David Cook: Soldiers of Ice

“Now, human!” the Word-Maker roared. Releasing one hand, he grabbed Vreesar’s jagged brow, ignoring the needlelike points, and stretched its head back. “Kill it!”

Though the world still spun, Martine staggered forward and raised her sword with both arms till it pointed down like a spike. Vreesar’s little eyes widened in fear. “Nooo!” the shrill voice pleaded.

Martine slammed her sword point first into the fiend’s exposed throat.

When the monster finally stopped thrashing, Martine left Krote, left Jouka, left her sword, and stumbled to where Vil lay. She knelt beside the man, knowing already all hope was lost. He sagged against the canted ice, eye half closed and dull, his head turned so that she could not see his shredded face. Blood trickled from his mouth and became lost in the black and gray of his beard. More soaked through the rents in his armor, the steel bloated out by the blast. When she raised his arms to fold them over his chest, his limbs flopped with the impossible limpness that only death brings.

There was no breath, no last words of farewell, no chance for one last speech as in the tales of the bards. There was only his body, still warm, but lost forever.

“Good-bye, Vil,” she murmured, saying what he could not hear.

Behind her, Krote stood silent, ignoring the streams of blood that trickled from his arms while Jouka undid the dark-spiked mask that hid his face. Krote turned to face him, and in another place and time, the two might have traded blows, but now Jouka only kept a wary distance, perhaps finally deciding that this one gnoll deserved to live.

“It’s over, Mistress Martine. The battle’s done. Your plan worked.” Jouka paused and mustered up what little compassion he could. “He did not fail, Mistress Martine. He did not die in vain.”

The words slowly returned her to the world, and she gently closed the man’s one remaining eye. With a weary effort, filled with pain, she rose to her feet: “Praise be to Torm, Jouka,” the woman intoned, looking at the stone in her hand. “Praise be to Torm.”

The woman walked across the spring meadow, boots sinking in the icy mud. Her black hair was a little longer now, and she moved a little stiffly, too, although her wounds were fully healed. She would always be a little stiff as an aftereffect of Vreesar’s icy blast; such things were part of her life now.

On her back the woman carried a stout wicker pack. It was heavy with gear—armor, weapons, blankets, and food—that she would need to cross the southern mountains. Vil’s sword swung at her side, along with a pouch full of magical oddments recovered from Jazrac’s hoard. So many things were new to her, gifts from the gnomes, that it almost seemed as if she were carrying a new life away from the valley of Samek. She wished it were so, for that would mean release from old pains and sorrows.

Eventually she joined the man and beast who waited at the center of the meadow. The man was young, handsome enough in a rugged way and brimming with self-assurance.

The beast was a hippogriff, a fine steed filled with fire and strength.

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” the young man asked solicitously.

“And ride with you?” She looked from the golden-plumed hippogriff to the sky. It was amazing how his mount had the look and lines of Astriphie. “Thank you, but no. I’m sure the Harpers can do without me for a few more weeks.”

“So they told me when I asked,” the young man allowed. “Silverhand wondered if you were planning to pass through Mulmaster on your way back. There are rumors the High Blade is growing more powerful than seems right. He didn’t say you had to, though.”

Martine smiled ruefully. “More reports. Well, they said I need more seasoning.”

“Actually, I’m supposed to make the report. He said you should ‘assess and act as you see fit.’” The young man looked past her toward the grassy mound of the warren. “You spent all winter there?”

“Most of it. There’s a cabin in the woods.” The old pains returned.

Martine looked back to see if any of the gnomes had come to see her off—not that she expected them to. Jouka and Ojakangas were busy rebuilding now that warm weather had come, and Sumalo was feeling his age. She’d said goodbye to them already anyway.

The youth was a fresh young Harper, a messenger for those higher up, sent north to find her and Jazrac. It took the Harpers some time, but eventually someone had gotten concerned enough to send someone to look for them. News of Jazrac’s loss was met with sorrow, but no one blamed her, Instead, they read her reports and asked her to stay a little longer to ensure the peace and help rebuild. At first Martine thought it was a punishment, but as the weeks went by she wondered if they hadn’t meant it as a reward.

With spring, though, she was rested and eager to move on. Martine watched as the messenger mounted and strapped his harness in. “Farewell,” he said. “Remember Mulmaster.”

“May the gods—especially Torm—go with you. As for Mulmaster, tell Silverhand I won’t be saving the world anymore.”

“What does that mean? Are you going or not?”

“Just tell him. I think he’ll understand.”

The messenger shrugged and gave his hippogriff a gentle spur. Martine watched them leave, remembering Astriphie as the mount soared through the sky. In a short time, it was only a dwindling speck near the horizon.

Feeling a little wistful about the long journey, Martine shouldered her pack and started walking. From the directions the Vani had given, she thought she could be through the pass by nightfall, but only if she did not dally.

It was sometime around noon when she heard other footsteps on the trail. Not expecting company, the woman drew her sword and waited, ready for the worst. Her vigil ended when a tall, gaunt figure came into view.

“Woman,” said the rasping voice, “I will go with you.” From the shadows stepped Krote, Word-Maker no more, bow and spear in hand. He still looked as skeletal and haggard as before—more so, perhaps, because of his scarred arms and shredded ears.

Martine paused in surprise. Since the fight on the glacier, she had seen the gnoll only a few times, when he’d come to speak with the gnomes. She understood he wasn’t chieftain and that Varka had usurped his role as shaman. The tribe hadn’t killed him, as Vreesar had demanded, but every time she saw him, Krote had always been alone.

“Go with me? What about your people?”

“I have no people,” the gnoll answered coldly. “They have no use for me.”

“Why come with me?”

“I owe you my life.”

“And I you. Why, Krote… really?”

The Word-Maker drew himself up with dignity. “Because you trust the words of gnolls.”

Martine studied the gnoll, trying to make up her mind. As much as he had been the enemy, she still respected and trusted him in ways not fully explainable. The journey would be long, and a companion would be welcome.

“You have my word I will not harm you,” Krote said simply.

“Or any others?”

“That depends, woman.”

It was good enough. Martine shrugged her pack into position once more. “You may join me, Word-Maker,” she offered.

“That is good, human,” Krote fell in step behind her, and they began the long hike over the pass.

“I can’t wait till we get to Mulmaster,” the woman called out cheerily as she disappeared into the woods.

“Mul-massster” the gnoll echoed curiously. “What is that?”