Soldiers of Ice (12 page)

speak of it.”

Wives! Weak or not, the word electrified Martine. She was to be one of this brute gnoll’s wives? She was about to lurch to her feet to protest this arrangement when a cold glare from WordMaker stopped her. The look was clear; it carried in it neither lust nor kindness, but rather a cautionary warning to stay out of something she did not understand.

The Harper sagged back to the ground, quaking

with anger that quickly turned to violent shivering as her weakened body finally surrendered control.

“Krote WordMaker, say the words to finalize my claim.”

The chieftain’s voice rang deeply through the lodge, triggering an excited buzz from the assembled tribe.

The gaunt WordMaker nodded sharply and turned to

the pack. “Hear the words of the servant of Gorellik. Hakk Elk-Slayer has claimed the human female. To take her is to challenge him. To injure her is cause for blood feud. This female is claimed. Gorellik approves this.” The words were recited as an old formula, familiar and easy in their utterance.

At first the tribe’s response sounded like a low grumble of snarled voices laden with discontent. The Harper’s ears proved wrong, however, as the growl quickly resolved itself into a rhythmic chant. The drumming of paws slapping against the earth rose higher and higher. Though the accompanying words were garbled by the clustered voices and unfamiliar phrases, Martine caught the unmistakable Soldiers of !ce

89

strains of a mating chant.

I’ve just been married! she realized suddenly.

The realization left her stunned, both by the deed itself and by the haste at which it had been accomplished. Married to a gnoll! Fortunately weakness and fear blotted out any thoughts of what her new duties might be, leaving only the vague realization of the hopelessness of her situation.

Blackness swirled into her vision, leaving only the two, chieftain and shaman, before her in the firelight.

%Vord-Maker!” her new husband barked over the rising chorus. “l’he female must not die. Heal her or suffer the consequences.”

The other gnoll bristled instinctively at the command, lips curling slightly to expose yellow fangs. Then, just as quickly, the WordMaker recovered his composure. “I will do it,” he grunted with a nod toward the chieftain. ‘Wake her to the spirit lodge.”

Someone seized Martine under the arms, tearing open the half-frozen bandage on her shoulder. Fresh blood oozed out through the crystals. Martine tried to stand, but her legs gave out beneath her as a new wave of pain assaulted her body. She could barely feel the ground as she staggered along, half-dragged by her captors.

Even the bitter cold outside did little to revive the Harper. Packed snow crackled as her captors led her across the clearing, jerking her upright each time she stumbled over the gnarled ground. In the dim light of the late-rising moon, they reached a little leather and birch hut, a round gray shape against the darker border of the trees. In a moment she was inside its steamy warmth. With ungentle grace, her captors dropped her onto a mass of greasy furs.

To Martine, the flea-bitten pelts felt like down.

“Leave now,” a voice, the shaman’s, barked. There was a rustle of closing curtains, and the last of the cold blasts ended with it.

90

The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice

91

The ranger was already sliding into darkness and relief when cruel pain jerked her back to wakefulness. Eyes bolting open, she stared into the animalistic face of the WordMaker as he squatted over her. In one clawed hand, he held a knife; in the other, he held bloody strips of clothing.

There was a sharp tearing sound and More pain as he sliced away the frozen shreds of her parka.

In a matter of moments, her hands, shoulder, and toes burned like fire as the lodge’s heat penetrated her frostbitten skin. Martine’s muscles trembled uncontrollably. The gnoll pressed a bony knee into her stomach and snarled, “Lie still, human. I will not let you die.” The words were More threat than promise.

Finally the shaman finished cutting his patient free from her garments, leaving her gashed shoulder exposed. With a sharp claw, he scraped away the frozen blood and dirt in each gouge, releasing new welling streams that flowed down over her skin. With each scrape, the ranger felt hot jets of pain. Finally the shaman sat on her torso to pin her down. Martine ground her teeth in a futile effort to keep from screaming. Nothing remained of the real world but the gnoll’s grinning face and her oval agony, until finally the pain was so intense it no longer mattered.

At last the gnoll stopped, and the spasms subsided.

Dimly the ranger could see him holding an unfamiliar charm, circling it over her wounds. “Bones knit. Skin seal.”

