Prologue



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. The 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

Battle Site


The Harers

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

	Soldiers of Ice
	3

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.
'qhen 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.
"Fo 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. Other-wise--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
wa'tched with malevolent pride as the young hunters
struggled. The climb was an ordeal for them, and their


	4
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	5



hands quickly became matted with frozen blood from the cuts of jagged stones. "Climb!" Woff-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 bar-tier
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.
Panting on its belly, the gnoll peered over the edge and
watched Wolf-Ear's frozen body flow down the crevasse
until it disappeared over the icy waterfall as the bizarre
river plunged toward the valley below.


One

"A mug of ale, Jhaele," the small
black-haired woman ordered as she
strode through the door and plopped
herself astraddle the hard bench of the
great trestletable in the center of the
taproom's commons.
"Aye, Martine," the landlady echoed.
Her long platinum tresses gleamed in the light from the
open door.
"No, wait. Best make it tea," the young woman called
fi.om the table. She drew her sheath knife and began to fidget
with it, idly poking the tip into the tabletop.
The landlady nodded and sighed. "Tea, then." Wood
tapped metal as she scooped a ladleful of water from the pot
that hung over the fire. "Now, what's troubling you, dear?"
the landlady asked kindly, looking back toward the other woman.
"It's--Jhaele, how did you know I'm upset?" Martine
blurted.
The hosteler ambled over to set a steaming mug on the

	Soldiers of Ice
	7

table with a solid thump. "For one thing, you haven't been
in here a minute, and already you've got that knife of yours
out. If you spent as much time hunting as you spend carving
at my furniture with that knife, you could be dangerous.''
Martine was suddenly conscious of the small blade in
her hand and the lines she'd been absentmindedly etching
on the unvarnished tabletop.
"Sorry."
"It's a tavern table. It's seen worse." The older woman
dismissed Martine's worries with a reassuring pat on her
shoulder. "So what troubles you?"
"It's just that Jazrac wants to see me."
"Harper business, eh?"
Martine almost gave a start until she remembered how
everybody in this dale seemed to know everyone else's
business, even secret business such as that concerning the
Harpers. "I suppose," she allowed. "He's been my sponsor,
vouched for me, and I'm still not a full member, you know."
I'm saying More than I should, the woman realized even
as she said the words.
"Ah, I didn't, but that helps to explain things." Jhaele
gave a wry smile that only someone who has heard countless
secrets could do. "Don't you worry. He's a hearth-lover,
a stay-at-home. He probably wants you to do some
legwork for him while he hovers around Elminster."
"Maybe," Martine allowed tentatively as she took up the
mug. "But his message said he had important news for
me."
"Hmph. With wizards, everything is important," the landlady
chuckled as she turned to tend the fire.

Jazrac was waiting for Martine on the footpath that
led to the mill. He looked old, but not o old as to be


	8
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice



grandfatherly, nor was she so young by comparison. The
wizard met her with a sweeping bow More showy than
polite, his seasoned head bent till the sharp tip of his salt-and-pepper
goatee brushed against his chest. The rich velveteen
cloth of his robes, impractical dress given the rustic
surroundings, rustled as he rose to his thin, imperious
height.
"Greetings, Master Jazrac," Martine said with a schoolchild's
nervous courtesy and a small bob of her body, as
much of a curtsy as anyone would get from her. In her
buckskin trousers and fur half-cape, such niceties were lost
anyway. 'You have news for me?"
"Indeed, great news. Come, let's walk," he offered and
said nothing More. The wizard deftly steered her onto the
mill path, clearly relishing the air of teasing mystery he was
creating. Martine bit at her lip and followed, since there
was no other choice. Jazrac was born to be overly dramatic,
she knew. It was one thing she had learned in the several
years she'd known him. He could have been a thespian had
his magical talent gone undiscovered.
Though she was bursting with curiosity, Martine followed
the older man into the faded brown woods. Behind
them was Shadowdale, a collection of thatched houses clustered
around a muddy crossroads. The curling spire of the
Tower of Ashaba rose above the rest and was just visible
through the branches of the trees. Jazrac led the way by
half a step. Martine cocked her head to look up at him,
dark bangs of bobbed hair spilling sideways across her
forehead.
"Martine, my dear, I know it seems as if you've been
doing nothing but playing messenger ever since you joined
the Harpers." The huntress bristled at the condescension in
his tone. "Certainly you've been kept busy. In fact, some of
the others wondered if you might be in need of a rest. Four
months trekking in the wilderness is More than enough

