Soldiers of Ice (22 page)

“What is happening, human? Have the little ones come Soldiers of Ice

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“No, not that.” Martine hoped that was the truth, but her voice, like her heart, lacked the strength of conviction.

‘gou think the little ones come to kill me.”

“No,” the woman lied badly.

Krote rocked with a barking, staccato cough. “I am your enemy, human, but you fear the little people, too, eh?” The shaman pressed close to the slats. He leered wolfishly so that his long canine teeth glowed dully in the unflickering light. “Let me go, human, or give me a sword to fight them.”

Martine moved away from the cage, shocked by the suggestion.

“No!”

The shaman’s fingers wrapped around the thick slats.

%Vhy? You have honor. You know the Burnt Fur are better, More honorable, than the little people.”

“Better? That’s not true?

“I would kill for freedom; little ones kill for blood. Now who is better?”

‘q’hey’re not like you! They don’t threaten to eat you or marry you to impress the tribe. The Vani are afraid and angry. Your people attacked them today and killed a farmer.

He hadn’t done anything to harm your people.” The Harper found herself leaping to the defense of the gnomes, of whom only moments ago she had feared the worst.

“I just don’t want them to do anything foolish,” the Harper added. With one finger, she nervously scratched patterns in the dirt. “I gave my word you’d be safe.”

A dry chuckle purred in the gnoll’s throat. “My people, your people—all alike,” Krote whispered as he slid into the darkness. After only a moment, he returned from the shadows and tossed something through the pen’s slats. Martine started and scooted backward. Krote broke into a dry laugh once More. “Look at it. It does not bite. Hakk was making it.’

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Martine gingerly picked up the small object, which curiously felt both smooth and raspy to her touch. In the light, it flashed wheat-gold. She saw it was made from bundles of straw twisted and woven into a crude doll.

“Hakk make it for his cubs.” The gnoll’s voice was a gravelly whisper. “My people, your people, who is different?”

The doll was cunningly fashioned from scraps of leather and cloth. The head was decorated with two specks of color for eyes, while two tufts of fur gave it wolflike ears. The hair was a thin daub of mud. Martine could imagine Hakk carefully mixing spittle and dirt until the texture was just the right consistency. In one knotted hand, the doll held a stone flake that looked almost like a sword. A braid of straw formed a belt; another scrap of fur made a loincloth.

Looking at the crude toy, Martine remembered the dolls her own father had made for her birthday, lovingly carved from a block of wood and then dressed in little gowns sewn by her mother. In her mind, she saw the image of Hakk, writhing beneath Vreesar’s blood-soaked jaws. A lump choked in her throat, and tears blurred her vision. Furious with her lack of control over her own emotions, she flung the doll away into the darkness. “No! Cyric’s damnation on you! You’re not the same! You’re not like the gnomes, and they’re not like you!”

As if to prove her words, Martine sprang to her feet, and as she hurried down the hall, she heard Krote chuckle grimly as he crawled once More into the darkness.

It took Martine little time to make her way back to the main hall, her natural sense of direction holding her in good stead. The other gnomes were gone and the hall was almost dark, but Vil remained, squatting on the floor in serious conversation with Sumalo. The pair rose as she approached and had said their good-nights before she even joined them.

“This way,” Vil said as he guided her down the hall to a Soldiers of lee

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door. “Sumalo’s arranged for us to stay the night. I accepted for both of us. It wouldn’t be a good idea to go back to the cabin tonight if the gnolls are about.” He pushed the door open and waited for her to duck through the short portal before following her inside.

The room was narrow and windowless, a claustrophobic little chamber. It was furnished with a bed, table, and chairs, all gnome-sized, but these were all pushed against the back wall and stacked on each other to clear as much floor space as possible. The floor was covered with two neat mounds of thick bedding.

“The warren doesn’t have many human-sized rooms,” Vil explained as he edged past Martine, “and Sumalo didn’t want us sleeping in the halls in case they need to be used in an emergency. Hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine. Almost as nice as your cabin.” Martine pulled off her boots and laid claim to one of the beds. Compared to the snow cave she had slept in several nights earlier, this was positively spacious. Besides, she couldn’t help noting, the company was much betten

Suddenly there was a loud, thundedike clap, followed by the acrid smell of ozone in the am

Vii sprang to his feet, practically upsetting Martine as she rose, startled by the explosive report. Quickly the pair sprang for their weapons.