The shaman chanted his droning prayer over and over as he rubbed one hand over her injured shoulder.

Almost immediately the pain in Martine’s wounds took on a new dimension. The dullness of overstressed nerves transformed as new pains jangled alarms. Tendons and muscles shifted under the tingling fire emanating from the gnoll’s palm. Her whole arm jerked spasmodically as strange signals aroused her dormant muscles. Without stopping his prayer, the shaman slid his hand across the woman’s body, letting the power of his spell penetrate.

Deep in her chest, Martine felt her ribs clutch and seize, then settle into a soothing numbness. The frostbitten fire surged in her extremities.

Then suddenly the pain, all of it, old and new, abruptly ended. The absence of any feeling was almost as excruciating as the pain itself. Dimly Martine realized she lay soaked in sweat, her jaw clenched so tight she thought it was locked.

It was done. WordMaker took his hand away and ended his prayer with a final harsh benediction, then prodded and poked at Martine, examining his handiwork. “Gorellik has favored me, outsider,” the shaman remarked as he packed away his charm. “He has shown his blessing to a human and let us both live. Your wounds are healed.”

Martine barely heard the gnoll, so overwhelmed was she by the emptiness that replaced her pain. Thank him, a small voice within her said.

‘qhank—thank you,” the Harper stammered brokenly. In a language she seldom used, her words were stiffly formed.

The cold, the battles, and the healing had left her drained, until even speech was a prodigious effort. She tried to raise a hand, but her muscles were limp and helpless after her ordeal.

WordMaker noted her effort and snorted as he stood, wrapping his dirty robes over his sharp shoulders. “I go tell Elk-Slayer of my success. I leave you here—unbound. If you try to escape, you will only freeze in the snow.” Saying no More he slipped past the door flaps and out into the night.

It’s an accurate prediction, even if I could get outside, the Harper thought, but I’m not helpless. If only I can get a message to Jazrac… a letter. He might scry and see it, even without the dagger.

That thin hope kept Martine from collapse as she slowly 92

The Harpers

gathered the simple materials for the task. A half-burnt stick, scraped from the lodge’s small fire, became a pen, a cud of birchbark her paper.

Poised to write, Martine paused. I’m overreacting. I’ve made it through the worst, she chided herself. If I call for help now, that’ll be a sign of weakness. I’ve got to prove to Jazrac I can be a Harper. I can make it. I know I can.

Taking a deep breath to steady her hand, the ranger slowly scratched block letters on the inside of the bark.

al’—

Hole sealed. Guest of gnolls. Will escape. Don’t worry.

Not hurt.

Finished, the ranger looked at the message with the addled confidence of exhaustion. I can do this. All I need is Jazrac’s knife, she told herself as she carefully rolled the bark into a tube and tucked it away out of sight.

Disregarding the fleas and lice, Martine pulled the furs around her and lay back, waiting for sleep to overtake her.

Overhead, the whistling blasts of the wind shook the wicker frame of the hut till the necklaces hanging from its spars began to vibrate softly, chattering their tales. Just as she was about to drift into sleep, she heard a hissing wail from somewhere in the frigid night. It was a cold voice that scoured the sky with its fiendish rage, and Martine knew the thing on the glacier was hunting.

Comforting sleep never came.

Six

Martine was awake again when daylight

seeped through the cracks around

the hut’s doors. The woman felt none of

the relief rest would normally bring,

only a blurry haze of fear and confusion.

She couldn’t even remember sleeping.

Perhaps she had, only to suffer dreams

no different from her waking fears.

With the magical healing and what little rest she might have stolen, the ranger did feel somewhat stronger, although not fully herself yet. Martine gingerly touched the still unclosed wounds on her shoulder. The imp’s slash marks were smaller, crusted over, and free of infection, but the skin was still stiff, and each move risked pulling the gashes open. Clearly the damage had been More than the gnoll’s single spell could mend.

No fighting for me yet, she decided, not for a few days at least. She smiled ruefully. It was unlikely there would be any need to, at any rate. Weaponless and opposed by an entire tribe, her chances of escaping seemed dim indeed.