time with no inns, no baths--barely even a bed, I imagii
Rest? I don't need any rest. What have I done wra
Martine thought. Her eyes flashed with alarm even as
strove to keep her expression calm.
Jazrac didn't notice any reaction, or at least paid no n
With a muttered, twisted phrase, he made a pantom
sweep of the path ahead, velvet sleeve aswirl. The h
breath of wind in the barren treetops suddenly arched
swirled down at his command, blowing the dead foli
into the woods till the leaves caught their sharp cor
along the bank of the nearby millstream.
Martine barely glanced at the tattered shapes as I
swirled away, unwittingly drumming her fingers on
thigh while waiting for her companion to continue. She
accustomed to Jazrac's little magical displays. She fear
guessed his next words--praise for jobs well done, a
gestion that she needed More time or More guidance, I
an offer of a mission suitable to her talents. Undoubte would be another package to deliver or a fellow Harp{
accompany on a mission, all so she could watch and le
Only a few More such as these and surely they w{
advance her. A little More patience and seasoning were
she needed. In all this, Jazrac meant well; the wizard
generously watched over her career up to now. Marti
thoughts madly raced to review the scenario she was
tain would follow.
The wizard interrupted her reverie. "Anyway, !wm
tell you how pleased I am--everyone is--with your effi
You seem to have.., well, that Harper stuffing in you. i
thing, too. So if you want to take a rest for a month or
you deserve it." He looked down at her with the best
soling gaze his thin, creased face could manage.
Martine stopped walking and was about to give
very carefully worded protest when Jazrac continued.
"Or," he said ever so slowly, the corners of his m


	10
	The Harpers

curling up in a tiny smile, "you could take on another mis-sion--a
solo job, a chance for you to really show your
mettle. Are you interested?" Taking a slow breath of the
bracing autumn air, Jazrac paused and then added, "It could
be the big break you've been waiting for--a chance to
prove you really are a full-fledged Harper." The wizard
waited for some reaction from his protege.
For a moment, Martine kept silent, surprised by Jazrac's
offer. The stream and skittering leaves sounded a soft background
to their walk, underscored by the creaking and
scraping of the aged waterwheel driving the grindstone at
the miller's nearby.
"I don't need rest!" the slight ranger blurted, her alto
voice rising eagerly. 'Well me about this mission."
Jazrac smiled with smug satisfaction at his protege's
response. "Do you have any idea just how thin we Harpers
have been spread of late?"
Martine's reply was a quizzical look.
He caught her hand, and with his sharp, bony fingers
gently recited the litany. 'WVaterdeep, Impiltur, Thay, Chult,
gods know where else. It seems as if every distant land has
some problem that needs solving. Now something's happening
in the north, up past Damara. There's been some
kind of eruption, and we want you to investigate."
"Some kind of trouble in Damara?"
"I said an eruption, my clean North of Damara, on the
Great Glacier. A volcano of ice." Jazrac shivered slightly in
the autumn cold and turned back toward the houses and
fields of Shadowdale. Martine fell in step alongside him.
"An ice volcano? You're teasing me." The idea sounded
too incredible to believe, even from a wizard.
'q/ou should know me better than that, Martine,' the wizard
chided, head tilted till his goatee seemed to point at her.
"This is Harper business. I'm serious."
Martine flushed.

