David Cook: Soldiers of Ice

The Vani clung to their barricade in stunned disbelief. Then Ojakangas cut short any debate by standing up and shouting, “Go back to your valley, dog-men, and we will make peace!”

“We go. It is cold here, and your little tunnels are too small for us. We leave a guard to make sure you keep peace. Do not leave cabin, or we kill you all.”

“It’s a trick,” Jouka said grimly.

“No trick, little one,” said Krote. The gnoll stood in the cabin doorway where he had listened to the exchange. The shaman looked at the bodies of the Burnt Fur, still sprawled over the barricade where they had been cut down. “You have killed many warriors,” the gnoll said with a touch of sadness. “There will be many females without mates.” The Word-Maker went from body to body, turning each so he could see it. “Blind-Eye. Rakk. Broken-Tooth. Fat Belly.” Krote recited the roll of the dead. “That was Varka who spoke,” he said finally. “He must be new Word-Maker. If he says peace, there will be peace.”

Martine took a chance and stood up. No arrows flew. “That still leaves Vreesar. How are we going to get out of here without breaking this peace?”

“I don’t know about you, Martine, but I figured we’d use the back door,” Vil commented casually as he stood. “Back door?”

The former paladin flashed a smile. “Only a fool makes a stand without a means to escape. I built another way out.”

“Where is it?” she asked quickly.

“Under my bath. All we have to do is knock a hole in the bottom of my tub and crawl out the tunnel. It comes out at the edge of the woods.” Vil grinned impishly.

The Harper impulsively stood on tiptoe and kissed the warrior firmly on the lips. Vil was too startled to do anything. His face colored under his graying beard. Martine quickly pulled away.

She looked at her companions’ faces, surprised, amused, weary. “Jouka, Krote, Vil… are you ready to go?”

Vil hefted an axe and purposefully strode into the cabin, looking taller and even more gaunt than usual.

Martine, Vil, Krote, and Jouka crowded into Vil’s already cramped bathroom. As soon as the wounded Vani were moved carefully aside, Jouka jumped into the bottom of the big wooden tub Vil had set into the floor. Taking a hand axe, the gnome set to work. As he watched the destruction of his craftsmanship, Vil winced each time the axe descended. Outside the room, the gnomes pressed around the door of the chamber and watched curiously. When the axe finally broke through, Jouka lost his balance and nearly dropped it down the gaping hole beneath. The musky smell of damp earth filled the small room. Jouka moved several feet to one side, then began to chop at the other end of the broken board.

“No more hot baths,” Vil moaned. “I’ll miss them.”

More wood splintered, and the gnome passed a three-foot section of board out. The group passed it down the line as if it were something to treasure.

“It took me weeks to build this,” Vil lamented mournfully. A barking cough of a gnoll echoed faintly from outside. It sounded as if it came from near the front of the house. Martine stiffened, her hand reaching instinctively for an arrow from her quiver.

“Do not end our peace, humans,” Krote Word-Maker cautioned as he saw her move.

Several more planks were passed out of the tub before Jouka clambered out “It’s done,” he announced, slipping his axe back into the sheath he wore.

Martine stepped forward and gazed downward. The jagged hole in the bottom of the tub yawned into blackness. “Does everyone understand what to do?”

The group nodded. “All right I’ll go first”

From the way Vil had explained it, the tunnel dropped about four feet and then wormed around toward the rear of the cabin. Vil had described it as a “tight fit,” but Martine figured she’d be able to wriggle through without difficulty. She slid carefully past the jagged edges, and her feet touched bottom. “Candle.”

Vil passed a taper down. Guided by the small flame, she lowered herself to lie on her belly. The dim light did not carry far, blocked by a thick mass of cobwebs across the tunnel. With her sword, she brushed the webbing aside, but it still hung in dusty tendrils from the top of the passage.

The Harper wriggled across the cold ground into the darkness. There was barely space to raise her head up to look ahead. Vil hadn’t been kidding when he said it was cramped. The ceiling rubbed at her back in places. Tiny shapes scurried away frantically as she roused a den of field mice.

It wasn’t long before she began to feel the dark tunnel was endless. Pushing the candle ahead of her, the Harper crept along slowly. At last she saw a faint glow that marked the end of the tunnel. Beyond another curtain of cobwebs, the shaft was lit by opaque light.

“Made it,” the woman called back to the others. Struggling with her sword in the tight space; she carefully jabbed at the icy crust that sealed the opening. It was thicker than she guessed, and by the time the blade had broken through it, Jouka was bumping up against her feet. At last she succeeded in clearing a hole in the ice large enough to wriggle through. Halfway out, she paused, watching for anything suspicious.

By daylight, the woods at the back of the cabin appeared unwatched, but the morning fog concealed everything beyond the first row of trees. Martine waited cautiously for any sign of the enemy. “Hurry up,” the gnome behind her hissed impatiently. Finally, still uncertain it was clear. the black-haired woman scrambled through the gap, sign” for Jouka to hand out her gear, and then sprinted into the nearby woods. Gulping the fresh air and pleased to be in daylight once more, the woman Hopped onto au icy snow-bank and strung Vil’s bow.

One by one, as Martine kept watch with nocked arrow, the others wriggled out and melted into the forest. First came Jouka, followed by a long pause before Krote appeared. The gnoll had to tear at the ice with his claws to widen the hole before he could squirm his broad shoulders through.

Just as Vil was emerging from the hole, gnoll voices rang from the front of the house.

“My brothers come after their dead,” Krote said. “Will they notice we’re gone?” Martine worried And. “How can they know, human?” Krote asked. “Whatever,” Vil added. “Let’s not linger here. Martine, you know where Jazrac’s body is. We’ll need his ring to catch Vreesar in time. You lead.”

Without benefit of skis, the group’s progress through the snow was difficult. The birds were all silent, whether as a reaction to the chaos of battle or their presence, Martine did not know. They slipped through the sepulchral woods, hip-deep in white snow. The low fog, somewhere between ice and mist, swallowed the noise of their exertions, distorting calls and echoes till it was impossible for Martine to gauge the distance of any sound.

The fog provided traitorous comfort, for it came and went unexpectedly, one minute concealing, the next leaving them horribly exposed. “Cyric’s damnation!” Martine swore each time the fog lifted and revealed their position. There was already too much risk of being discovered without the tricks of winter conspiring to make things worse.

As the four neared the conquered warren, progress became slower and slower as mistrust and caution played on their fears. Martine could only pray she was right about Krote; she had no reason to trust him other than an irrational instinct about the gnoll. Some might have called it woman’s intuition, but it wasn’t that. She had long ago learned to dismiss such reactions. No, her faith was grounded on the vague kinship between warriors, the bond between men, women, even brutes who lived according to the dictates of the sword. It was this bond that allowed her to work with the unruly, the mercenary, or the detestable, whose motives and goals she could not conscionably abide anywhere else. It was this fraternity that made her trust Krote. Even though he was a shaman, the gnoll understood the life of the sword.