With their blades flickering in magelight, the pair whirled on the source of the disturbance. A cloud of sulphurous smoke billowed in the doorway. When the smoke

began to clear, a thin-faced man, smartly dressed in a traveling cloak, puffed and slashed doublet, and woolen breeks, strode out of the swirl of fumes, brushing tendrils of smoke from his slender goatee. In his other hand, the stranger car-tied a large satchel made of well-worn leather.

“Martine, my dear,” the stranger said in an easy, familiar voice, “put away your sword. You’re not under attack.”

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“]azrac?’ the woman blurted, practically dropping her blade in the process. Vil stood alongside her, his sword wavering with uncertainty.

The wizard casually sauntered across the room, giving the small quarters a disparaging once-over. The light from the unflickering wall scones highlighted the silver and black of his hair with a theatrical glow. “Precisely, my dear Martine. It was the deuce to track you down. Now, may I put my bag here?” the tall wizard continued, hoisting his luggage. Vil let the tip of his sword sag to the floor in confused stupefaction.

“What—what do you mean, track me down?” Martine

stammered. ‘qhat are you doing here, Jazrac?”

“I read your letter,” the wizard replied calmly as he plopped his satchel onto the furniture-laden bed. The straps undone, the bag opened with slight hiss, like the sucking in of a breath. “And that curious bit of carving you got that gnoll to do. That was a clever bit of work on your part. But as I said, you’re a hard one to track down. It took me a while to figure out just where you were.”

As he spoke, Jazrac reached into the small bag until his arm disappeared all the way up to the shoulder. He removed his arm to produce a thick bundle of scrolls, neatly bound with string. That set aside, he reached back inside the bag and rummaged for something else. Confused, Vil watched the unannounced visitor shove his arm into the small satchel again.

Martine had no patience with the deliberately obtuse tack her mentor was taking. “Jazrac, I repeat, what in the hells are you doing here?”

The wizard paused in his unpacking and stared at the woman with mock injury, his arched eyebrows raised even higher. “Why, Martine, I’ve come to find out what kind of a mess you’ve made of things.”

Eleven

Oh, gods, I’m doomed! Martine

thought as she sagged against one of the

paneled walls. At the same time, the color

drained from her face, leaving her deadly

pale. The thought that Jazrac needed to

check up on her inspired in her a dread

awe of the wrath the Harpers.

Where do I begin? How do I explain what’s happened?

Martine couldn’t see any simple way to tell about her misadventures that wouldn’t cast doubts on her judgment.

Lying was unthinkable. The woman knew there was really nothing she could do to avert Jazrac’s displeasure, and trying to conceal any of her errors would only make it worse.

The knowledge that there was no escaping the truth didn’t help her either. The fear of her superiors was instilled too deeply to ignore.

“Excuse me,” Vil said sharply as he banged the flat of his sword against the wall. The loud crack was a sure attention-getter.

“What in the world is going on?” The warrior looked to Martine for an answer, all the while watching the stranger 173

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from the corner of his eye.

The color rushed back into Martine’s cheeks and blossomed into a full blush as she was suddenly reminded that Vil was a spectator to her mortification. “Uh, Vilheim, this is Jazrac, Mage of Saerloon. Jazrac, this is Vilheim Baltson.

He’s the one I mentioned in the letter.”

The wizard stopped unpacking, which was fortuitous, for the bed was almost overflowing with furniture, scrolls, bundles, shoes, even a thick pair of robes. Holding one hand to his chest, the senior Harper bowed slightly toward Vil, tilting the tip of his goatee toward the floor. “Greetings, Vilheim Baltson. Your home is extremely well built.” The

wizard looked down at the sword Vil still held clutched in his hand.

“Greetings to you, Jazrac, but I must explain that this is not my cabin,” Vil replied, grinning at the error. “I’m not that good a carpenter. You’re in a gnome warren.’

