David Cook: Soldiers of Ice

“You’ll freeze out here tonight,” the woodsman said abruptly, a smile finally breaking across his face. “I can offer you a hot meal and a place to sleep. You are welcome to stay, although you may find me a disappointing cook. Your search for the Vani might best be done tomorrow when there is more of the day.”

Martine accepted Vilheim Baltson’s sudden hospitality at face value. She sensed a basic decency in the man. It wasn’t just intuition, but also trust in the simple ways of the frontier. Visitors were too few to be abused or driven away. Martine seized the opportunity, thankful for the offer of warmth and comfort. “Much kindness, Master Vilheim. As soon as I’ve tended to my hippogriff, I’ll gladly accept what I’m sure will be considerable improvement on another meal of boiled jerky and biscuit.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Vilheim warned as he pulled the axe free from the log to take it back inside. “Bring your animal up and come inside when you’re ready. I’ll straighten up the place a little.”

Martine trudged back through the snow to fetch Astriphie. The hippogriff was crouched in bloodstained snow, tearing at the carcass of a deer, forcing the ranger to wait until the meal was done. Finally she was able to remount the hippogriff safely and fly to the cabin. After making a quick bed of pine boughs for Astriphie, she knocked at the cabin door.

“Come in,” Vilheim called from the other side.

With one hand close to her sword, just in case, she opened the door and was instantly assaulted by an outrush of steamy warmth. Compared to the cold dryness outside, the cabin was like the tropics, and after days of camping in snow, it was a blessing.

“Come in quickly and close the door, or there’ll be more wood to cut,” her host chided from the fire. He was already ladling bubbling stew into two thick, wooden bowls. “Sit at the table. Please.”

Martine didn’t require more urging and pulled up one of the two rickety chairs she saw. The whole cabin was a single, sparsely furnished room—one wobbly table, two chairs, a bed heaped with comforters, and a chest. A well-polished, dented breastplate hung from a rack by the door, along with a battered war helm, several spears, and Vilheim’s coat. The crudely tanned bear rug on the smooth wood floor in front of the fireplace was testimony to her host’s prowess with bow and sword. These two weapons hung over the log mantel, both unpretentious but well made. Aside from these martial touches, the rest of the cabin’s furnishings were purely functional—pots and pans, lamps, dishes, and the like. Overhead, the scarred wood rafters were carelessly decorated with leather bags hung from pegs and, in one case, a bent-handled dagger driven into the wood. Above the rafters, cobwebs glowed in the flickering light. There was one other door, which Martine had little trouble guessing led to an attached privy.

She had barely settled in before her host quickly set the table with bowls of hot stew, great brown rounds of bread, and a pot of fresh cheese. The aroma of grease, fried onions, and salted venison belied the threat of bad cooking. After Vilheim pulled up the other chair and mumbled a grace, Martine set to eating with a vengeance. She ate greedily while Vilheim observed silently.

After both had pushed their bowls away and Martine profusely thanked her host, the talk gradually turned to news of the outside world. They talked about trivialities—who ruled where, and what new wonders had arisen. He was particularly interested in how the land’s faiths fared, and although she wasn’t very religious, she told him what she knew. As the conversation continued, Martine came to call him “Vil,” and he in turn managed to drop the formal “of Sembia” from her name.

Yet throughout their conversation, Vil revealed but little of himself. He was from Chessentia, as she had guessed, and had been living in the valley for about three years. He had settled here for privacy, he explained, and it was as good a reason as many she had heard.

She offered little more about herself. No mention was made of her role in the Harpers or of her current mission. It wasn’t wise to carelessly advertise one’s allegiance. Her host seemed satisfied to let her keep her secrets.

At last the Harper broached the subject of the gnomes.

“I know them,” Vilheim allowed. “I’ve been their neighbor for three years now—but a short time, in their estimation. They’re good enough neighbors, but in their own way.” Vil paused and sucked on his lip as he tried to think of the right words. “They prefer their privacy.”

“Do you think I could meet with them?” Martine tried not to sound too eager. Unconsciously her fingers started playing with her table knife, spinning it back and forth. “Or could you guide me to the Great Glacier?”

Vil leaned back, considering the young woman’s question. “Better you try the Vani first. I usually stay away from glacier country. Tomorrow I will take you to see them, and you can ask for yourself.”

Wakefulness came slowly to Martine the next morning. Sunk into the depths of Vilheim’s feather bed, which he had insisted she occupy while he slept on the floor, Martine had no desire to rise. The Harper lay staring upward at the semidarkness, listening to the bleak, cold wind that moaned outside the window. Gradually the dim outlines of the rafters and the black roundness of a hanging venison haunch took shape over her, illuminated by the dying glimmers from last night’s ash-banked fire.

What time she woke and how long she lay there, Martine could not say. Wake and sleep blurred together, one coming, the other going, in repeated cycles. Finally the dim shapes overhead lightened and filled as the eastern sun cleared the distant ridge and sent its rays through the gaps between the window shutter’s slats, followed by the clank of cooking pots as Vilheim prepared breakfast.

With a sigh, Martine clawed her way out of bed and groped her way through the worn blanket divider, another thing her host had insisted upon last night. Instantly cold air swirled around her bare legs, reminding her of where she stood. She pulled her tunic closer to her for warmth. “Morning,” Vil called out as he ladled water from a barrel and into a pitted old pot.

“Good morning to you, and thank you for the bed. Did any woman ever tell you you snore?” Martine cheerfully tweaked him as she rummaged through her clothes at the foot of the bed. Finding the warm leggings she sought, Martine pulled the curtain closed to get dressed.

“You’re the first,” Vil shouted over the makeshift wall. “Rose hip tea or hot goat’s milk?”

Goat’s milk sounded revolting. “Tea—” Martine began, only to suddenly awaken to the implications of the man’s words. “Wait… am I the first one to tell you you snore? Surely you’re jesting me.” Even as she said it, Martine realized it was none of her business. Damn, she chided herself. I’ve really stuck my foot in my mouth.

There was a cough from the other side of the curtain. “I meant that you are the first umm—woman to tell me that. Although the arrangements were always… well… pretty much like last night”

Martine remembered to think this time and decided not to ask any further questions. She was surprised her host hadn’t taken offense, especially since the man seemed possessed of a decided puritan streak. Perhaps he was trying to reassure her of his own intentions.

“Well, you don’t snore much,” she lied, hoping that would end the subject. She straightened out her tunic and stepped back into view.

Vil had just finished hanging the pot on the claw over the fire and was leaning against the mantel, carefully prodding the coals into life with a poker. A small swirl of embers rose from where Vil poked the ashes. “Ready for breakfast?”