David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

“Enough, Jouka,” Sumalo said firmly, rescuing the boy from the woodsman’s grasp. “Buri, you’ve had a hard time. Stay here with your cousins and sleep. Kara… Heikko… will you take the boy in?” The priest steered the youth toward a golden-bearded warrior and his stout wife. Their faces lined with concern, the couple wrapped their arms about the youth and led him away.

Satisfied the young gnome was cared for, Sumalo hurriedly turned to the Harper, his stocky body stiff with displeasure. “You know something of this?”

Martine nodded.

“Jouka, Turi… bring the others. We must have a council now. Mistress Martine, you will attend.” Elder Sumalo’s decision was quick and precise, and nobody, not even Martine, thought to question his authority as the white-bearded old priest began to march to the council chamber. “Reko, play something soothing,” he advised the bard in passing. The old fiddler nodded and set his bow to the strings. As Martine left Vil in the dance hall, she heard the strains of a gentle lullaby swell behind her.

The raucous dissonance of debate began even before the knot of gnomes who preceded Martine had clambered onto the tiers in the council hall. Worming through the spectators jammed around the door, the human woman reached the edge of the tiers at the council floor. All eyes were on her, curious and wary, but the debaters never paused to acknowledge her presence.

Over the buzz of excited voices, Sumalo finally made his voice heard, pounding the floorboards with the speaker’s rod.

“Speak in the common tongue!” the priest bellowed hoarsely to a knot of elders who spoke in a dialect so ancient Martine could barely understand it. “The outsider must understand our words!” A grumbled sigh ran through the Vani, but they complied with his command.

Elder Sumalo continued quickly before the pandemonium could begin anew. “The question before the council is what to do now about the gnolls outside. This human, Mistress Martine, has recently been their prisoner. I ask her now to tell us what she saw”

His iron charms jingled as the priest waddled forward to present Martine with the speaker’s rod. Respectful of their traditions, she kissed the smooth wood before beginning her tale.

The hall was packed tight with gnomes, with the whitebeards in the lowest tiers, while the farmers and woodsmen filled the upper benches. Martine faced them, acutely nervous to be speaking before them.

Where do I begin? she thought, her mind reeling. Should I tell them about the rift? It was a Harper mission, and after all, Harpers and their jobs were supposed to be secret. It was a time-honored principle that the less said, the better.

The ranger decided to avoid any mention of the details of her assignment. The recounting began with the events of her capture. Martine’s audience craned forward, engrossed in the details. The Harper did her best to assess the number and skill of the gnolls. She stressed the actions of the Word-Maker, pointing out that Krote’s absence deprived the tribe of their medicine man.

Heads waggled when she reminded them of the prisoner. Voices thick with accents murmured darkly, but none rose to interrupt her. Sumalo listened impassively, his head nodding, while Jouka fidgeted and fingered his sword nervously. Turi, his ear cocked to catch every word, leaned forward attentively on his wooden bench.

The calm broke into storm when she described the arrival of Vreesar. Leaping to his feet, Jouka Tunkelo seized on her revelation. “A fiend a thing of the elements? Where did this come from, human? What have you failed to tell us?” A chorus of murmuring, even from the whitebearded front tiers, supported his question.

Martine was on the spot. In situations like this, the ranger knew she had little skill to concoct a convincing lie. Holding the speaker’s rod aloft in a vain attempt to maintain silence, she explained, “He came from a rift in the glacier.”

“A rift? What does this mean?” queried a gap-toothed ancient in the front row.

Martine could feel the veil of secrecy slipping from her grasp. “It’s a hole between the worlds between this world and the realm of ice.”

The explanation triggered debate as to whether the council had heard her correctly. The discussions flew in heated whispers as the gnomes huddled in small knots, each trying to have his say without raising his voice too loud. Only Sumalo in the center chair nodded with understanding.

“Realm of ice? How do you know this?” Jouka demanded. Martine hoped a little more of the truth would satisfy the gnomes’ curiosity. “Because that’s what I was told. I was sent to close it.”

“Sent?” The word rolled through her audience as they seized on its import.

“Mistress Martine, you said you were sent. Who sent you?” Now even Sumalo, quiet up to now, joined the questioning. The priest’s leathery old face was wrinkled with concern.

Martine resigned herself to tell the whole truth. “The Harpers sent me. I’m a Harper.”

In the few previous times when she had revealed her affiliation, people had reacted in one of two ways. The most common was one of subdued awe. Harpers were the stuff of legends, most of which painted the agents as mysterious and powerful. Martine suspected the bards of the Harpers, of which there were quite a few, spread such stories intentionally, since a good reputation was an effective tool. The other reaction, not as common, was fear the fear of the villain. Those same tales made clear the fate of Harper foes.

The gnomes were neither awed nor afraid. Instead, the room became completely silent. The old gnomes cocked their heads quizzically, wondering if they had missed something important. Some of the younger gnomes nodded their heads dumbly in a pretense of worldliness.

“And what are Harpers, Mistress Martine?” Sumalo asked for the benefit of the entire council.

Now it was Martine’s turn to be dumbfounded. It had never occurred to her that the Vani didn’t know about the Harpers. In her world, everybody had at least some inkling of the Harpers and their code. A peasant might have a false impression, but at least he had heard of them. These gnomes hadn’t a clue.

Martine wondered how to explain without making it sound sinister or arrogant. She had little time to ponder her answer. Taking a deep breath, she gave it her best try. “We—I mean, the Harpers—have been around for several hundred years—”

“I have been around for several hundred years, and you do not look like you’ve been here as long as I,” interrupted one of the oldest of the group before her. Those around him chortled and snickered while the old gnome thumped his cane at his own joke.

Martine flushed. “I mean the group has been around that long, not me. We try to keep peace.”

“You were sent here to rule us?” big-nosed Ojakangas asked, his voice filled with confusion.

“No… no, that’s not it at all.” The ranger threw up her hands as a gesture of her good intentions.

“You were sent to deal with the gnolls? Is that why you’ve come?” Jouka asked before she could continue.

“No, you misunderstand,” Martine said hurriedly as she turned to face Jouka. “As I explained, I was sent here to close the rift. I didn’t even know about the gnolls. The gnolls aren’t a threat to peace in the land.”

Once more Jouka stood from his seat, his face grim behind his black beard. “The gnolls attack us. Is that not a threat to peace?”

“Your peace, yes, but…“ The ranger fidgeted, feeling miserably awkward before the council.

“Because your lands are not threatened, you mean, human,” Jouka said sarcastically.

Oh, gods, this isn’t going right , Martine moaned inwardly. Valiantly she tried once again to explain.