	Soldiers of !ce
	I I

"As I said, we're dealing with a volcano of ice. It happens
sometimes, my dear--a rift in the walls between the worlds.
Elminster and I have been tracking this one. It looks like an
opening to the para-elemental plane of ice."
'Whe what?"
"Sorry. Wizard talk."
"Oh."
"It's an opening to another--um--plane. You know about
the elemental forces--earth, air, fire, and water. Perhaps
you aren't aware of it, but there are others, such as the
para-, the quasi-, and who knows what other elemental
planes, not as strong or important, and ice is one of those."
Martine listened avidly. She'd heard of the existence of
the planes and knew about the four elements, but the rest
was new to her. She hurried to stay alongside him, kicking
away the leaves that had already blown back over the path.
"Anyway, sometimes the barrier between our word and
one of these planes weakens until a hole opens, spilling elemental
matter into our world," Jazrac continued, warming
to his subject. Scholarly research was his meat and cheese,
and he could quickly forget that others did not share his
enthusiasm. "Geysers and volcanoes could indicate the
planes of steam and magma. Yurpide of Impiltur, I think,
even theorizes that rainbows and lightning storms have
their origins in--"
"I get the idea. What I don't understand is why this is so
important." Martine wanted to get the conversation back to
her mission. "It sounds as if you know everything already."
"Ah, yes. Well, there is a danger, you see."
Her neck tingled with excitement 'v'hat?"
The path reached the edge of the fields that bordered
Shadowdale. A cold wind was rising out of the west, pushing
in a bank of flat, gray clouds over Old Skull, the barren
granite mount that overlooked the village. The wizard
looked up and shook his head, perhaps at the prospect of


	12
	The Harpers


bad weather coming. "Sometimes things cross over and
enter our world. If it's only one or two of these elemental
creatures, it's not much our concern, but if the rift should
expand, it could prove to be a danger. You're going to go up
there and seal it."

Martine couldn't resist a joke. "Suppose I brick it up?"
Jazrac turned his attention back to her with a vexed
scowl. "Very funny. As a matter of fact, that's what I've been
doing for the last few weeks--preparing the seals. Now that
I've finished, it's time for you to put them in place. The
frigid north is not one of my favorite places."

"So that's my big break, eh?" the woman deduced,
adding a flip of her bangs to give just the right touch of sardonic
nonchalance.

"If it all goes well," Jazrac said with pointed emphasis.
Martine realized her flippancy was wasted on the humorless
wizard and assumed a serious expression. Still, her earlier
nervousness was gone, and she felt the need to
celebrate somehow. Wrapping an arm around the older
man's waist, she tugged him toward the town before he
could resist. "I promise not to fail you. Come on. It looks
like snow. You can buy me an ale at the Old Skull and give a
toast to my success."

"For that, I'll have to buy you a bucketful of ale, my eager
young tyro," Jazrac protested as he allowed himself to be
pulled along. The last summer songbirds scolded loudly at
the approaching storm as the two hurried across the fields
for the warmth of the thatched-roof inn.

Over mugs of spiced ale that warmed away the chill,
Jazrac outlined the mission in detail. He spoke softly, for
there were a few others in the taproom, and Harper business
was none of their concern. From his pocket, he produced
five stones, polished and smooth. They glittered like
ice with blue fire at their cores. "Opals from the south," the
wizard explained once he noted Martine's interest. "You'll


	Soldiers of Ice
	13


have to set them around the rift like this. I assume it will be
a crater." Jazrac spread four of the stones in a circle, deftly
tracing the points of a star with his thin fingers, leaving one
point empty. "Exactly equal from each other. Don't worry,
the stones will glow when they're in the proper position."
He nudged the fifth stone into place, and suddenly five
points of blue luminescence glittered before Martine's
eyes.

'q'hat's it?"

The wizard broke the ring before the tabletop glow could
attract the attention of Jhaele or the beet-faced Dalesman
who sat near the fire. "Not quite." He produced another
stone from a separate pouch. 'Whis is the capstone. Touch it
to each stone as you put it in place. That activates the seal."

"Okay," Martine nodded, taking the stone from his fingers.
It looked like a fading ember, dull red and pitted,
rather than a powerful magical artifact.

"Be careful. Keep it separate from the others. You don't
want an accident triggering the seal while you're traveling."

"Is it dangerous?" The woman looked at the stone with
new respect as she prudently set it back on the table.

Jazrac shook his head as he swept the opals into a pouch.
"Not very--but an accident would ruin all my work." The
words reminded Martine that Jazrac, at least, considered
her journey impor tant

"Another thing. The red stone is a temporary fx. You
have to bring it back so I can cast the finishing spells. Be
careful not to bang it around too much. It's not as solid as it
looks. Once the seal is activated, if the stone breaks, the
seal breaks. So be careful and bring it back with you.
Understood?"

