Soldiers of Ice (31 page)

“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked, turning back.

“I am Vreesan” This time she could hear the creature’s shock that the ranger would doubt its word.

“So?” Martine caught Vil looking at her, as if to warn her not to push things too far.

“An oath to the prince of ice!” it spat, frustrated at her rejection.

“So you swear?”

“Yez,’ it answered venomously. “Now, human, there iz one thing I want.”

‘WVhat?”

The elemental pointed at the WordMaker. “Leave me the traiton”

Martine had no ready answer for this unexpected turn of events. A quick look at the shaman told her his opinion; the gnoll’s ears were flattened back in the fighting response.

Beyond him, Vil shook his head almost imperceptibly from side to side.

“He’s a living creature,” the former paladin hissed. “You can’t barter his life.”

The Harper steeled herself to face the elemental squarely, her eyes focusing on its ice-veiled face. The thing’s tiny mouth rasped eagerly as it waited for her reply. Slowly she shook her head. “Krote is my prisoner. He’s not part of my bargain. He stays with me.” She still needed the shaman to forge a peace with the gnolls once this was all done.

“He iz mine! He iz one of the Burnt Fur, and I am hiz chieftain!” Vreesar shrilled. It started to lunge forward, claws outstretched ….

“The stone! Not if you want the stone!” Martine shouted Soldiers of Ice

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even as Krote leaped backward to avoid the elemental’s icy grasp.

Vreesar stopped suddenly, held by her words.

“Harm him and the deal’s off,” Martine announced. Her sword was in her hand as if it sprang magically from its sheath.

Vil stepped forward to flank Martine, with Krote between them. Behind Vreesar, the gathered gnolls bristled, awaiting their chieftain’s word. The clearing was cloudy with their steaming breath.

Vreesar looked hungrily at the three before him. Its clawed hands flexed slowly. Finally it eased its body back until it was no longer in a hunter’s crouch. “You can have him, human. He iz worthlez.” The elemental stepped back and twisted its gleaming head around to address the rest of the tribe. “Let them leave thiz time, but if you see the traitor again, kill him.”

Several eager yowls of bloodlust rose from the pack, but most kept silent, as if judging the worth of their chieftain against that of their shaman.

Vreesar turned back to Martine and under its gaze, she suddenly felt cold. “Now, human, where iz the stone?”

The Harper was trembling so hard she wasn’t sure she could remain standing. “On the big island in the river. You’ll find a blazed trail that will lead you to it.” All three of them stopped breathing, waiting to see if Vreesar would kill them now.

The tiny mouth cracked in the slightest of smiles, as if sensing their fears. “Leave, humanz,” the elemental hummed.

It pointed to a packed trail across the camp. “Take the short trail. No one will harm you.”

Martine didn’t wait for a second offer, but neither did she let her fears make her bolt. Warily she trudged through the camp, her gaze constantly moving from enemy to enemy.

As they passed, each gnoll stepped aside slightly, although 242

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none were submissive. Neck hairs bristled, ears flattened, and growls rumbled in the throats of the dog-men. At first Martine thought they were directed at her, but then she realized most of their attention was directed at Krote, who was immediately behind her. The shaman walked stiff and tall, never once even glancing at those who threatened him.

He seemed almost icy calm in the midst of their animalistic hatred.

As soon as the three entered the forest, they buckled on their skis and snowshoes. The only one who spoke was Krote. “I come with you until Vreesar leaves my people,” he growled, “but I am free.”

Martine shook her head. “That wasn’t the agreement.

You’re free when you make peace with your tribe.”

Krote spat. “When I try, you said! I cannot try now. They will kill me.”

Martine shook her head. “Find a way if you want your freedom.” Her voice was firm. Vii, with his sword drawn, pressed it gently against the gnoll’s back.

The measured march through the camp became a hurried flight now that they were out of sight. The trail was well used, but coarsely broken. The skiers bumped and skidded over the trampled footprints of their enemies. In the packed snow, Krote had little difficulty keeping up as they hurried through the tightly packed trees of the slope.

