Soldiers of Ice (15 page)

Atop the ice-encrusted dais, Vreesar gave no heed to the suffering of its subjects. The fiend was in no discomfort, clearly relishing the frozen winds that blasted through the open doorway. Martine suspected that it enjoyed More than just the cold, for it seemed to deliberately prolong every action as a means to torment all those assembled with the freezing cold.

“Where iz my tribute? Did your chieftain have nothing?

You!” Vreesar hummed as it jabbed a finger at Krote. “You wait and wait like an ennchi waiting to tear the hope out of a carrioned soul.”

Martine shivered in cold fear. She did not know what an ennchi was, or a carrioned soul, but together they did not sound good.

Krote must have thought so, too, for his answer was long in coming. “This is Hakk’s longhouse. What he owned is here.” The shaman guestured to the spread of goods on the dirt floor in front of Vreesar. Standing just behind the array of items, Martine felt as if she were being presented as property, too.

The Harper held her breath as Vreesar languidly drifted one clawed foot over the line of Hakk’s goods, pausing to touch a peculiar stone that rested among the dented breastplates, bone necklaces, and wooden carvings. Martine worded about what one sharp tap of the fiend’s toe might do to Jazrac’s seal. The wizard had warned her, after all, that the Soldiers of Ice

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stone was breakable. One hard rap, and all her efforts to close the rift could end in failure.

The fiend kicked a carving with one taloned toe. “Fah!” it hissed contemptuously. ‘qhese are mere toyz. No strength in toyz.”

Martine trembled with relief. Thank Tymora for some small luck, she silently praised.

“Human, I meet you again,” Vreesar droned in chilling tones. The elemental leaned toward her, never leaving its seat.

Like a small child expecting a thrashing, Martine barely nodded her head up and down. In truth, the woman held herself in rigid control to prevent her body from collapsing in a spasm of nerves. There was no point in denying anything so obvious. This creature was clever and perceptive, not like the little one she had slain. There was no hope of fooling it into believing she had not been on the glacier.

“You killed Icy-White?”

How should I answer? This thing knows I did. What will it do if I tell the truth? Or is it trying to trick me into a lie?

Martine felt her blood surge with panic. With a deep breath, she forced her body, but not her mind, to be calm.

“It wanted to play rough.” The Harper hoped her words sounded as tough and cynical as she thought they did.

Barely suppressed fear made it impossible for her to accurately judge the tone of her own words.

The lodge filled with the fiend’s quavering buzz.

Oh, gods, I hope that’s laughter, or else I’m dead. The Harper could feel her nerves making her begin to tremble.

The strain of the last few days made them diabolically hard to control.

Behind her, the gnolls milled in consternation, no More able to fathom the fiend’s mood than she was.

At last the buzzing subsided. The fiend swiveled its glittering eyes, sparkling beneath its shadowed brow, on her.

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‘`you close my gate?”

Despite her dry throat, Martine tried to swallow before she answered. “No. What gate?”

“Again you lie!” it thrummed, springing down from the dais. With a kick, it sent Hakk’s possessions flying. Martine bit her lip and tried not to let her eyes betray her interest as Jazrac’s stone tumbled across the floor and came to a stop against the lodge wall.

With jerking, angular steps, the creature stalked around her, each stride drawing it closer to her until Martine felt the crystals of icy breath on her neck. “I want gate open,”

Vreesar whispered, constantly circling her. “It iz cold and empty here—nice. Open the gate and I will make you my general. Open the gate and I will give you armiez of Icy-Whitez.

You will rule the warm landz for me. I will make

you powerful, human.”

Vreesar stopped behind her. Cold claws gently wrapped over the Harper’s shoulders, the sharp click of its fangs sounding next to her ear. “How do I open the gate?”

I’m a Harper. I can’t betray that trust. I must not betray that trust. Martine seized on these thoughts, focusing her mind on her duty as she steeled her body for her death. It would surely follow, the minute she refused Vreesar. All she had to do was say, “You can’t,” and the fiend would fly into a rage, and she would be dead. She knew it instinctively. A few quick words, some pain, and then freedom from this terror. It would be a true Harper’s death.

