David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

“It’s not your lands or my lands. It’s just that they’re, well, gnolls. Even if they were attacking the Dalelands, it wouldn’t be a Harper concern. People have to stand on their own. Harpers can’t do everything for everyone. There aren’t that many of us.” Martine felt exposed in the center of the floor, painfully conscious of her hands as she twisted the speaker’s rod. There was a reason she had chosen to be a ranger, born to the woods, and not an outgoing bard like many other Harpers.

Jouka wouldn’t relent. “So now that you have stirred up the gnolls, Harper, it’s not your problem,” he accused, his face almost sliding into a sneer: “We did not ask you come here, Harper. The Vani do not want to be pawns in your intrigues. We choose to live here to be far from big folk like you.”

A chorus of approval ran through the chamber. Jouka’s words had tapped a vein of outrage that ran through the younger Vani. Seizing the moment, he turned to face his fellows.

“The Harper says it is our problem! Very well, then I say we must fight the gnolls. We must drive them out of our valley!” the woodsman insisted. His eager audience, their unwrinkled faces gleaming with eagerness to prove themselves in battle, began to clap rhythmically in agreement.

The primitive swell threatened to overwhelm any possible debate. Finally Sumalo was forced to clamber from his high seat and reclaim the speaker’s rod from Martine.

“Silence! Silence, everyone!” Sumalo banged his ash rod on the wooden floor, his iron charms bouncing with each beat. Thump-jingle, thump-jingle. The beat repeated several times until the unruly younger gnomes in the upper tiers finally calmed down. “I hold the speaker’s wand, and we are still in the council chamber,” the priest chastised, his wrinkled face soured by the outburst.

“Vani, think of your wives, children, loved ones!” Sumalo boomed, his voice strong now. Rod in hand, he stalked a circuit round the council floor, his eyes fixed on the raucous upper tier. “War is not an easy thing. It is not like hunting a deer or even fighting a badger when it breaks into the warren. There are many gnolls, and they, too, are ready to fight: They will not run away simply because we kill a few.”

The elder paused, stroking his white beard while scanning the council chamber. He set the speaker’s rod before him like a staff; forestalling any interruptions. Finally he began again. “Our warren is strong and the winter is our friend. We should not give up our best strength. We can wait here. These dog-men will be weak and frozen before the spring comes. Let them freeze while we stay warm.” Older voices echoed their approval.

The logic was sound, Martine knew. The warren was the Vani’s best asset, an underground fortress the gnolls would find hard to break. Studying the faces of the council, however, it didn’t look as if the priest’s argument was carrying. Jouka’s call for glory and action was irresistible to many. Compared to it, Sumalo’s counsel of patience and cunning seemed weak and cowardly.

The debate continued, and Martine resisted every urge to leap forward with her advice even when the most outlandish claims were made. It was clear to her that the Vani were not a warrior people. Many of them, particularly the younger ones, had no concept of what a full-scale war against the gnolls would be like. Comparing the two camps, Vani and Burnt Fur, the ranger could tell the gnomes were outmatched in savagery, let alone sheer numbers. However, having already been dismissed by Jouka’s faction, Martine knew her words would carry little weight.

At last the speaker’s rod passed to Jouka. With its authority in his hands, the council fell silent, waiting to hear what he would say. Seated, with his head bowed, the young warrior spoke in a calm, slightly nasal voice. He framed his words with surprising coolness, not delivering the tirade Martine expected. “Elder Sumalo, you have spoken with the conviction of your age. You have said such a war would be dangerous, and I am sure it will be. But it is More dangerous to do nothing. The dog-men have killed one of our people. It is our right to seek revenge. I say no More debate. It is time to vote.”

Once again the council chamber echoed to the clapping of Jouka’s faction. This time, though, Jouka held the rod and would not relinquish it, so there was no silencing the outburst.

At last the old gnome reluctantly nodded, stung by the chorus of support Jouka received from the back of the hall.

“Show the human out,” he instructed Turi. Slowly and stiffly, Elder Sumalo returned to his seat.

“As you wish, elder,” the rotund gnome replied as he slipped off the bench with a downcast look. “Bad business, this is,” he mumbled while hiking up his robes and heading for the door.

Martine was almost relieved to be escorted out of the chamber, feeling as helpless as she did during the debate. She didn’t need to stay to know how the vote would turn out. Jouka’s supporters were fired with the passion of war. Their voices would overwhelm the wiser arguments of those who knew better.

In the hall where the dance had been held, Martine found Vii at the center of a swarm of gnome children, still here while their mothers waited for the menfolk to end their business. With strong hands, the former paladin playfully scooped up a young gnome and hoisted him to the ceiling, an immense height for one so small. The child’s squeals of delight momentarily dispelled the pall of fear that hung over the hall as others clamored for a turn. Besieged, Vil greeted Martine’s return with a grin of relief.

“How about a hand with these children, Martine? Make yourself useful.”

“I’ve been trying to, blast it!” the ranger blurted in frustration. “But it looks like your friend Jouka—”

“Quiet!” the man warned softly as he hoisted another squealing child high overhead. “Not here.”

Looking about, Martine realized how frightened the gnome women looked. She had forgotten that they were wives and mothers, not warriors like her. Suddenly she felt like a mercenary who had been so long at war that she had forgotten the ways of a normal home.

Feeling as self-conscious as she had felt before the council, the huntress found a gnome-sized stool and perched upon it awkwardly. “How about a story, children?” A few came closer, but most hovered back, shy of this newcomer. Martine motioned for the women to bring their children closer.

She had just reached the point in her story where the heroine, not altogether unlike Martine, was facing off against the captain of a pirate ship when a flurry at the council doors heralded the end of the meeting. The women gathered their children against their starched skirts and waited breathlessly to hear the council’s decision.

The council filed out of the chamber in solemn order. Elder Sumalo was first, followed by the older members of the assembly. After them came the younger gnomes. Martine noticed very little mingling between the cautious whitebeards and the quick-tempered younger members of the council.¤ Reko’s fiddle music stopped, and the few remaining dancers cleared the floor as the priest entered the hall.

Sumalo’s face was set like stone; his color was pale, and his shoulders sagged. Finally he stood in the center of the hall and motioned the crowd to silence.

Thump, thump, thump . The priest banged his iron speaker’s rod for attention. The pounding was hardly necessary, but it punctuated the solemnity of the moment.

“Brother Vani, as leader of your council and voice of the Great Crafter, hear the decision of the council. By the laws of the last high king, there will be war.”

A collective gasp escaped from the throats of the women in the room. Mothers clung tightly to their children. A few crooned lullabies to soothe their infants, who sensed something was wrong in spite of their tender years. Wives sought out their husbands, and when they met, they spoke not a word. The younger women paled as they thought of their swains. Martine could see fear for their loved ones in their eyes. Old Reko brushed back his beard and struck up a mournful tune.