“Really? I’ve never been inside one before.” Jazrac’s face brightened as he peered at the walls with renewed interest.

“No wonder I was confused about the small size.”

“You don’t intend to stay here, do you?” Martine ventured.

She pointed to the bed piled with things, a mound

already twice the size of the wizard’s small valise.

“I’ve come to talk with you,” Jazrac easily replied, avoiding the question. His gray eyes were dark pits rimmed by deep creases, his sharp nose a brilliant highlight. Martine couldn’t guess her mentor’s thoughts behind his veiled expression, and so filled that void of knowledge with fearful imaginings.

Jazrac put her fears to naught with a shrug. “Well, I should explain for Master Baltson’s sake, I suppose.” With a flourish of his cape, the mage sat on the edge of the bed.

The stack of scrolls behind him teetered ominously.

“I’m a Harper, and this young lady is a Harper, too.”

Jazrac paused, awaiting some sort of reaction.

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There was only silence. No gasped breath, no protestation of disbelief.

“So she told me,” Vil said calmly.

Jazrac looked crestfallen that his dramatic announcement had been spoiled. With one eye cocked toward Martine, he continued, “Well, we’re normally not supposed to reveal that, but I’m the reason Martine’s here. I sent her on a mission—”

“I know. To close the rift.” Vil’s bland interruption once again foiled the wizard’s theatrics. Now Jazrac fixed both eyes on Martine, missing the former paladin’s mischievous grin.

“Well, anyway,” Jazrac continued coldly, “since I hadn’t heard from my protege for some time, and then I get two alarming messages, I thought it best I come to see if all’s well. We Harpers do that sort of thing,” he added cavalierly.

“Indeed.’

Jazrac made a stab at small talk as he rebalanced the scrolls behind him. “I don’t imagine you know what a bother it can be, keeping tabs on each other. You seem More the independent type. You probably never had to worry about anybody else, eh?”

Martine bit her lip; she knew Vil was once a paladin. She didn’t know much about paladins, but she did know their lives were committed to serving others. Vil merely smiled wryly. “Oh, I’ve had a few duties in my life.”

“Indeed! Then you do understand how it is. I’ve come to see if everything is well—” here the mage hesitated significantly—”and talk Harper business with Martine.” He

paused broadly, spreading his hands in an obvious hint.

When Vil failed to move, Jazrac cleared his throat. “Harper business. Private Harper business.”

“I see,” Vil answered with mock naivete. ‘ou want me to leave.”

Vil was mocking Jazrac, the woman knew, though she

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couldn’t guess just why. It probably had something to do with the traditional rivalry between paladins and wizards.

She’d never known the two groups to get along well. Paladins were painfully noble and suspected the motives of

most sorcerers, which naturally irritated the sorcerers. If I were a wizardress, it’d annoy me, too, she thought. Fortunately in this case, Jazrac didn’t even notice the warrior’s mocking tone. Perhaps he assumed Vil was simply dense.

Martine had been around the warrior enough to know that wasn’t true.

It was time to intervene, though, just in case Vii got out of hand.

“Jazrac, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Martine pleaded as she pushed herself wearily from the wall she’d been slumping against. ‘q’hese last several days have been really hard on me. Nothing’s going to change by tomorrow.”

The mage’s eyes wrinkled at her suggestion. “I think we should talk now. I’d like to know everything that has hal>

pened.” His tone was all authority.

“I’ll go see how the Vani are doing,” the warrior volunteered graciously. “I’ll be back in about an hour.” Vil

sheathed his sword and quickly made his departure.

Although she didn’t want the warrior around for what was certain to be an unpleasant conversation, Martine still couldn’t help feeling she was being abandoned. She waited stiffly for the wizard to speak. Without a knife in hand, her fingers knitted and clenched nervously.

Jazrac coolly brushed some invisible dust from his

clothes before he looked at Martine. The mask of affability he’d maintained since he arrived was gone.

“Now, tell me just what has been happening here,” he demanded calmly. “First I read that clever little ‘Captured by gnolls’ message. Then after days of silence, you suddenly report that everything is fine but your prize mount is dead. What is going on, anyway?”