“I—I don’t know.” They were the wrong words, said

before she even realized what she was saying. She wanted to refuse Vreesar, to deny the fiend all hope, but fear overpowered her. Her own death was too close for her to be

brave.

“It can be opened again! It must!” The fiendish creature hissed in frustration. “How?” Its claw tips pressed into her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” Martine gasped, her knees starting to buckle as the pain of unhealed wounds flared beneath the creature’s talons.

With the flick of a clawed finger, Vreesar sliced a ribbo of red across her cheek. “Fell me or I cut More.”

The cut’s burning sting made bitter tears well in he eyes. Were she uninjured, it would have been a small mat ter, but now the cut added far More than it should have t(

her ledger of pain. “I was never told.” The ranger couk barely gasp the words out.

“Uselezz!” Vreesar flung the shaken woman to the

ground like a rag doll. Martine clutched the cold earth relieved to still be alive, her body weak from the question ing.

Vreesar angrily turned to Krote. The shaman was stil crouched at the very forefront of his people, intently watch ing the interrogation. His eyes took in every detail as hi mind calculated the strengths and weaknesses of the tribe’,, new chieftain.

“Did she have anything when you found her, shaman?”

“Only that”—Krote pointed to Martine’s leather back pack in the dirt—”and a sword. It was of no value.”

The hells it was, Martine thought in the midst of her fo: of pain. Her sword was made of good magical steel. Sh.

had had to fight a pirate lord for it. From where she lay, th Harper waited for the WordMaker to point out the ston but he never did. Perhaps he’s forgotten about the roc she thought hopefully. I can still get it back. Get the ston escape, and get back to Jazrac—that’s all I have to do.

The fiend snatched up her backpack and shook it. Whe nothing fell out, it tore at the leather bag with its claws an, teeth, all the while growling with inarticulate rage. Bits c shredded leather rained on the bare ground. Metal buckle jangled as Vreesar hurled them across the lodge.

“There iz no key here. Where are her other thingz?” Th I 16

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barbed fiend strode back toward Krote, claws flexing convulsively.

Seeing the icy body with the needlelike teeth

advance toward them, the gnolls scrambled backward.

“What about the little ones? Maybe they have it,” a trembling voice deep in the throng barked out. The suggestion was quickly taken up by other gnolls in the lodge. Belief or truth had little to do with their agreement; all that mattered was diverting the fiend.

“Little onez? Explain, shaman.”

“The gnomes, great chieftain. They live to the south, beyond our lands.”

“Iz their land warm or cold?”

The question flabbergasted the gnoll. “It’s snowy, the same as here, but their valley does not have the tall ice.”

“Warm, then,” ĽĽeesar calculated, its icy brows tinkling as they knitted. “And they helped the human?”

“Perhaps.” Without better knowledge, the WordMaker wasn’t going to commit himself one way or the other.

Martine didn’t like the sound of these questions and cursed herself for being helpless.

“Are these gnomes powerful?”

Krote shrugged in puzzlement at Vreesar’s question. “I do not know. They are little people and do not raid our land.

Some think they are grass-growers and do not know how to hunt.’

“Then they are weak.”

Krote shook his head firmly. “The stories of the Burnt Fur say the little people are strong in magic. If the stories are true, then they are powerful.”

Vreesar cackled, its laugh like shattering icicles. “I am magic. I am powerful. The little snow people are nothing, like mephitz, like Icy-White. If that iz all they have, they will be easy to destroy. We will attack them.” The fiend glared at the gnolls huddled near the fire pit, waiting for any to speak out against the plan. The fi-igid creature’s gaze was a fierce Soldiers of ice

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challenge none of the dog-men dared accept, and their silence signaled their acceptance.

It’s only a boast, Martine hoped as she heard Vreesar’s proclamation. It was bad to have let the fiend escape the rift. The attack on the Vani would be yet another black mark against her in the eyes of the Harpers. if a single one of these creatures could create such chaos, Martine knew she could never allow hordes of Vreesar’s kin to enter into the world. While the fiend ranted its threats and schemes, the Harper slid stealthily across the floor, moving in tiny increments toward Jazrac’s precious stone.

