David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

Martine leaned over and whispered to Vil, “I think I’d best see Krote.” She didn’t feel welcome enough to intrude on the Vani at the moment. The families needed time together, and she would only be in the way. She was aware, too, of neglecting the Word-Maker ever since her arrival. Against all logic, she felt she owed a good deal to Krote.

“Good idea,” Vil agreed. “I’ll go with you.” The pair rose and, after quickly stopping to bow to Sumalo, took their leave.

Outside the council room, the halls were chilly, since all the warren’s heat was kept sealed in closed chambers. Why should I care about a gnoll? Martine asked herself as they made their way down a long hallway. She hadn’t told Vil her concern about leaving Krote in the care of the Vani. A few of the young gnomes on the council had looked hot-tempered enough to decide on a lynching. With passions running high in the warren, it wouldn’t take much to sway other gnomes into a dangerous mob.

If that happens , she thought, I don’t know what I could do to stop it. All the same, I have to be there .

Vil guided her through passages, down staircases, and around turns, gradually leading her into the colder regions of the warren. In these distant corners were the animal pens, root cellars, and storerooms, tucked far away from the brightly lit halls of the central warren.

At last they reached the sties. The tunnels here were old and unplanked, with ceilings of dirt supported by thick beams. The air had the stagnant smell of a stable, though a chill breeze provided some ventilation. The hallway echoed with the clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of a goat. A single magical taper, jammed into the earthen wall, gleamed steadily. The pens and their occupants cast unnaturally stark shadows, which fell away in a circle from the single pool of light.

“Word-Maker?” Martine called.

A guttural snarl came from the darkness: Removing the wooden taper, the Harper illuminated a small pen of bare earth covered with straw. Thick wooden planks made the bars of the cage, dividing her view into vertical slats of darkness.

“Word-Maker?” she called again.

“I am here, woman.” Martine heard a rustle in the darkness in the depths of the cage, and then a black shape crawled forward into the thin orange light of the magical taper. Krote emerged from the gloom, stooped nearly double since the ceiling was too low for him to stand. The gnoll flashed his long canines upon seeing the Harper, but Martine couldn’t guess if this was a show of rage or relief.

“You promised me safety, human,” the shaman snarled. He was barechested, his crossed belts and arm wrappings gone. The gnomes had taken his charms, necklaces, and all the signs of his god to prevent the shaman from calling upon Gorellik. The only symbols of the shaman’s office that remained were the thick-scarred tatoos around his eye.

“You’re alive.”

“This is an animal pen!”

“Word-Maker, I didn’t promise you comfort. I don’t remember you worrying about me back in your village.”

Krote settled into a squat. “I healed you and saved you from Hakk’s hunger.”

Martine jabbed the light stick into the ground. “By marrying me to him!”

Her outburst caused Vil to perk up his head. Until now, he’d been listening with only mild interest, unconcerned with the complaints of a gnoll. “Married?” he asked in the trade tongue. “I did this so Elk-Slayer would not kill the female.” Martine couldn’t see the grin on Vil’s face, but she clearly heard him speak. “By Torm, Madam Elk-Slayer—ooof!”

A quick elbow to his ribs put an end to his playful mood. “That will be enough from you!” she cautioned.

“Why you come here?” Krote asked.

“To close the rift. You know that,” the Harper answered as she shifted her weight and tried to guess what the shaman’s point was.

Krote shook his mangy head. “No, human. Why you stay here? You guarding me?”

“I came to see if you were all right I owe you that much.”

“Owe me? Why?”

It was obvious to Martine. “Because you saved my—”

“I know what I did,” the shaman growled in perplexity. “How do you owe?”

“Kindness for kindness,” Martine answered, equally perplexed that the shaman didn’t understand this simple concept “You—”

Further explanation was cut off by a clamor that echoed down the hall. “I’ll go see what’s going on,” Vil volunteered. As Martine laid a hand on his arm, the former paladin added, “Don’t worry. IT try talk them out of anything rash, if that’s what they’re up to.” He hurried down the hall, stooping under the low beams as he went.

“What is happening, human? Have the little ones come for me?”

“No, not that” Martine hoped that was the truth, but her voice, like her heart, lacked the strength of conviction. “You think the little ones come to kill me.”

“No,” the woman lied badly.

Krote rocked with a barking, staccato cough. “I am your enemy, human, but you fear the little people, too, eh?” The shaman pressed close to the slats. He leered wolfishly so that his long canine teeth glowed dully in the unflickering light. “Let me go, human, or give me a sword to fight them.”

Martine moved away from the cage, shocked by the suggestion. “No!”

The shaman’s fingers wrapped around the thick slats. “Why? You have honor. You know the Burnt Fur are better, more honorable, than the little people.”

“Better? That’s not true!”

“I would kill for freedom; little ones kill for blood. Now who is better?”

“They’re not like you! They don’t threaten to eat you or marry you to impress the tribe. The Vani are afraid and angry. Your people attacked them today and killed a farmer. He hadn’t done anything to harm your people.” The Harper found herself leaping to the defense of the gnomes, of whom only moments ago she had feared the worst.

“I just don’t want them to do anything foolish,” the Harper added. With one finger, she nervously scratched patterns in the dirt “I gave my word you’d be safe.”

A dry chuckle purred in the gnoll’s throat “My people, your people all alike,” Krote whispered as he slid into the darkness. After only a moment, he returned from the shadows and tossed something through the pen’s slats. Martine started and scooted backward. Krote broke into a dry laugh once more. “Look at it. It does not bite. Hakk was making it.”

Martine gingerly picked up the small object, which curiously felt both smooth and raspy to her touch. In the light, it flashed wheat gold. She saw it was made from bundles of straw twisted and woven into a crude doll.

“Hakk make it for his cubs.” The gnoll’s voice was a gravelly whisper. “My people, your people, who is different?” The doll was cunningly fashioned from scraps of leather and cloth. The head was decorated with two specks of color for eyes, while two tufts of fur gave it wolflike ears. The hair was a thin daub of mud. Martine could imagine Hakk carefully mixing spittle and dirt until the texture was just the right consistency. In one knotted hand, the doll held a stone flake that looked almost like a sword. A braid of straw formed a belt; another scrap of fur made a loincloth.

Looking at the crude toy, Martine remembered the dolls her own father had made for her birthday, lovingly carved from a block of wood and then dressed in little gowns sewn by her mother. In her mind, she saw the image of Hakk, writhing beneath Vreesar’s blood-soaked jaws. A lump choked in her throat, and tears blurred her vision. Furious with her lack of control over her own emotions, she flung the doll away into the darkness. “No! Cyric’s damnation on you! You’re not the same! You’re not like the gnomes, and they’re not like you!”