94

The Harpers

Soldiers of lee

95

The ranger’s thoughts were interrupted by the stiff rustling of the door curtain. Bright sunshine illuminated the hut as the gaunt WordMaker stooped to pass through the doorway. The wind swirled ashes from the ebbing fire, adding to the thickness of the air.

The gnoll held the door flap open with one lanky arm, draining the scant heat from the small lodge. He was still dressed as the woman vaguely remembered him from last night. The bindings wound round his arms and legs were not bandages as she thought then, but wrappings made from scraps of cloth and leather layered over buckskin.

Thongs bound the windings like cross-gartered hose, reminding Martine of an impoverished courtier she’d once met in Selgaunt. Bits of fur and fabric hung in loose bits beneath the straps. In the light, Martine could see that the straps were spiked where they crossed the backs of the guoll’s hands and wound through his fingers. It was ornamentation heightened to barbaric fashion, for the nails,

gleaming silver, seemed incredibly sharp. She remembered his bare chest from last night; today it was covered by a dyed leather shirt, printed in block patterns that duplicated the shining nailwork of his crossbelts. The bearskin cloak of last night hung loosely from one shoulder.

“Good. You are awake, human,” grunted the guoll.

Martine was too dazed to do anything More than stare wildly at him.

“Get up. Hakk wants you.”

The command jolted her back to the present. “To kill me?” the Harper asked warily. In all her years on various frontiers, Martine had never heard of gnolls taking prisoners.

“No,” the gnoll answered sharply, glaring at her with his deep-sunken eyes. “I have questions. If you are dead, it is difficult to get answers.”

But not impossible, Martine mentally added upon noting the unmistakable threat in the shaman’s tone. Perhaps she couldn’t tell when a gnoll was happy or distrustful, but threats were clear enough.

“Now get up, human. Hakk awaits.”

“I have a name, gnoll. It’s Martine… Martine of Sem-bia.”

The fact that the gnoll preferred her alive gave the ranger heart, at least enough to put on a show of pride.

“Margh-tin.” The gnoll mangled the foreign-sounding syllables of her name. “Easier to call you human. I am Krote…

Krote WordMaker. Do what I say and you may live.”

“Yes… Wrd-Maker. The name means you’re a…” The

Harper searched for the right word. Her grasp of the harsh guoll tongue was rusty and far from fluent.

‘qhe speaker for Gorellik,” Krote completed impatiently.

In case the human didn’t understand, he plucked an amulet from the latticework and dangled it in front of Martine. It was a crudely carved animal head, similar to a hyena the ranger had once seen on the plains south of the Innersea.

Fetishes of feather and bone dangled from it, leaving no doubt Gorellik was a guoll god.

“Now, go,” the gnoll demanded as he tucked the icon way.

Martine lurched to her feet, wrapping the fur robe she’d slept in tight around her shredded parka. The thin winter sunlight did little to warm the air, and she had no desire to expose her healing wounds to frostbite once More.

The shaman moved aside warily as Martine stepped outside.

Blinking against the ice-reflected sunlight, she surveyed the guoll village. It was a meager collection of vulgar huts spaced in a wide circle around the edge of a roughly circular clearing. There were five huts all told. The nearest was typical of them all, built from old, stiff skins and strips of papery white bark lashed to a simple curved frame.

Snow was mounded against the long sides in an attempt to provide some insulation. Smoke curled from a hole in the 96

The Harpers

Soldiers of lee

97

roof. By some trick of the air, the smoke rose into the sparse branches of the birches and massed there, a greasy pall that transformed the gleaming blue of the sky into a flat haze.

Yipping cries drew Martine’s gaze away fi.om the lodge.

A small figure darted around the edge of another hut and then stopped short at seeing her. Immediately on its heels came another. The second sprang upon the first from behind, and they fell tumbling across the churned snow.

They were young gnolls—Martine wasn’t sure whether to call them kits or cubs—and were playing like children everywhere, though much roughen Furry muzzles bit at each other in mock battle; then the one on the bottom grabbed a chunk of ice and smashed it against the snapping jowl of its playmate. The gnoll cub flopped back with a whimpering yowl, clutching its face, and the other lunged on top of it, pinning its prey with knees clamped against its chest. The victor barked and growled in triumph and then bounded away.