,” Martine said with equal awkwardness while trying to straighten out her rumpled clothes.

“That’s Reko, their bard,” the former paladin explained. “At three hundred and forty seven, he’s had a lot of time to practice.”

For a moment, Martine was taken aback, until she remembered that most gnomes lived well past three centuries or even more. The thought suddenly made her wonder how old the warren was. How long had the Vani laid claim to this valley?

Her questions were never asked, for at that moment, a pudgy youth stormed into the hall. In his rush, the gnome charged through the throng like a small boulder, startling one benchful of drinkers so that they almost spilled to the floor. The chatter in the hall suddenly ceased, though no one moved, fearing what they might hear.

“Father’s dead!” the gnomish youth blurted out, his eyes wide and voice breaking with tears. “Our farm was attacked by the gnolls. Hudni… Father… everybody’s dead!”

The revelers were struck silent The clogging stomp of the dancers lurched to a halt, and the fading drones of the fiddle strings echoed down the wooden halls. Gossips hushed their prattle. Mugs ceased to clink. Ancients strained half-deaf ears to hear the next word, uncertain of what had already been said.

“Brother Buri, what has happened?” Elder Sumalo asked softly in his thin, wheezy voice. The old priest forced his way through the stunned gnomes to reach the trembling youth. Sumalo kept his voice calm and soothing to prevent the boy’s terror from spreading panic among the revelers.

“It was the gnolls,” Buri blurted, his fat cheeks quivering as he gasped for self-control. “Father and I were just finishing the chores we were going to come to the dance and I went inside, and then Father shouted that there were gnolls coming, and then he screamed, and then they broke down the front door, and I… I…” His words floundered as the young gnome’s voice broke, caught up in tears that trickled into his thin beard.

Sumalo gripped the youth’s shoulders, giving comfort in strength. “And?”

“I got away through the escape hole… but Father didn’t.”

By this time, the menfolk of the Vani had clustered close to hear the tale. Those of warrior age pressed closest and listened most intently. Martine, pressed back by the swarming small warriors, spotted Jouka, Turi, and Ojakangas in the forefront.

Jouka turned the youth away from Sumalo to face him. “Buri, how many of the dog-men were there?” Though Jouka spoke softly, there was no softness in his voice. His eyes were decisive and bright.

“I don’t know.”

“Think. Think carefully. We must know their numbers. Think of the warren here! How many were there?”

“Ten… maybe more. I’m not sure! There was a great white creature with them, though: It broke down the door.” The youth’s rotund body quivered as if it were going to melt in Jouka’s hands.

“Vreesar!” Martine choked back the name, but the warriors heard it anyway.