Martine nodded. As she took the pouch of opals, the
stones rattled softly in her hand. "Sounds clear enough,"
she added to cover a sudden twinge of nerves. Her first
important mission... It seemed simple enough, but she


	14
	The Harpers

couldn't help but worry whether she was up to it.
Across the table, Jazrac smiled, his goatee making him
look cheerfully fiendish. "Good. Now, I want you to stay in
touch with me while you're up there."
"How?"
"I'm a wizard, my dear, remember?" the older man
chortled, letting a tone of condescension slip back into his
voice. He tipped back in his chair. "I'll use my crystal ball. I
can't hear you or talk to you, but I can see you through it."
Martine wasn't sure she liked the idea that Jazrac would
be checking up on her. She hastily took a sip of her ale to
cover a grimace.
"I'm not spying on you. If you write a letter, I'll be able to
read it through the ball. Take this. I'll need an object to
fo'us, on, something to track you by." From deeper still in
his pOCket, Jazrac produced a small dagger. "I know your
fondness for knives. All you have to do is pin your letter up
with this dagger. That way I can find it with the crystal ball.
I have to know what I'm looking for, after all.'
Still uncertain, Martine took the knife and turned it over
in her hands.!It was a decorative knife with a carved bone
handle and a Fed garnet set in the hilt, but the blade was
short, hardly Practical. A typical wizard's choice, she noted
somewhat contemptuously. "If you insists'
Her sponsor ignored the reluctance in her voice. "That's
it, then. How soon can you be ready?" he asked, elbows on
the table, leaning forward till the tip of his goatee brushed
his tented fingers.
Martine rolled the knife in her hands, letting the light
from the inn's fire play off the blade. "A day or two, I'd
guess. Three at the most. It depends on how long it takes
me to get supplies. Astriphie's fit and ready for travel."
Indeed, her mount was growing restless in the stables.
"Excellent. The less time wasted, the better. Here's to a
safe journey and a successful mission, my dear." With

	Soldiers of Ice
	15

tankard raised, Jazrac toasted her success.
The next day Martine, suffering from a slight hangover,
set to work preparing for her departure. Shadowdale wasn't
a large city, nor even a border town where outfitters thronged,
so it took only the better part of the day to gather all that
was needed--flour, salt, jerky, dried fruit, flatbread, sugar,
lard, arrowheads, oil, extra bowstrings, needles, thread,
and More. She especially wanted soap, since she had no
desire to do without the luxury a bath might offer, even in
some glacial lake. By nightfall, as he stretched her legs
before the fire at the Old Skull, the ranger was relieved to
be through haggling with the village's only trader, the irascible
Weregnnd. Her status as a Harper, which it seemed
everyone in town knew about, didn't make much of an
impression on him, and every purchase had been a battle.
Her supplies were finally complete, though, even the soap,
and tomorrow she and Astriphie could hit the trail. As she
gingerly sipped at her ale, she toyed with Jazrac's little
knife, playfully refracting the flames of the fire from its
blade.
'/ou'll be leaving us tomorrow, then?" Jhaele asked, her
hair the bloody color of a hunter's moon in the blazing firelight.
Pot in one hand, she offered up a fresh ladle of ale.
"Old Weregund told me you were at his place buying SUly
plies."
Martine nodded, tossing back the dregs of her mug. The
innkeeper sloshed another round into Martine's cup. 'Whis
one's on the house."
"Well, thank you, Jhaele." Suddenly flustered by the landlady's
kindness, it was the best Martine could manage.
"Call it a traveler's blessing. May Tymora's wheel turn in your favor."
"And may your house know the joy of Lliira's smile,"
Martine replied. She reluctantly raised her mug to Jhaele,
unwilling to get into another night of toasting.


