David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

Would Krote betray her? No more, she felt, than the gnome at her side. Both were fierce in their beliefs, adamant in their pride and honor.

At last Martine guided them to the edge of the ravine. She remembered the stand of massed birch that flourished in a sunlit break between the trees. She remembered it being at her back. Using that to orient herself, the Harper quickly found the wind-drifted tracks of the night before. From there, it was a simple matter to backtrack to the battle site.

In bright daylight, the place looked different. What seemed ominous by dusk was clear and peaceful this morning. Not innocent, though , Martine thought. Few forests were innocent, but their daytime secrets were less sinister than those that lurked in the depths of the night.

Broken trees, frozen bodies, and pink snow was evidence they had found the site. The gnolls had made no effort to collect their dead, although the bodies had evidently been quickly stripped of everything useful. The naked corpses were frozen hard, their skin ice blue beneath the tawny fur. Vil and Jouka examined the battlefield with the curiosity of warriors, quietly impressed by the woman’s’ handiwork Krote moved from body to body, commending cub by name to his fierce god Gorellik.

Seeing signs of the looting, Martine realized her plan would come to naught if the gnolls had stripped Jazrac clean. Not wanting to look, she had to force herself to examine the site. It was with sick relief that she saw a booted foot jutting out from beneath a tangle of branches. A quick cry summoned the others.

The two humans and the gnome dug away the drifted snow. Krote stood back, his arms wrapped around himself for warmth, refusing to assist. “It is not clean,” he insisted adamantly. “I will not touch it.” Martine wondered if his conviction were true or if it was just an excuse.

Gradually the snow was cleared from the corpse. Jazrac’s skin was an awful bloodless white with traces of frozen blue veins under the skin. Martine forced herself to think of the corpse as a thing. Remembering it as Jazrac salted too many wounds in her memory, and she couldn’t afford to break down now.

The ring was on his left hand, I think. “There, under… that tree trunk.” The Harper pointed deep into the tangle of Vil surveyed the deadfall and shook his head. “We’ll never be able to move this. Jouka, can you get in there?” The gnome wormed his way through the branches until he reached the heart of the tangle. After a moment, he swore bitterly. “The ring won’t come off. The finger’s swollen.”

“Cut it off,” Krote suggested without hesitation. He glared at the humans to see if they had any objection. “Should I, woman?” Jouka asked.

Martine flinched at the thought, but she could think of no other solution. “Do it,” she said before stepping away. She didn’t want to see or know anything about this part of the gruesome job.

When Jouka resurfaced, he looked tight-lipped and grim. He held out a plain silver ring toward the ranger. “The blessings of the Great Crafter on you in this age of sorrow,” he consoled stiffly. “I commend you on his release from toil.”

“What?”

Vil intervened. “The Vani live for centuries,” he explained. “In their opinion, death frees the spirit from centuries of drudgery.”

Jouka nodded. “It is just our way to steal some joy from Death and his minions.”

“Thank you, Master Jouka.” Martine held the ring in her fingers. “Word-Maker… the ring.”

The shaman reached with his clawed fingers to accept the magical ring. His eyes were wide and eager, his jaw open wolfishly.

“I do not like this,” Jouka said softly. Even as the gnoll moved forward to claim the prize, Jouka and Vil stepped in close behind him, their swords tensely poised.

The gnoll plucked the ring from Martine’s fingers, his face twisting. Was it wonder? Triumph? Martine looked up into his face but could not tell. He was a gnoll. Who knew what emotions filled his mind?

With deliberate movements, Krote slipped the ring over his clawed finger. The silver circlet slid over his bony knuckle and settled into place. The shaman let out a rasping breath and closed his eyes as if in bliss.

“Can you use it, Krote? Can you use it?” the Harper asked eagerly. Everything depended on his answer.

Behind the gnoll, like the slave who warned the king of his own mortality, Jouka softly added his own words: “Remember, dog-man. My sword is faster than—”

Whaaaam !

All at once every ounce of air in Martine’s lungs felt as if it had been sucked out of her. The shock knocked her legs completely out from under her. The next thing she knew she and the others were sprawled across a hard abas of ice, nearly blinded by the glaring reflection of sunlight morning air felt colder than it had been mere seconds ago “Gods!” the Harper swore.

“What happened?”

“Where are—”

“There,” Krote rasped, pointing his long arm toward a ridge of upheaved ice, the edge of a great frozen crater in the center of a frozen plain.

“The glacier,” Martine mouthed in an awed whisper. “We’re here.” Slowly she stood up, like a sailor home from the sea adjusting his legs to shore. The others rose, their expressions awed. Krote stared at the ring on his finger. Vil kept his eyes on the ridge and adjusted his gear, while little Jouka felt himself over, as if checking to see that all his parts had survived in one piece.

“I bring you here as I said I would,” the shaman said. “Now what?” Vil queried.

Martine shaded her eyes and scanned the ridge. “Now we find Vreesar. Up there, I think.”

“Where?” Jouka asked.

Vid studied the waste. “That’s a lot of territory, Martine.”

“Well just have to look,” Martine said helplessly. She started trudging in the crater’s direction.

Krote growled. “I do not waste time searching. Woman, where are my charms?”

“What are you talking about?”

Word-Maker snapped his teeth in irritation. “My signs of Gorellik… where are they?”

“I have them, dog-man,” Jouka answered unexpectedly. “Give them to me.”

“Do it, Jouka,” Martine ordered.

The gnome grudgingly handed over a leather pouch. Taking out the iron fetish of his god, the shaman held it in his hands while he mumbled a prayer. When he had finished, the gnoll held the charm out and carefully turned around in a circle. Halfway through, he stopped and pointed farther up the crater wall. “There—not far. Gorellik has given me a sign.”

Martine guessed the shaman had used a spell to find things. She’d seen priests use them before, though only for simple searches such as finding a peasant’s lost axe or a merchants stolen purse. It had worked then, and she didn’t doubt its effectiveness now. “Let’s go.” Shouldering a pack, the Harper began scrambling over the uneven ice as fast as she could manage.

After only fifty yards, the group came to afresh trail concealed beyond a pressure ridge. The tracks, large and clawed, were unmistakably Vreesar’s, and they were headed toward the crater’s rim.

“Too late!” Jouka cried.

Martine seized the little warrior and pushed him forward. “Not yet the tracks are fresh. If we hurry—”

“Up there!” Vil shouted, scanning the slope. The elemental wasn’t more than a hundred yards away, almost to the lip of the shattered rift. There was no indication it had seen the group, although there was nothing to prevent it from turning and seeing them at any time.

The man broke into a sprint, leaving the others behind. Martine followed at a dead run, but her shorter legs could not keep up with the long-striding warrior. Jouka lagged even farther behind, struggling in the snow and ice, while the gnoll hung to the rear.