David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

Bent almost double, the three of them half-walked, halfcrawled up the four steps and onto the surface. Cliffside was aptly named, for the gate deposited them on a small ledge of a bluff overlooking the river. In the predawn gloom, Martine could see that the slope dropped away quickly and was thick with young birches that had gained a purchase on its steep sides. Below and beyond the dim light, she heard the creak and groan of river ice, while behind them, the gate thudded shut, followed by the rumble of the bars as they were slid back in place.

Drawing her bone-handled knife, Martine cut the shaman’s bonds. The gnoll eagerly flexed his wrists and rubbed them to get circulation back into his hands. With his superior night vision, the gnoll flicked his yellow eyes over the woods while his black nose crinkled, searching for scents the humans could never discern.

“Wear these,” the ranger ordered, thrusting the snowshoes into Krote’s hands. Vil held his sword ready while Martine strapped her skis on; then she did the same for him. Ice crackled softly under their feet as the party broke a path along the trail. The skis hissed through the powder, grinding on the hard chunks of ice that roiled up like waves on a frozen sea.

The trail wound along the river bluff, hairpinning several times before it finally reached level ground well away from the warren.

Upon reaching the flat, Martine signaled the silent group to a stop. “Wait here,” she whispered as if there were gnolls all about. “I’ve got to hide the stone.” She slid away into the frost filled gloom of the forest.

“Take off your snowshoes and sit,” the former paladin ordered, motioning to the gnoll with his sword. As the shaman obeyed, Vil settled down for a long wait.

The pair spent what seemed like an hour in silence, listening to the hunting calls of the owls along the river, the last before their coming daytime silence. Once they heard a barking cough that alerted them both, but then the yellow gleam of eyes showed it to be a lynx irritated with their presence. The gnoll growled and bared his teeth at the wildcat to send it scampering into the woods. It was as close to talking as the man and gnoll got.

The slide of skis heralded Martine’s return. She said nothing about where she had been, believing it best that only she knew the stone’s hiding place. Vil was happy to get moving again and work out the chill that had seeped into his body. The dawn sun was breaking over the eastern mountains, but its rays only created bright glare and long shadows without providing any warmth.

“So where do we find Vreesar?” Vil asked as they skirted the snow-choked borders of a frozen pond, an extension of the low-banked river. A mountain fog, moisture freezing in the air, hung in the trees along the shore’s edge.

“We’ll try their camp first,” Martine answered. “I don’t think they’ve had time to move any closer to the warren. The gnomes didn’t see any signs of major activity—no smoke from campfires or anything. My best guess is that they’re still at the camp we raided.”

Krote spoke up. “They will not stay there.”

“Why not?” Martine demanded.

“Many died there. The ground is paavak —a place for evil spirits. Even Vreesar cannot get my people to stay.” Martine trusted the shaman’s words because they made sense. Places of death, especially battlegrounds, were always dangerous, and not only because the dead might walk again. There was always the risk of being possessed by a vengeful spirit still haunting such areas. “All right Then we’ll assume Vreesar’s somewhere between his old camp and the warren. With all those gnolls, the camp can’t be hard to find.”

Keeping alert for any tracks, Martine plunged into the woods, following a path that would form a loop around the warren’s east side. Sooner than she expected, they found the broken snow of a trail made by a number of creatures, all more or less following the same direction.

“Definitely gnolls,” the ranger whispered after a brief inspection of the tracks. “About twenty of them. See the snow in the prints? They can’t be more than a few hours old.”

“How about the elemental?” Vil asked.

Martine shook her head. “Not among these. Let’s go.” The woman didn’t like standing still. The gnolls could be anywhere. They might have looped back, or they could be stopped just over the next ridge. There was a thrill to the uncertainty of stalking that made her want to keep moving, especially when the prey was as cunning and dangerous as the gnolls were.

“Be ready, shaman,” she added. “In case we find them.” The gnoll growled. Martine wasn’t sure what that signified. Word-Maker had assured her that he could get them a parley. She would rather have used a white flag, assuming such things were universal, but the gnolls, according to the shaman, didn’t understand the meaning of that gesture. Thus she found herself forced to rely on the shaman more than she liked. It made her all the happier to have Vil along, in case Krote decided to betray her trust.

The trail split around some tree trunks and branched off, with several lone tracks trailing off into the woods, but the main trail kept a steady course, angling toward a ridge that overlooked the east gate. The ridge was formed by a mountain spur that forced the river into a wide loop and formed the small bluff upon which the warren sat. The high end of the ridge, to the east, crested in a series of granite outcroppings that thrust through the snow like the exposed vertebrae of the mountain’s spine. A gnoll perched atop the rocks would have a clear view of the east and south gates of the Vani warren. Making a sensible guess, Martine figured the camp was somewhere just below the crest.

From ahead, there came a raven’s mournful protest.

After that, it became completely silent. There were no sounds of forest animals foraging for their breakfasts, no bird calls of any type. Without speaking, Martine signaled caution. Vil drew his sword and held it close to the gnoll’s back, making sure the shaman saw his move. The Harper kept her weapons sheathed. She wanted to parley and could not afford any misunderstanding that might lead to battle.

Stealthily the ranger led them on, using all her woodland skill to avoid any noise. She winced with every crackle of Krote’s snowshoes. Soon they heard harsh voices through the trees, and then they saw their goal.

It was a new camp, as Martine had hoped. Though the ground was trampled with the tribe’s coming and going, only a few rude tents had been put up. The gnolls huddled in small groups, bundled in their furs, their weapons thrust in the snow beside them. A few were making an anemic effort to chop wood, but no fires smoked. It must have been a cold and hard night for the gnolls , she thought. They looked exhausted, which probably explained the lack of guards around the camp’s perimeter.

Martine beckoned Krote forward. “Remember, we’ve come to talk, not fight. You’ll die first if you betray us,” she whispered. The gnoll’s ears twitched, the only sign that he heard.

Stepping from the background of the trees, Krote raised his hands high. Several faces glanced his way, and those that saw him spread the alarm, creating a flurry that swept through the camp.

“Brothers of the Burnt Fur!” Krote shouted, his voice harsh against the coldness of the morning.

Growled barks rippled through the small packs of warriors.

“Brothers of the Burnt Fur, I bring the humans with me. They come to speak with the chieftain of the Burnt Fur. I call the chieftain of the Burnt Fur to come forth and speak for his tribe.” Krote crossed his arms, looking as regal and proud as his thin, haggard body allowed.

The gnolls swayed with indecision. Some took several steps forward, only to falter hesitantly as the rest of the pack hung back. Their eyes scanned the wood on all sides, looking for a trap. Swords and spears were cautiously drawn from the snow. It was obvious they did not welcome the shaman, but no tribesman acted with enough boldness to tip the balance one way or the other. They were confused, since the two humans were not enough for an attack, but there was no sign of an ambush. Yet the concept of talking was foreign to them.