	16
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	17



"Fair enough. Here's to the ladies of luck and joy." She
raised her ladle to match Martine's toast. Draining it in a long draught, she wiped the foam from her chin and looked
down with a kindly expression at the younger woman, still
stretched in the chair. "I'll see that the stableboy has Astriphie
fed and ready in the morning. You'd better rest up for
tomorrow."
'q'hank you, Jhaele.' The landlady was already leaving as
Martine spoke. Left again to herself, Martine settled back
into the small firelit cocoon that surrounded her chair. The
knife blade resumed its flashing in the light, somehow less
playful than before.
Although she'd only been staying at the inn for a few
weeks, Martine hadn't expected the farewells to sting so
much. After all, besides Jhaele and Jazrac, there were few
people she really knew here. She'd been pointedly avoiding
most of the Dalesmen with a Harper's natural instinct for
secrecy. Now, slightly tipsy and pleasantly tired, she felt a
poignant stab of regret at the prospect of leaving the sleepy
little hamlet. The flowing river, the winter-stripped trees,
even the cracked, barren slopes of Old Skull seemed somehow
homey and comforting. I could live here as well as anywhere
else, the Harper thought idly, but she knew she
wasn't ready to settle anywhere just yet. I'll be back, she
told herself before draining her mug and trundling off to
bed.
The dawn came with Martine feeling ill-rested and anxious.
Journeys always do this to me, she noted irritably as
she climbed out of bed. She could never sleep soundly the
night before a trip, always waking up at hours only marked
by their darkness, always jittery with the hopes and the tensions
of wanderlust.
Astriphie's shrill cry from the stable yard got the ranger's
sluggish blood moving. It was time to shake off the numbness
of town and return to the wilds where she really

belonged.
After a quick splash of chill water that passed for a rinse
and a struggle with her traveling clothes, Martine clomped
down the worn wooden stairs and into the yard. The pale
morning sun washed over the cobblestones, the light having
yet to reach the full richness of the day.
Martine was greeted by a harsh birdlike shrill that
turned to a whinnying squawk. "Astriphie, keep still!" she
shouted as her mount reared back, tossing its head so that
it threatened to swing the goggle-eyed stableboy clinging to
its halter clean over the yard fence. Astriphie was no ordinary
steed, but a hippogriff, with the forequarters an enormous
bird and the hindquarters a sturdy horse, the juncture
between the two marked by a pair of golden-feathered
wings. The beast clicked the bill of its eaglelike head,
threatening playfully to snap the stableboy's arm like a dry
splinter. The lad trembled, almost dropping the rope in
abject terror, not being able to distinguish the hippogriff's
playfulness from hunger.
The Harper hurriedly took the reins, and the boy
scrambled to safety behind a stable door. "Astriphie, stop!"
Martine commanded, punctuating her words with a quick
falconer's whistle as the hippogriff reared up again. A sharp
tug brought the creature back down, its front talons scrabbling
on the stone while its rear hooves beat out an irritated
tattoo. It craned its feathered head around to fix one blinking
eye on Martine and then clacked in disapproval until
she reached up and stroked the feathers of its massive
wings soothingly. The long equine tail flicked against its
haunches as if to point out where to scratch next.
"Good girl, Astfiphie," the Harper said softly as she automatically
ran her hands over the saddle straps, checking
their fittings, making sure her packs and saddlebags were
secure. High above the forests was no place to discover a
loose girth.


	18
	The HarDers

Golden-pinioned wings beat the air in a gentle whoomph that swirled a maelstrom of dust and straw. The saddle
slipped as the mighty trapezius muscles of the flying beast
rippled under the leather seat, but the straps held tight. Satisfied,
Martine tossed a coin to the boy. By now he had
recovered enough to venture out from behind the door.
Martine led Astriphie out into the road and lightly swung
into the saddle. The stableboy ran to the fence to watch as
the pair trotted, then galloped down the road, until at last,
with a muscular heave of its great wings, the hippogriff
lifted from the earth and sailed away over the top of the
brown-leafed forest.
All day they flew east, soaring over the forest, the coast
of the Moonsea barely in sight to the north. With only the
briefest of stops for rest, they pressed on the next day and
those that followed, until on the fourth day, they passed the
vulture-haunted spires of Hillsfar, then three More to carry
them past the streets of Mulmaster tumbling down the
mountain slopes, and farther east to where boats could
crdss the Moonsea to the rocky shores of Vaasa. Here Mar-tine
nosed Astriphie northward and piloted the hippogriff
over the stormy waters of the Moonsea until they sighted
the northern coast, where they rested in a village of fishermen
too poor to be suspicious of such a strange traveling
pain
After a few days of dining on fish while Astriphie took a
well-deserved rest, the pair resumed their northerly
course, following the trails up passes winding through the
mountains that isolated the north. They flew over the
northern stretches of Vaasa, where people thought all
strangers were Damaran spies, and beyond to the plains of
Damara, where villagers spoke in whispers of her supposedly
Vaasan looks. Mindful of these animosities and suspicions,
Martine kept her questions few and short when she
stopped in villages, passing herself off as a merchant's

