David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

“And she brought Vreesar here, too, seeking her magical stone. First she risks all our lives by hiding it, and now we’re all in danger because she gave Vreesar the stone as part of some plan of hers.” Martine shifted uneasily. Jouka’s grumblings were starting to get nasty, and the other gnomes were listening to him.

“Such a good plan it was… now we no longer have a home; he ended sarcastically. The other Vani said nothing, their expressions wrapped in thoughtful concentration. With no one else speaking in her favor, Martine prepared to defend herself. Just then Vil’s firm hand steadied the Harper.

“Let him rage,” the former paladin advised. “He’s lost a great deal.”

Martine bit her lip and nodded. Even though she knew Vil was right, it was difficult to accept the man’s wisdom this time. Seeing that she would not rise to the bait, the sullen gnome slowly let his accusations fade into a murmur of discontent. Someone poked up the fire and laid on more wood, stirring up a cloud of sparks. The weary Vani murmured among themselves, softly debating the wisdom of Jouka’s words.

“Is he right?” Martine whispered to Vil. Vil leaned his face close to hers. “No.”

The answer came too quickly to satisfy Martine. “He could be. If I hadn’t come here, then Vreesar would never have come here either. The Vani would still be safe in their warren.”

“Or dead in the snow,” the man countered. “Vreesar would have crossed the rift whether you arrived or not.”

“But I came to help, and now look at everything.”

“So, you think all this is your fault?”

“Damn it, Vil, I’m a Harper. Helping is what I’m supposed to do.”

“Martine, you are only one person. What did you expect?” Martine felt the deep concern in the man’s voice. “What do you think would have happened if you hadn’t come?”

“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. With her dagger, the woman poked at the packed dirt just beyond the edge of the blanket.

“Vreesar would have come through unchallenged, bringing more and more of his kind with him,” Vil speculated as he shifted into a more comfortable position. “Sooner or later a whole army of them would have moved south, probably with the gnolls. The Vani wouldn’t have stood a chance then. You’ve already made a difference. At least there’s only one of Vreesar’s kind. The gnomes have a chance to fight.”

Vil’s words didn’t exactly console Martine. “It was supposed to be an easy mission. I tried so hard to impress the other Harpers, and now look at the mess everything is in. A fine Harper I make. I don’t know what to do, and then when I do something, everything goes wrong.” She stabbed at the dirt. The gnome next to her shifted his feet uneasily.

Vil sighed. “Do you think if the job was easy they’d have sent a Harper?”

Martine studied the man’s face in the gloomy firelight. The stubble on his chin was becoming a full-fledged beard, streaked through with gray. lines of sweat and dirt clung in the creases of his weather-beaten skin. “I don’t know. Jazrac said it was like a test.”

Vil shook his head. “If nothing else, Jazrac was cautious. He wouldn’t have sent you if he didn’t think you could do the job. Quit worrying about what others think and do what’s right.”

“That’s not the way Jouka sees things.” Martine had managed to gouge a small hole in the dirt floor by now. “Martine, Jouka seeks only to blame.” Vil paused, trying to find a way to make his point clear. “There’s an old story. A fox catches a mouse out gathering acorns. ‘Cursed be the oak,’ moans the mouse. beneath the fox’s paw. The fox says, ‘Foolish mouse, why do you curse the tree? It didn’t hurt you:’ And the mouse answers, ‘If the oak hadn’t dropped the acorns, I wouldn’t have been gathering them, and you would never have caught me.’ Hearing the little mouse complain, the fox laughs and laughs so much that he lets his paw slip, and the mouse pulls his tail free. Off runs the mouse, only to be caught in the jaws of a snake. ‘Oh, cursed be the fox,’ moans the mouse, ‘for letting me go, else I would not have been caught’”

“So what happened to the mouse?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the snake ate him.”

Martine leaned wearily against the former paladin’s shoulder. “So if Jouka’s the mouse, what am I? The fox or the snake?”

“Well, I sort of thought of you as another mouse,” Vil said with a dry chuckle.

Martine snorted. “Are you sure you’re not still a paladin? You always seem to be worried about others.”

Vil tried to shrug the question off. “I don’t know.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve been feeling more… paladinish lately. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe I should seek Torm’s forgiveness.” Vil shifted again, still trying to find a comfortable position for his lanky legs.

“What about the freedom you have now… you know, like you told me?”

Vil smirked. “An illusion. I have all this freedom, and what do I do? I hide up here in the north, doing nothing but chopping wood. I’ve been hiding up here, hiding from everything I lost—the people I knew, the things I did. Maybe I thought they’d all forget who I once was, and then I could go home. What kind of freedom is that?” He turned to look at her. “I didn’t realize it until all this happened. I’ve just been moldering up here. Now I feel as if there’s a purpose again.”

Just in time to die in a senseless war , Martine thought to herself. She couldn’t think of a quick, understanding reply to Vil’s sudden confession. “You’re tired. Get some sleep,” she said instead.

Realizing that perhaps he’d said too much, Vil nodded and settled back against the wall. Within minutes, his snores joined those of the gnomes around her while the cold wind whistling between the boards provided a mournful accompaniment.

Martine lay awake, cradled in the man’s arms. She was tired, but her mind was churning as she thought about what Vil had said, about Jazrac’s death, about Jouka, about the threat of Vreesar. Slowly thoughts formed as she forced herself to think like a Harper and not some hesitant apprentice. A new plan was forming in her mind, bold and dangerous. It held no guarantee of success, but it was, she thought, a plan worthy of a Harper.

Gingerly Martine slid free of Vil’s arms. The man snorted and stirred, and Martine thought he might wake, but he only rolled over to fill the space she’d abandoned. The woman picked her way across the small room to where Krote huddled, his rags pulled tight round his furry body, trying to keep in every bit of warmth.

The glint of the gnoll’s eyes greeted her. Knowing he could see her, Martine signaled him to keep silent and knelt in front of him, light glinting off the knife she carried. She looked at Jouka carefully to make absolutely sure the gnome was asleep. His spiked breastplate rose and fell in the slow rhythm of slumber.

“Word-Maker, listen to me,” she barely breathed, turning her attention back to the shaman. The gnoll shifted uneasily when he saw the knife. “Hold out your hands.” Suspiciously Krote raised his bound wrists, and she set to sawing the ropes apart. “I’m letting you go.”

“Why?” the gnoll demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“I want you to help me kill Vreesar.” There was no point in trying to be clever.

The gnoll’s eyes widened in disbelief “What did you say, human?”

“You’re free. I’m letting you go—and I’m asking you to stay,” Martine said as she continued to saw at the ropes. “I need your help to kill Vreesar. If you don’t choose to give it, you can go out the door right now. I’ll make sure the gnomes don’t hurt you.”

As the ropes fell away, the gnoll flexed his clawed fingers, which were purple and numb under his brown fur. “You trust me?” His voice was an incredulous snarling hiss.