David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

Martine turned away. “No, it didn’t,” she admitted. “Why not, Martine?”

Now was the painful part, she knew. “I was afraid to,” she whispered as she turned back to face him. “I really wanted to do well, for everything to work out. I didn’t want you to think anything had gone wrong. Besides, it’s only one creature, and he can’t get back because you’ve got the keystone.”

“It’s never that simple, Martine,” Jazrac snapped. “We can’t leave things like this.”

“Why not? Aren’t you the one who always told me that the Harpers can’t get involved in everything?” The ranger flipped her black bangs from her eyes. “This is just the sort of situation you used to tell me about. Vreesar doesn’t threaten the safety of the Dales, or even the Heartlands. Its a local problem, and we don’t get involved in local problems at least that’s what you used to tell me.”

Jazrac stood up tall with his arms crossed so that he towered over her. “It’s not a local matter anymore, Martine. You don’t understand,” he said flatly. “You’re involved, which means the Harpers are involved. We didn’t let this Vreesar into our world, but because of you, the creature’s a threat to the safety of everyone who lives here. These gnomes, for example. True, you closed the rift, but what good is that if the results still destroy everyone in the vicinity?”

“Not much, I guess,” the ranger answered sheepishly. “You shouldn’t have tried to hide things.” Jazrac’s chest rolled with a sigh. “Simply put, this has jeopardized your career. Yes, you’ve handled the mission, but not well. Not only that, I vouched for you before the others, and now you’re making me look like a fool.” He thrust a long finger in her direction irritably. “Now we have no choice. We’ve got to straighten out this mess and, gods forbid, hope there isn’t any more trouble.”

Feeling miserable and humiliated, Martine sank onto the bedding in the middle of the floor. “There is more trouble, I mean,” she moaned, holding her face in her hands. “The gnolls have attacked, and now the Vani are going to war.”

“Wonderful!” Jazrac exclaimed, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Well, then, my dear, we’d better get busy.” Assuming there was no more to discuss, the wizard began sorting through his unpacked possessions. “I’d like to talk with this shaman. Can that be arranged?”

Without looking up, Martine nodded numbly. “Someone Vil or Turi maybe can show you the way.”

“Vil, is it?” Jazrac murmured.

“He’s not my lover, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Martine said indignantly, her back stiffening. “Vil saved my life and has let me stay with him since.”

“Indeed.”

“Jazrac, don’t be such a prig.” The woman was too angry to be polite.

“You’re right. I’m being rude,” Jazrac said. “What kind of man is he?”

Martine considered the question before offering an opinion. “Trustworthy… decent… He says he was a paladin of Torm.”

“Was? What happened?”

“Something about his god abandoning him. It was during the Time of Troubles.”

“Hmmm… yes, that would make sense.” Jazrac fastidiously straightened his doublet as he went to the door. “Well, grab one of those chairs,” he instructed, pointing to the furniture heaped on the bed. “If we’re all going stay in one room, we’d better clear off that bed.”

Martine set to work numbly. By the time Vil returned, the tables and chairs were neatly placed against the wall of the hallway outside the room. The linens and quilts were divided into thirds. Two beds were laid out on the floor, while the small gnome bed was made up for the third. Vil took these new accommodations in stride.

For what little remained of the night, the trio slept, the two men sleeping on the floor while Martine curled up on the bed. It wasn’t gallantry that gave her the mattress; both men were far too tall to squeeze between the cramped head- and footboards. Even for Martine, it was hardly restful. Although she was only five feet tall, that was still nearly two feet taller than the average gnome. It was only by curling up like a kitten that she was able fit on the bed.

By morning, the ranger had cramps from her neck to the base of her spine. Stretching, she heard the bones in her back pop and crack with every move, but she was grateful to stand upright. She watched enviously as Jazrac laced up his clean linen shirt, trimmed with Chessentian lacework. The smell of town-laundered clothes was unmistakable after weeks of having to wash her own clothes in cold streams or not at all.

Catching her eye, the wizard nodded toward a pile of fabric near his bag. “I thought you might want those,” he said with deceptive casualness.

Curious, Martine went to investigate. “Jazrac, how could you know?” she exclaimed. First she held up a quilted smock, then a pair of woolen breeches, then linen blouses, and finally a long, thick gown. “Why, these are my own clothes! Where did you—” She stopped suddenly and her eyes narrowed. “You have been spying on me, haven’t you? Somehow, with that crystal ball of yours, you’ve been watching me.”

Jazrac only laughed while Vil looked at the two of them in sleepy confusion.

“How much spying does it take to guess you’d need clothes?” the wizard asked innocently. “I just asked Jhaele if you’d left anything at the inn that I could bring you.”

“Oh,” the woman said, her face reddening. “Would both of you please turn around so I can change?” As they faced the door, Martine took her time selecting an outfit. After so long, clean, proper-fitting clothes were almost a novelty; she was resolved to savor dressing in them.

“All done,” Martine finally called. When he saw her, Vil cocked his head in surprise. “Is that uh functional for fighting?” he queried, clearly suspect of her choice but at the same time taken aback by her appearance. After so many days wearing the same stained jerkins, Martine had deliberately chosen a tightly tailored smock that hugged her figure yet kept her warm.

“I’ll be fine, Vil. You’re just not used to women’s clothes.” She smiled at the former paladin’s reaction, secretly flattered. “Thank you for being concerned, though.” Impulsively she swooped over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, flustering the man. “Now we’d better introduce Jazrac to our hosts.”

Finding their hosts didn’t take very long. Just outside the door, Martine saw two pairs of eyes that looked up with her appearance. Round Turi and his leaner brother Jouka sat in the hallway on the two chairs Martine had removed from the room the night before. Turi’s glossy black braids swung loosely as he stared at them. Feet clomped as the pair stood to greet them.

“Masters Jouka and Turi,” Vilheim said as he ducked through the door and entered the hall. “I want you to meet Jazrac of—”

“Mage of Saerloon,” the wizard offered as he emerged from the room. The two gnomes blinked with surprise at seeing yet another human in their midst.

“I apologize for appearing unannounced, but the hour was late when I arrived last night,” Jazrac said in a rich gnomish accent, showing his familiarity with the small race. He bowed deeply to the gnomes, his lace sleeve nearly sweeping the floor. “I ask for your tolerance and hospitality and hope that I can repay you with any service at my power.”

Jouka and Turi gaped openly at the wizard until the woodsman finally stammered, “Master Vil, will you—uh—give assurance for this person?”

Vil sucked his cheek as he considered the request, not particularly eager to stake his word on someone unknown to him.

“I will be the model of behavior,” Jazrac assured them. With no small reluctance, Vilheim nodded. The gnomes seemed satisfied.