	Soldiers of !ce
	19

agent looking for new markets for her employer.
By this subterfuge, Mart/ne passed through Damara and
found herself at last flying over the snowbound ridge of an
isolated valley, the last before the walls of the Great Glacier
itself. Samek, it was called, home to a village of gnomes, or
so the garrulous frontiersman farther south had claimed. "Be the last outpost afore the wilds," he swore. "Mebbe
they can guide you to the glacier, though 'tain't a harder-headed
batch than them little folk. Fain't got no trade, an'
they put up with no truck at all from outsiders, big folks
especially."
The tracker's gloomy predicition came to mind as the
Harper steered Astriphie into a gentle dive that would carry
them over the valley's heart. At its widest, Samek was no More than a few miles across, pointed like a narrow slot
north and south. The sides of the valley were ringed in by
mountains already deeply cloaked in snow, the treeless
peaks mottled with frozen white. Tall pines dressed in the
dull greens of winter lined their slopes, the dour monotony
broken on the higher reaches by cracked outcroppings of
collapsed rock. Natural cathedrals to the gods was how
Martine thought of these spectacular mountain peaks.
They swooped lower over the valley, and Martine turned
her attention away from the peaks to scan the forests and
meadows below, watching for the village. Since the valley
was inhabited by gnomes, she didn't expect to see houses,
barns, or the patchwork patterns of fields. The little folk
didn't build their towns as humans did, she knew from
experience. They liked to hide their dwellings in the bases
of trees, in hillsides, or among the reeds along the river.
Still, she hoped to spot a trace of smoke or a winding trail
she could follow.
In her first two passes over the valley, Martine noticed
the meandering track of several game trails, mountain
streams reduced to waterfalls of ice, and the grass-tufted


	20
	The Harpers

snowfields of frozen bogs, but no sign of a village. It was on
the third pass, as Astriphie banked into a turn that tilted the
saddle to a dizzying angle, that Martine caught sight of a
wisp of smoke rising through the thick-growing trees. With
a quick series of whistles and a hard pull on the reins, the
ranger swung the hippogriff in a broad loop that came to
bear straight toward the smoke. Black-green branches
flashed beneath her feet as she urged Astriphie lower until
her mount's hooves scraped off the branches of the uppermost
pines. Marfine strained in her saddle to peer over the
hippogriff's side while its wings rose and fell in massive
beats. Bearing straight on, they closed on the column of
smoke that was their guide. 
Flying almost too fast, the pair shot over a small clearing
and straight through the rising plume of smoke. Martine
instantly noted it had the tang of woodsmoke. Whipping
around in her saddle, she caught a glimpse of a cabin and a
man on the ground, stating up, with an axe in his hand. Not
 pausing to consider the consequences, she yanked back on
the reins and shouted, "Down, Astriphie! Land."
The hippogriff plunged toward the nearest clearing, a
smooth meadow along the banks of a stream. The beast hit
the snow with a running bounce that jarred the ranger in
her saddle and engulfed them in a blizzard of white powder.
Martine wasted no time unbuckling herself and dropping to
the ground, catfooted and ready, her sword already in her
hand. "Stay, Astriphie," she commanded, leaving the hippo-griff
unhobbled just in case something dangerous happened
by. The mighty steed flexed its wings contentedly
and seemed to chirp back in understanding.
Once she was into the woods, the snow was far deeper
than Martine had expected, and it was with considerable
difficulty that she floundered through the heavy drifts. By
the time the Harper reached the clearing she had spotted
from the air, she was panting and sweat-soaked. She didn't

