David Cook: Soldiers of Ice

“Mm-hm. It smells wonderful in here.” She wasn’t exaggerating; the air was tangy with the aroma of fruit and herbs. She took down the curtain to clear space for both of them at the small table.

“Cured venison, fresh cheese, whey, berry jam, and hardtack; tea or milk, as you prefer. I have a chance to make up for the meager table I set last night.” He laid out a simple meal for the pair, unwrapping clothbound packets of soft, fresh cheese and dry biscuits, followed by pots of thick jam and translucent whey. With a final flourish, he set a marbled haunch of meat in the center of the small table so that one leg wobbled perilously under the weight.

“Good meal, indeed!” Martine gaped. Pulling over the two chairs, she waited for him to say a blessing and then dug in. Eagerly she ate chunks of hardtack smeared with buttery goat cheese and red jam and topped with slivers of venison. Even the fresh goat’s milk, which she tasted dubiously at first, was refreshingly welcome after drinking only cold water and birch tea on the trail.

After a bit, when the silence made it apparent that Vil was rusty as a conversationalist, Martine asked, “Are you known among the gnomes?”

“We are… good neighbors, as I said last night.” Vil shaved off another piece of venison. “I respect their ways, and they tolerate me.” Behind him, the rekindled fire gave a popping sound as a pocket of resin ignited. “When I first came up here, I didn’t see a gnome for a year. I think they hoped I would go away. It was only after I built the cabin that any of the Vani came by.”

“Three years ago?”

He nodded as he finished his tea. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait that long. If we leave after breakfast, they should still be in council when we get to the warren. With any luck, they’ll see you today.”

This suited Martine just fine. She hurriedly finished her breakfast, only to have to wait until Vil finished eating. After helping him scrape the dishes and clean the table, Martine struggled into her coat and stood by the door, waiting. “Have you ever been on skis?” her host asked as he laced up his coat, refusing to let himself be hurried.

“Yes.” Twice … and the first time was when I was ten , Martine thought.

“Good. It’s time to go.”

Outside, in the morning shadow cast by the mountains, Martine, with Vil’s paternal advice, laced the ungainly boards to her feet and set out to follow him across the snowy hummocks, wobbling along, barely steadied by her poles. The route he followed led through an icebound world of alternating light and dark. Where it could penetrate the forest branches, the dawn sunlight turned the soft snow-clad outlines of trees and roots into a dazzling domain of white. Elsewhere, deep shadows quickly closed in and clothed the landscape in darkness.

The air was rich with the scent of pines. Martine’s skin prickled from the cold. The trees loomed over the pair, their white-dressed boughs locked so close together that the bottom branches were hidden permanently from sun-light, leaving them scraggly dead sticks occasionally tufted with needled clusters. The great trunks stirred with the wind till the forest echoed with muted popping and creaking sounds. Winter birds confided secrets to each other and warned of the passing strangers:

After they had pressed on for an hour or so, judging from the rise of the sun over the eastern ridge, and Martine was lathered in a fine sweat despite the cold, they struck a narrow path that twisted round gnarled roots and tunneled through arched brambles. The path was clearly meant for creatures much smaller than even the petite Martine. She and Vil ducked, bobbed, and pushed their way through the tangles until finally Vil pulled aside the last thorned branch and slid easily into a small clearing at the base of a steep knoll. The hillside was a tumble of granite shelves and trees clinging precariously to the slopes, all draped with snow. The trail they were following led to the very base of the mound and then vanished or so it seemed to Martine at first glance. In truth, the path ended at a cunningly concealed arch, shaped to match the jutting rocks that framed it. Set back deep in the opening were a pair of squat wooden doors of weathered gray pine, cleverly carved with vines and rocks so that their shadowed surface mimicked the summertime slope of the hill. Together the doors were almost as broad as they were high.

With the tip of his pole, Vil rapped at the snow-dusted doors. The sound hollowly reverberated from the hillside. Barely a moment passed before Martine heard a muffled scraping from inside the hill. With a creak of wooden peg hinges, the doors swung inward, releasing a wisp of steam. The weak eastern sun reached through the slim gap and etched a thin line onto the polished floorboards beyond, the hint of snowy tracks marring the perfect smoothness of the wooden floor. The creaking stopped as a shadowy face peered through the crack, scrutinizing the visitors.

Apparently satisfied, the doorkeeper nodded briefly. _ “Welcome Vilheim, friend of the Vani,” croaked a brittle voice as the gnome swung the door wide.

“Greetings, Tikkanen. We have come to see the council. Are the elders in session?” Vil bowed as best he could in his thick winter coat, and Martine followed suit.

The object of their courtesy was a little man who stood no taller than Vil’s waist, stocky of build and buried in a thick cream-colored cloak that covered him to the very bottom of his chin. Despite his stocky build, Martine knew the little man was actually lean for one of his kind. Airy strands of long white beard escaped from the top of the collar and swayed like cloudy wisps in the breeze. The gnome’s face seemed ancient, reminding Martine of a shriveled apple. The doorkeeper’s rheumy red eyes were barely noticeable behind his bulbous nose, a pronounced characteristic of his race. Tikkanen’s nose was limned with thin red veins and colored with age spots.

“The council sits today, it is true.” The old gnome cleared his throat and then pointed at Martine. “Before you enter, Vilheim, will you testify for your companion, swear that she will abide by the laws and customs of the Vani, that she brings no evil to this warren, bears not the mark of a blood feud, and carries no curse upon her?”

Martine’s and Vil’s eyes met for a moment. She was uncertain just what he would say. After only a slight hesitation, he answered, “I swear this upon the honor of great Torm.”

The god of loyalty seemed an appropriate choice for such an oath, Martine decided, feeling relieved.

“Then enter, Master Vil and companion.” The gnome stepped aside with a grave nod, and the two visitors clomped into the small pine-floored antechamber. Vil had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the low beams. Martine was thankful for once that she was short. Behind them, the old gnome eased the outer doors shut to seal out the cold. In the guttering light of a candle, the pair undid the bindings on their skis. Tikkanen waited stiffly near the inner doors.

“Are they all this formal?” Martine whispered as she crouched down to unknot the snow-crusted lacings. “Tikkanen follows the old ways,” Vil whispered back. “And he is not deaf.” Martine bit her lip and spoke no more. “Leave your things in my care,” the gnome instructed when they were ready. “The council will see you at the first convenient opportunity.” He pulled open the inner doors, which were painted with ferocious-looking badgers. Vil bent down to pass through the low threshold, and Martine followed, ducking her head. Beyond the door, the hall was high enough for them both to stand up easily, although her companion’s head barely cleared the ceiling. Old Tikkanen closed the doors behind them, shutting out the remaining chill.