Krote’s ears flared at Vreesar’s declaration, his eyes suddenly darkening. Standing up to his full height until he

almost looked the fiend eye-to-eye, the shaman alone rose to the challenge of Vreesar’s words. “Chieftain, we are one tribe. If we fight the people of the snow, many of our warriors will die, even with you to lead us. The little people have strong homes, dug into the dirt like the dens of foxex.

The old songs called them fierce like the badger.”

“What iz badger?” The shaman’s point was lost on the otherworldly creature.

“A demon of the forest,” Krote explained. “The badger is small but fears no one, not even bears. The gnomes to the south are said to have badger blood in their veins.”

“No creature fightz More fiercely than Vreesar,” the fiend hissed.

Krote still wasn’t ready to relent. “And if Brokka is killed, who will take his mates and find game for his kits? Or Varka? Or Split-Ear? Attack the little people and many mates will howl for their dead warriors.”

“That iz the way of femalez,’ the fiend droned unconcernedly.

Martine froze as the elemental turned to resume its place on the dais. She could only silently pray that it hadn’t noticed that she had crept halfway to the wall, or if it did, 118

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that it thought nothing of it.

“Great chieftain, it will take our warriors much time to attack the people of the snow,” WordMaker hastily pressed as he tried yet another tack to dissuade the fiend from its plan. Martine almost believed the gnoll was trying to distract the fiend’s attention. If that was so, he was succeeding admirably, for the elemental wheeled about, its icy joints clicking as it moved.

Krote stepped forward to face the fiend. Though the gnoll was gaunt and tall, the fiend was even taller and thinner.

The bones and antlers that hung from the arches

tangled with the hairlike barbs on its head.

‘I’he winter is hard,” Krote insisted. “There is little food in the lodges. Our warriors must hunt to feed our kits, or they will starve. We must wait for the snows to melt.”

Vreesar turned upon the shaman and hissed, ‘Wait? No…

the ice makez the warriorz strong. They will attack now.”

“But what about the females?”

“They will fight, too, or starve. Femalez fight! Young onez fight. All of them!” the fiend buzzed furiously through clenched, needlelike teeth. “Give the femalez swordz and the young onez knivez. Everybody fightz. All of the Burnt Fur must fight!”

A murmur rippled through the assembled gnolls. Voices raised in both eagerness and fear. Though loath to concede it, Martine was impressed that the shaman stood his ground, refusing to give in to the fiend. They were still distracted, and she inched forward.

“You will kill the tribe,” Krote predicted. He clutched the icon that hung from his neck. ‘Whis is not the will—”

Krote’s words ended in the snap of his jaw as the elemental swung one lanky arm in a lashing backhand. The shaman’s head whiplashed to the side as he reeled backward

for three steps before his legs half-buckled and he dropped to one knee.

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The creature didn’t press its attack but stood watching the gnoll. “I am the chieftain and not an imp of the godz, like you, shaman. Do you challenge me?”

Krom’s lips rolled back to bare his fighting fangs, and the shaman tensed for the attack. Like all the others in the lodge, Martine was certain bloodshed was imminent. WordMaker’s‘s flattened ears twitched eagerly. A low growl

rumbled in his throat as the hackles on his neck rose.

The lodge came alive with an undulating buzz. “Attack me,” the fiend taunted in soft whispers. Even as it spoke, the creature gouged long furrows in the dirt floor.

Then the moment passed, and Krote slowly lowered his head in submission.

“Good,” Vreesar breathed, making no effort to conceal its disappointment. “No More challengez.’ It turned away from the gnoll and stood over the sprawled Harper. “No escaping either,” it said, noting her movements, then kicked her in the side to emphasize the point. Her body collapsed into the dirt, leaving Martine clutching at her ribs while her breath came in sharp bursts.

“Hot Breath, you have friendz in thiz valley of little people? Family? Are you ready to see them die?” The fiend squatted beside her, tilting its head owlishly to meet her tear-filled gaze.

“I know no one there,” Martine gasped.

The fiend grinned britfiely as it knelt close to her. “Perhapz you lie again. Tell me where the key iz, or I will lead my people there and kill them all.”

‘Where is no key.”

‘here iz alwayz a key. Every door haz a key,” the fiend insisted, “and you know where it iz. Tell me. Think of your friendz, the gnomes. I will kill them unless you tell me.”