The caws of ravens alerted them that something was up.

Before the skiers could slow their pace, a coven of black forms swirled up, screeching, from a line of posts in the trail just ahead of them. A few of the brave birds stayed behind, unwilling to surrender their meaty prizes. The ravens pecked at a row of bloodless heads, jammed onto the ends of crudely sharpened stakes. They were small heads, smaller than a human’s.

“Oh, gods!” Martine swore. She couldn’t stand to look.

“Claim stakes. We Burnt Fur mark our territory with the Soldiers of !ce

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heads of our enemies.” Krote’s voice echoed with fierce pride.

“We? You’re our prisoner now, WordMaker,” Martine

snapped.

As they sparred, Vil knelt to examine the gruesome display.

He paused before one in the middle. ‘Whis is Turi,’ Vil said softly.

Martine forced herself to look. The birds had done thorough work. The eye sockets of the head were empty, and

most of the face was gone, except for a few frozen bits of flesh and the bloody strings of a beard. “How can you tell?”

she asked quickly, trying to hold in her rage.

The man spoke with pain. He gently touched the beads woven into the beard of the little face. “Turi’s braids,” he explained.

‘q’he little people will remember not to attack the Burnt Fur,” Krote predicted as they set out once More.

Fifteen

Aghast at what she had seen, Martine

shoved the shaman back onto the trail.

Krote snarled a warning as she shouldered

past to resume lead. “Be careful,

human. Someday I will not be your prisoner.”

The Harper drew her sword

quickly and, twisting about, let the blade

flash in the sunlight. She said nothing but sheathed the weapon and laid into her skis, setting a brutal pace. After a mile of winding through the wood, even Vil, a better skier than Martine, was panting hard.

Just ahead, the trail broke out of the woods and plunged and plunged down a steep slope to the clear meadows of a marshy stream. Just as Martine was about launch over the edge, Vil pulled up short. “Let’s rest here a minute,” he insisted. Fiercely determined to match the Harper’s pace, Krote breathed shuddering clouds of steam from the exertion.

Martine stood poised on the brink of the descent, upset at the delay. The longer she stood, the less irritated she 244

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became as she finally felt the effects of her pace. The sweat of exertion quickly cooled in the bitter wind that swept up the slope, drawing the heat from her flushed skin.

Calm down, she urged herself. You can’t exhaust yourself here. There’s still too much to be done.

As she stood gathering her strength, Vil sheltered his eyes to scan the slope for the best route down. “That’s odd,” he murmured suddenly. “What do you make of that?”

The warrior pointed a mittened hand toward a thick gray-white cloud that settled over the warren less than a mile ahead. Coiling arms of snow rose upward on spirals of wind, only to fall back to earth. It was like a storm blown down fresh from the mountains, but everywhere else the sky was clear. As the pair watched, the gray mass swirled and spread to swallow the adjacent trees within its white depths.

“It seems to be spreading in a circle,” the Harper noted with a sense of dread.

“Does your friend have any weather magic in his gear?”

The question caught the woman off guard. “Jazrac? I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s definitely not natural.”

Krote snorted. “Storms are things of cold.”

“Vreesar! You don’t suppose… ?”

Vil nodded, his lips pursed tight beneath his ice-encrusted mustache. “Vreesar’s an elemental. He just might be able to stir up a storm like that.”

“Come on!” Martine launched herself down the steep

slope. Rocks and trees sped past as she plowed through the icy snow. The Harper skied blindly, barely managing to stay erect. Suddenly the slope ended and the Harper hit the flat meadow, still on her feet. Skidding to a stop, she barely evaded Vil as the man shot past. Right behind the man came Krote. Martine quickly drew her sword and advanced toward the shaman.

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“I must come with you or freeze,” the dog-man snarled as he struggled to stand at the bottom. “If you kill me now, there is no peace with the Burnt Fur.”