	Soldiers of ice
	21

try to scout out her goal, but stepped through the screen of
underbrush boldly and stood in full view of the axeman. At
first glance, she guessed the cabin's owner was at home in
the woods like herself, a man who chose to live out in the
wilds, and so she placed her faith in the usual frontier hospitality.
The man was standing near a stump where he had been
chopping wood. There was a neatly piled stack of waiting
logs on one side of him and a jumbled heap on the other.
Behind him stood a small cabin built of solid pine logs. A
rickety stone chimney clung to one side of the house, and a
little shed that looked like a combination storehouse and
entrance jutted off the front. The substantial walls were
broken by one small window, heavily shuttered. The yard
around the cabin was cluttered with snow-mounded piles of
cordwood and what she could only guess were the half-finished
projects of every frontiersman.
Despite the chill, the man wore no coat or gloves, and his
tasseled woolen cap was pushed far back on his head. His
hair was dun gray and short, cut carelessly so that it
cropped out over his ears. Dark stains of sweat marked the
heavy smock he wore.
As Martine stepped out of the woods, he hefted his axe
in one hand, and she noted he held it the way a warrior
would, rather than a lumberjack. He was a big man and
older than Martine. She guessed his age at forty or perhaps
fifty, her father's age, at least judging by his graying brown
hair and the slightly stiff way he moved. His nose was
crooked, as if it had once been broken, and a thick stubble
grew on his chin, the look of a man who had few guests.
His expression showed no surprise or emotion beyond the
wariness that filled his eyes.
"Greetings," he said with the same hospitable caution
she had shown. The stranger's voice was deep, and when
he spoke, haggard lines flexed across his face as if his


	22
	The HarLers

weatherbeaten cheeks were unaccustomed to shaping
words. "I am Vilheim, son of Balt.' He stopped, offering no More information about himself, although his sharp accent
was like those she had heard along the Chessentian coast
in the south.
"My respects to you, sir," Martine offered deferentially,
taking care not to move any closer. "I have traveled a long
way to see the gnomes of this valley. Do you know of
them?"
The man swung his axe with a casual stroke and sank it
into the stump. The sharp chunk of the blow echoed dully
through the snowy woods. He spread his hands slightly, as
if to show that he was unarmed, though Martine noted he
never stepped out of arm's reach of the axe. Again there
was a long silence that neither seemed eager to fill.
"Gnomes, eh?" he finally intoned. "You came here to talk
to gnomes. That was you flying overhead, right, Miss... ?"
"Martine. Of Sembia." She shifted from side to side to
keep her feet from freezing inside her boots. "I'm hoping
the gnomes will guide me onto the Great Glacier."
The man's weatherbeaten face almost broke into a grin at
the relish of some private joke, and then his stoic face
regained its composure. "Forgive me, I have forgotten my
manners," the woodsman quickly said, his voice apologetic.
"I fear you have come a long way for naught, Martine of
Sembia. The Vani are not friendly to strangers."
'qhe Vani?"
"The gnomes of Samek." He spoke in strained tones as
he stiffly picked up his coat, a heavy parka of fur and
leather, from the ground and brushed away the snow that
clung to it.
Martine persisted, stepping forward to press her claim. "I still would like to try. Can you guide me to them?"
He stopped and suddenly scrutinized Martine, looking at
her and beyond her into the gray woods, as if searching for

	Soldiers of Ice
	23

any others who may have accompanied her. His gaze was
startlingly sharp and intense, far More than she expected
from an ordinary frontiersman, and it made Martine wonder
if she had done the right thing by showing herself so
abruptly. This simple woodsman wasn't what she had
expected, and that made her nervous.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"Yes. Are you?" She felt her hand inch unconsciously
toward the sword that dangled from her hip.
Vilheim flicked his eyes between the sky and Martine
until he finally seemed to compromise and gazed at the
trees behind her. He rubbed at the thick stubble of his
cheek tentatively. "Alone? Yes... I'm alone." Martine
thought she detected a trace of sorrow in his voice.
The man met her gaze evenly. A shiver made her legs
tremble, and she was suddenly aware just how cold it was
as the dry breeze swirled up motes of ice between them.
"You'll freeze out here tonight," the woodsman said
abruptly, a smile finally breaking across his face. "I can
offer you a hot meal and a place to sleep. You are welcome
to stay, although you may find me a disappointing cook.
Your search for the Vani might best be done tomorrow
when there is More of the day."
Martine accepted Vilheim Baltson's sudden hospitality at
face value. She sensed a basic decency in the man. It wasn't
just intuition, but also trust in the simple ways of the frontier.
Visitors were too few to be abused or driven away. Mar-tine
seized the opportunity, thankful for the offer of warmth
and comfort. "Much kindness, Master ilheim. As soon as
I've tended to my hippogriff, I'll gladly accept what I'm sure
will be considerable improvement on another meal of
boiled jerky and biscuit."
"I wouldn't be so certain," Vilheim warned as he pulled
the axe free from the log to take it back inside. "Bring your
animal up and come inside when you're ready. I'll straighten


