David Cook: Soldiers of Ice

The tracker’s gloomy prediction came to mind as the Harper steered Astriphie into a gentle dive that would carry them over the valley’s heart. At its widest, Samek was no more than a few miles across, pointed like a narrow slot north and south. The sides of the valley were ringed in by mountains already deeply cloaked in snow, the treeless peaks mottled with frozen white. Tall pines dressed in the dull greens of winter lined their slopes, the dour monotony broken on the higher reaches by cracked outcroppings of collapsed rock. Natural cathedrals to the gods was how Martine thought of these spectacular mountain peaks.

They swooped lower over the valley, and Martine turned her attention away from the peaks to scan the forests and meadows below, watching for the village. Since the valley was inhabited by gnomes, she didn’t expect to see houses, barns, or the patchwork patterns of fields. The little folk didn’t build their towns as humans did, she knew from experience. They liked to hide their dwellings in the bases of trees, in hillsides, or among the reeds along the river. Still, she hoped to spot a trace of smoke or a winding trail she could follow.

In her first two passes over the valley, Martine noticed the meandering track of several game trails, mountain streams reduced to waterfalls of ice, and the grass-tufted snowfields of frozen bogs, but no sign of a village. It was on the third pass, as Astriphie banked into a turn that tilted the saddle to a dizzying angle, that Martine caught sight of a wisp of smoke rising through the thick-growing trees. With a quick series of whistles and a hard pull on the reins, the ranger swung the hippogriff in a broad loop that came to bear straight toward the smoke. Black-green branches flashed beneath her feet as she urged Astriphie lower until her mount’s hooves scraped off the branches of the uppermost pines. Martine strained in her saddle to peer over the hippogriff’s side while its wings rose and fell in massive beats. Bearing straight on, they closed on the column of smoke that was their guide.

Flying almost too fast, the pair shot over a small clearing and straight through the rising plume of smoke. Martine instantly noted it had the tang of woodsmoke. Whipping around in her saddle, she caught a glimpse of a cabin and a man on the ground, staring up, with an axe in his hand. Not pausing to consider the consequences, she yanked back on the reins and shouted, “Down, Astriphie! Land.”

The hippogriff plunged toward the nearest clearing, a smooth meadow along the banks of a stream. The beast hit the snow with a running bounce that jarred the ranger in her saddle and engulfed them in a blizzard of white powder. Martine wasted no time unbuckling herself and dropping to the ground, cat footed and ready, her sword already in her hand. “Stay, Astriphie,” she commanded, leaving the hippogriff unhobbled just in case something dangerous happened by. The mighty steed flexed its wings contentedly and seemed to chirp back in understanding.

Once she was into the woods, the snow was far deeper than Martine had expected, and it was with considerable difficulty that she floundered through the heavy drifts. By the time the Harper reached the clearing she had spotted from the air, she was panting and sweat soaked. She didn’t try to scout out her goal, but stepped through the screen of underbrush boldly and stood in full view of the axeman. At first glance, she guessed the cabin’s owner was at home in the woods like herself, a man who chose to live out in the wilds, and so she placed her faith in the usual frontier hospitality.

The man was standing near a stump where he had been chopping wood. There was a neatly piled stack of waiting logs on one side of him and a jumbled heap on the other. Behind him stood a small cabin built of solid pine logs. A rickety stone chimney clung to one side of the house, and a little shed that looked like a combination storehouse and entrance jutted off the front. The substantial walls were broken by one small window, heavily shuttered. The yard around the cabin was cluttered with snow mounded piles of cordwood and what she could only guess were the half-finished projects of every frontiersman.

Despite the chill, the man wore no coat or gloves, and his tasseled woolen cap was pushed far back on his head. His hair was dun gray and short, cut carelessly so that it cropped out over his ears. Dark stains of sweat marked the heavy smock he wore.

As Martine stepped out of the woods, he hefted his axe in one hand, and she noted he held it the way a warrior would, rather than a lumberjack. He was a big man and older than Martine. She guessed his age at forty or perhaps fifty, her father’s age, at least judging by his graying brown hair and the slightly stiff way he moved. His nose was crooked, as if it had once been broken, and a thick stubble grew on his chin, the look of a man who had few guests. His expression showed no surprise or emotion beyond the wariness that filled his eyes.

“Greetings,” he said with the same hospitable caution she had shown. The stranger’s voice was deep, and when he spoke, haggard lines flexed across his face as if his weatherbeaten cheeks were unaccustomed to shaping words. “I am Vilheim, son of Balt.” He stopped, offering no more information about himself, although his sharp accent was like those she had heard along the Chessentian coast in the south.

“My respects to you, sir,” Martine offered deferentially, taking care not to move any closer. “I have traveled a long way to see the gnomes of this valley. Do you know of them?”

The man swung his axe with a casual stroke and sank it into the stump. The sharp chunk of the blow echoed dully through the snowy woods. He spread his hands slightly, as if to show that he was unarmed, though Martine noted he never stepped out of arm’s reach of the axe. Again there was a long silence that neither seemed eager to fill.

“Gnomes, eh?” he finally intoned. “You came here to talk to gnomes. That was you flying overhead, right, Miss…?”

“Martine. Of Sembia.” She shifted from side to side to keep her feet from freezing inside her boots. “I’m hoping the gnomes will guide me onto the Great Glacier.”

The man’s weatherbeaten face almost broke into a grin at the relish of some private joke, and then his stoic face regained its composure. “Forgive me, I have forgotten my manners,” the woodsman quickly said, his voice apologetic. “I fear you have come a long way for naught, Martine of Sembia. The Vani are not friendly to strangers.”

“The Vani?”

“The gnomes of Samek.” He spoke in strained tones as he stiffly picked up his coat, a heavy parka of fur and leather, from the ground and brushed away the snow that clung to it.

Martine persisted, stepping forward to press her claim. “I still would like to try. Can you guide me to them?”

He stopped and suddenly scrutinized Martine, looking at her and beyond her into the gray woods, as if searching for any others who may have accompanied her. His gaze was startlingly sharp and intense, far more than she expected from an ordinary frontiersman, and it made Martine wonder if she had done the right thing by showing herself so abruptly. This simple woodsman wasn’t what she had expected, and that made her nervous.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yes. Are you?” She felt her hand inch unconsciously toward the sword that dangled from her hip.

Vilheim flicked his eyes between the sky and Martine until he finally seemed to compromise and gazed at the trees behind her. He rubbed at the thick stubble of his cheek tentatively. “Alone? Yes… I’m alone.” Martine thought she detected a trace of sorrow in his voice.

The man met her gaze evenly. A shiver made her legs tremble, and she was suddenly aware just how cold it was as the dry breeze swirled up motes of ice between them.