The Harper barely heard his threat. Seizing his arm, she shoved him toward Vil and then started across the frozen bog. Cursing, the gnoll delayed until Vil goaded him into a shuffling sprint, the fastest pace the gnoll could maintain.

The forest ahead of them abruptly changed. A billowing gray-white wall swallowed the forest one tree at a time. The swirling vortex seemed to reach out cloudlike arms and embrace each tree before dragging its victim into its dark depths.

They pulled to a stop, uncertain whether they should plunge into the whirling mass. The line between sunlight and storm was clearly demarcated. “What do you think’s happening inside?” Vil asked.

Martine peered into the gloom as she pulled back the thick hood of her parka and adjusted her helmet for baffle.

The storm facing them presented a gray wall that swallowed up the forest after only a few feet. “I don’t know,” she shouted over the homing wind, “but I don’t like it. That bastard Vreesar’s up to something.”

“If we go in there, we’ll be traveling blind.”

“So what do we do? Just stand here?” the Harper asked in exasperation. “Help me tie him up.” She nodded at Krote.

Unarmed, Krote could only submit. Vil played out a

length of rope to serve as a leash to prevent the gnoll from disappearing once they were inside the storm. The gnoll turned to the warrior with bitter smile. “Vreesar plans to attack. My people may be warm tonight in your warren after all.”

“Not if I can help it,” Vil promised. “And if they do, where will you sleep, outcast?”

The gnoll snarled at the words, but he followed Martine as she stepped across the line between sunshine and storm.

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The biting blizzard greedily devoured the three, wrapping them in its embrace. Barely ten feet inside, all sunlight had disappeared, leaving only a stinging white glare into which everything dissolved. The thick forest vanished and was replaced by individual trunks that faded as the group passed.

In her limited experience with winter, Martine had never been in a blizzard before, much less one summoned by magical force. Almost instantly she stumbled back, driven by the stinging gale. The wind-whipped snow tore at her face until she had to squeeze her eyes to mere slits, and the tears that formed barely started to run down her cheeks before they froze. A push from Vii, bent double against the gale, kept her moving forward.

“What now?” she shouted, her words snatched from her mouth by the wind.

Vii pulled close, dragging the shaman with him, and pressed his helmeted forehead close to hers. “Keep moving forward. Watch for anything that looks familiar,” he advised, ice and snow cracking from his beard as his lips moved.

Even though he was shouting in her face, she could barely hear him over the roar. She waved her understanding and struck out again.

What direction, though? Already she had no idea whether she was plunging deeper inside or moving back toward the outside edge of the storm. The trail had all but vanished, leaving only maddening traces that never seemed to go in directions the ranger expected. Finally she sighted a tree she thought looked familiar. It was hard to be certain because it seemed to keep changing in the storm. She decided to head toward the pine tree she thought she recognized.

From there, she targeted for the faint outline of

another tree no More than ten feet ahead.

Intent on her goal, Martine bumped into the hummock lying across her path. As she did, her skis jolted to a 248

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sudden stop, and the ranger tumbled forward into the mound.

She struck something hard rather than soft snow. It must be a log, she thought, until she saw the red ice beneath the blowing snow. “Vii!” she shouted as she frantically scraped away the powdery blanket. Underneath, already cool and growing pale, was a gnome. His helm was split, his face shattered by a massive blow that had left no hope of his survival.

“Who—who is he?” the Harper asked haltingly.

“I don’t know. One of the gnomes from yesterday’s raid?”

Martine pulled a mitten off and pressed her hand to the gnome’s cheek. “No. He’s still a little warm,” she shouted. “A scout, I’d bet. What about the others?”

Suddenly a howl rang hauntingly on the wind. A gnoll?

Martine couldn’t tell. The ranger looked quickly at the WordMaker, to make sure the dog-man did not reply.

Krote’s expression was blank.

She decided to head in the direction of the sounds. Any goal was preferable to aimless wandering. “Leave the gnome here. He’s dead,” the ranger shouted as she