David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

“Him? The coward?” Jouka scoffed. He turned his back and clambered back onto his bench in disgust.

“Yes, him.” Martine had no choice but to leap to Jazrac’s defense. “He simply goes home and gets help. You won’t have to rely on him to fight. And he doesn’t even have to come back.” Martine knew the words must have stung Jazrac, but when she looked at him, his face showed no sign of any reaction.

The elders stroked their white beards thoughtfully. “And if Vreesar kills you and takes this—this thing?” Jouka demanded, still seeking fault with her plan.

The ranger was ready for this question, too. “I plan to hide it before we meet. That way he can’t just kill me and get the stone.”

Sumalo turned to Jouka and said, “If the woman is killed, her plan can still go forward. She is not needed after that.” Martine had not considered that. Thinking about it now was hardly comforting. She noticed that Jouka was smiling grimly.

Now it was Jouka’s turn to stroke at his beard A’s he leaned back on his bench and considered. The others on the council waited expectantly for him to announce his decision. Clearly, as one of the Vani’s few warriors, Jouka’s word carried great weight.

Finally the gnome leaned forward, placing his small hands on his small knees. “Since the woman wants to take the risk, I say we let her. Let the Harpers fix their problems. We risk nothing.”

Except a hundred more creatures like Vreesar if we fail , Martine thought grimly.

Back in their tiny quarters after several more hours of planning with the gnomes, Martine finished going over the particulars with Jazrac. The woman was overflowing with details—the likeliest places to find the gnolls, where to hide the stone, even what gate she’d use to leave. Vil listened with interest, saying nothing all the while she outlined the plan. He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his armor, his hair stiff with dried sweat. Streaks of brown-red blood soiled his tabard.

“Could I see it?” the ex-paladin asked, pointing to the stone.

Martine shrugged and passed it to him. “This is what he wants, eh?”

She nodded.

Vil held it up to the light, turning it like a jeweler looking for a flaw in a diamond. “It seems awfully small to have cost so many lives.” He carefully handed it back to the Harper. “But then it always does.”

“With that stone, Vreesar and its kind could overrun the north,” Jazrac said ominously.

“I’m coming along with you,” the warrior announced. He rose and buckled on his hanger as if the matter was already decided.

“No,” Martine protested. “This is my plan, Vii. I can’t have you taking such a risk.”

“But you need me.” His voice was filled with selfconfidence.

Martine did a slow burn. She’d already admitted she would need help to defeat Vreesar, but it wasn’t as if she couldn’t handle the meeting. “I can handle myself, thank you, Vilheim Baltson.”

“I know you can, but you shouldn’t be alone. You’ll need someone to watch the gnoll while you talk, just in case he tries something.” Vil adjusted the straps on his helm.

“The man makes sense, Martine,” Jazrac observed, even though Martine couldn’t help considering the wizard’s counsel suspect in such matters.

“You’re going to insist on this, aren’t you?” Sensing there was no winning, the ranger rose awkwardly from the floor, the weight of her armor making the move difficult.

Vil nodded in the affirmative as he tipped his chin back to finish buckling the helmet’s straps. “Call it my old paladin self. You need help and I’m duty bound to give it” The words sounded a little choked as he fussed with the strap.

“Are you sure you’re not still a paladin?” she asked with mock suspicion.

Vil rocked the helmet on his head, testing the soundness of the buckles. “I can’t help it if I still think like one.”

“All right. It’s your choice. But I’m not responsible for you,” Martine relented as she strung her bow.

“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

Inwardly, Martine was relieved at the chance to have his company. None of the Vani could be spared to come along, so it would be just she and Vil.

Armored and outfitted, the pair took their leave of the wizard. Jazrac remained behind in the room, too mortified to face the gnomes alone. “Jazrac, don’t leave before I get back,” Martine said as they started through the door.

“I know—just to make sure everything has gone as planned,” the wizard concluded wearily as he closed the door.

It felt uncomfortable giving the mage orders like a child, but Martine was keenly aware that this was her responsibility. Uncomfortable or not, she couldn’t allow any mistakes.

Bound and guarded, Krote was waiting for them in the hall. The gnomes had produced his ragged arm wrappings from somewhere. Seeing how filthy they were, Martine was amazed the gnomes hadn’t burned them. Even the studded crossed belts had been returned.

“Untie him,” the woman ordered as one of the guards handed over the shaman’s charms.

“You can do that outside,” the gnome replied.

It wasn’t important, so Martine let it drop. The gnomes led the way. The warren’s hallways were empty and quiet, somehow missing the normal bustle of everyday life.

A great yawn swept over the ranger. “When did you last sleep?” Vil asked.

“I don’t really know. Is it day or night?” Cut off from the cycles of light and dark inside the windowless burrow, the ranger had lost all track of time. Was it quiet because it was nighttime? Did the gnomes even care?

“It’s almost dawn,” their guide offered. The gnome led them to a section of the warren Martine had never seen before. How big is this den? she wondered. She’d heard of immense underground complexes in the wild regions of the Heartlands, but those were almost always inhabited by fell orcs and the like. Could it be that the gnomes were even greater tunnelers than she ever suspected?

Their arrival at a small doorway at the end of a long passage ended these considerations. There was a small alcove carved at the very end, and here two gnomes guarded the portal. The pair sprang to their feet guiltily, shoving the draughts board out of sight and clenching their stubby spears tightly. They eyed the party nervously.

“The cliffside entrance,” explained the guide with a nod toward the small door. The gate couldn’t have been more than four feet high and half as wide and was constructed of heavy beams bound by iron. A set of double bars lay firmly in heavy brackets at the top and bottom. Everything at this end of the hail was black and polished smooth by the touch of the years.

Their skis hung beside the door on pegs. The gnome quickly passed them to Martine and Vil. There were no skis for the gnoll, but the Harper had already arranged for a pair of snowshoes. The hall was too cramped for them to don their gear, so Martine motioned for the door to be opened while Vil’s lips moved in a silent prayer.

He’s still a paladin at heart , Martine realized suddenly. “The three gnomes set their shoulders to the top bar, and the scarred black beam grated as it slid aside. Next they dragged the lower beam from its brackets. When they worked the iron latch, the gate swung inward with a leaden thunk to open onto a small square of predawn light held in a frame of thick snow, a short tunnel-like passage to the surface.

“It must not be used much,” Martine noted as she peered at the patch of light at the end. The gnomes noted her words, but offered no comment.

“It’s a bolt hole… an escape route. We’ll strap on our skis outside,” Vil said.