David Cook - Soldiers of Ice

It was a bad day for hunting. Old Wolf Ear knew it would be fruitless. The sun was already too bright and too high, and the pack was too far from the ragged darkness of the woods. There wouldn’t be any game in this flat snowfield between the forest and the icefall at the glacier’s base. The hunter knew all this even before it wrinkled back its muzzle to sniff the cold, sterile scent of pine and ice.

The air carried none of the tingling warmth of deer musk or rabbit scat, only a suggestion of newborn mice buried deep beneath the snow Me grizzled stalker toyed with the idea of digging them out, but the tiny morsels weren’t worth the effort. Besides, Wolf-Ear was with a pack and had to uphold the old gnoll’s reputation as a hunter. So instead of digging, Wolf-Ear growlingly spat into the snow to cleanse out the lingering scent.

“No more hunting. Back to village,” Wolf-Ear barked, glaring at the three whelps accompanying it, keeping its one strong eye on them. Two of the three younglings properly lowered their heads in submission to the old cur’s judgment. The third, though, glared back defiantly. This one stood slightly taller than the old hunter, the older gnoll being stooped and bent.

“I go back to camp with a kill.” The challenger sneered in disgust, the blackish lips of its wolfish muzzle curling back to show dirty yellow fangs that hung over the lower gums. The younger gnoll shifted its rag-wrapped feet slightly forward in the churned snow to assert its challenge.

Old Wolf-Ear’s neck hairs bristled at the move, and its good ear twitched under the coarse, greasy rags that wrapped its head. The old gnoll caught the warning snarl building in the back of its throat. As it kept its good eye unerringly fixed on the upstart whelp, Wolf-Ear unexpectedly lashed out with its spear to lay on a blow like a schoolmaster caning a boy. The suddenness of the vicious roundhouse swing left the younger gnoll defenseless, and the spear shaft delivered a bruising wallop alongside the whelp’s ear, where luckily a thick, matted scarf cushioned the blow. Even with the cushion, the youngling still reeled, its vision wavering.

Before the stunned gnoll could plant its feet firmly on the slippery ground, Wolf-Ear almost casually struck again with a chopping whack to the knee. The youngling dropped like a felled tree into the drift behind it, cracking the ice crust to flounder in the powder beneath. Old Wolf-Ear stepped alongside it, and with a quick jab pressed the spear’s point against the challenger’s chest Feeling the tip prick through all its layers of leather and fur, the whelp stopped floundering. Its attention gained, the old hunter snarled out, “I lead this pack. Do not challenge me, pup.” Even as Wolf-Ear spoke, the grizzled gnoll made sure it knew where the other two cubs were.

“You lead, Wolf-Ear,” the young cub mumbled, turning its face away. Winter steam formed thick clouds from its muzzle as its mouth hung open slackly, showing a purplish red tongue.

Satisfied, the old hunter pulled back its spear and turned to glare at the two other younglings. They stood there, eager to watch a fight, while the wind flapped their greasy wraps of cloth and hide. Taken from some unfortunate traveler, the once-rich cloth they wore was tattered and stained, and decorated with tassels of animal fur and bits of bone.

Wolf-Ear growled at them just in case they had any ideas. The old gnoll hated working with the cubs, for they were too eager to impress the females of the lodges. Some more hard work would serve them right.

“Youngsters want a kill,” Wolf-Ear snarled sarcastically. “Then we hunt on the tall ice.” With that, it extended its spear toward the north.

The pack looked up at the great ice wall Wolf-Ear pointed to. It was the forward edge of the glacier that capped the northern end of their valley, a tumbled wall of rock-encrusted ice that had been there since before the gnolls had arrived. The broken wall, less than a half-mile away, stood about three times taller than the tallest trees at its base. The gray-black barren peaks of the mountains were its grim supporters at either side.

“To the top. We spot our kill from there,” Wolf-Ear pronounced with grim glee. There was no game up on top of the wall, but the climb and cold would sap some of the fire from the young hunters. It they were smart, they would watch Wolf-Ear and learn how to survive on the ice. Otherwise—well, whatever happened they deserved. No one in the pack would mourn for weaklings.

In the hour that passed as the group clambered over the loose moraine and onto the angular face of the ice, Wolf-Ear watched with malevolent pride as the young hunters struggled. The climb was an ordeal for them, and their hands quickly became matted with frozen blood from the cuts of jagged stones. “Climb!” Wolf-Ear barked whenever one of them lagged behind, particularly the tallest one, and they scrabbled harder at the old gnoll’s snarl, determined not to show their pain. Wolf-Ear hoped the climb hurt, for pain would teach them much more than the veteran hunter could.

As they neared the top, where the rim was a serrated barrier of upthrust plates pushed out by the glacier’s relentless pressure, Wolf-Ear steered them toward a cleft in the wall. It was an old trail along the bottom of a narrow crevasse, one that tapered gradually to the top of the ice field. The going was easier here, and the pack made rapid progress toward the top. At last the old hunter called a halt and watched, amused, as its charges, bloodied and exhausted, sagged against their bows. Over and around them, the glacier groaned and creaked like a protesting spirit upset at their presence.

A grinding squeal shivered down the narrow walls of the canyon, rousing the group. Old Wolf-Ear had never heard a sound quite like that. It wasn’t the rumbling thunder of an avalanche. Instead, it reminded the gnoll of spring ice breaking up on the river, the floes grating and shifting against each other, but up here that was impossible, for there were no rivers and the ice never moved. Curious, the old gnoll motioned the others to follow.

They hadn’t gone five steps before the squeal swelled into a shriek. The crevasse echoed with shrill grinding as the crystal floor began to shake. Ice overhanging the lip of the top fell in shivering chunks and cascaded down, smashing against the sides, stinging the gnolls with frozen shards.

And then suddenly, the source of the noise came into view, rushing down the cleft straight toward them. Avalanche, Wolf-Ear thought blindly, but the gnoll knew it wasn’t an avalanche even as it came into view. It was a wave of solid ice that flowed like water down a streambed, crashing over the broken snow blocks and splashing against the side of the crevasse. Icicles sprayed like froth in the flow’s advancing flood.

“Run!” the old hunter barked, fear finally uncovering the compassion Wolf-Ear really felt for the kits. Its urging was hardly needed. The younglings were already scrambling, casting their bows and spears aside in haste.

Wolf-Ear wasn’t so quick, and before the old gnoll could pivot, the rushing flood swept over it. The ice flowed over its body like water and swept it, floundering and gasping, along with the current.

The tallest of the younglings seized the lead, covering huge strides with its long legs. Behind it, the other two vainly tried to keep up, jostling each other in their panic. There was a thud and scream as the inundation swept the pair under. Realizing it couldn’t outrun the flood of white, the surviving youngling desperately leapt for a jutting ice shelf. It was almost out of reach, but the young gnoll’s strong fingers gained a crumbling purchase on the rotten ice and snow. Fueled by terror, the kit hoisted itself over the lip, the churning ice splashing on the creature as it surged past.