	24
	The Harpers

up the place a little."
Martine trudged back through the snow to fetch Astriphie.
The hippogriff was crouched in bloodstained snow,
tearing at the carcass of a deer, forcing the ranger to wait
until the meal was done. Finally she was able to remount
the hippogriff safely and fly to the cabin. After making a
quick bed of pine boughs for Astriphie, she knocked at the
cabin door.
"Come in," Vilheim called from the other side.
With one hand close to her sword, just in case, she
opened the door and was instantly assaulted by an outrush
of steamy warmth. Compared to the cold dryness outside,
the cabin was like the tropics, and after days of camping in
snow, it was a blessing.
"Come in quickly and close the door, or there'll be More
wood to cut," her host chided from the fire. He was already
ladling bubbling stew into two thick, wooden bowls. "Sit at
the table. Please."
Martine didn't require More urging and pulled up one of
the two rickety chairs she saw. The whole cabin was a
single, sparsely furnished room--one wobbly table, two
chairs, a bed heaped with comforters, and a chest. A well-polished,
dented breastplate hung from a rack by the door,
along with a battered war helm, several spears, and Vilheim's
coat. The crudely tanned bear rug on the smooth
wood floor in front of the fireplace was testimony to hei-host's
prowess with bow and sword. These two weapons
hung over the log mantel, both unpretentious but well
made. Aside from these martial touches, the rest of the
cabin's furnishings were purely functional--pots and pans,
lamps, dishes, and the like. Overhead, the scarred wood
rafters were carelessly decorated with leather bags hung
from pegs and, in one case, a bent-handled dagger driven
into the wood. Above the rafters, cobwebs glowed in the
flickering light. There was one other door, which Martine

	Soldiers of Ice
	25

had little trouble guessing led to an attached privy.
She had barely settled in before her host quickly set the
table with bowls of hot stew, great brown rounds of bread,
and a pot of fresh cheese. The aroma of grease, fried
onions, and salted venison belied the threat of bad cooking.
After Vilheim pulled up the other chair and mumbled a
grace, Martine set to eating with a vengeance. She ate
greedily while Vilheim observed silently.
After both had pushed their bowls away and Martine profusely
thanked her host, the talk gradually turned to news
of the outside world. They talked about trivialities--who
ruled where, and what new wonders had arisen. He was
particularly interested in how the land's faiths fared, and
although she wasn't very religious, she told him what she
knewAs the conversation continued, Martine came to call
him "Vil,' and he in turn managed to drop the formal "of Sembia' from her name.
Yet throughout their conversation, Vil revealed but little
of himself. He was from Chessentia, as she had guessed,
and had been living in the valley for about three years. He
had settled here for privacy, he explained, and it was as
good a reason as many she had heard.
She offered little More about herself. No mention was
made of her role in the Harpers or of her current mission.
It wasn't wise to carelessly advertise one's allegiance. Her
host seemed satisfied to let her keep her secrets.
At last the Harper broached the subject of the gnomes.
"I know them," Vilheim allowed. "I've been their neighbor
for three years now--but a short time, in their estimation.
They're good enough neighbors, but in their own
way." Vil paused and sucked on his lip as he tried to think
of the right words. 'Fhey prefer their privacy."
"Do you think I could meet with them?" Martine tried not
to sound too eager. Unconsciously her fingers started playing
with her table knife, spinning it back and forth. "Or


	26
	The Harpers


could you guide me to the Great Glacier?"

Vii leaned back, considering the young woman's question.
"Better you try the Vani first. I usually stay away from
glacier country. Tomorrow I will take you to see them, and
you can ask for yourself."


Two


Wakefulness came slowly to Martine
the next morning. Sunk into the depths
of Vilheim's feather bed, which he had
insisted she occupy while he slept on
the floor, Martine had no desire to rise.
The Harper lay staring upward at the
semidarkness, listening to the bleak,
cold wind that moaned outside the window. Gradually the
dim outlines of the rafters and the black roundness of a
hanging venison haunch took shape over her, illuminated
by the dying glimmers from last night's ash-banked fire.

What time she woke and how long she lay there, Martine
could not say. Wake and sleep blurred together, one coming,
the other going, in repeated cycles. Finally the dim
shapes overhead lightened and filled as the eastern sun
cleared the distant ridge and sent its rays through the gaps
between the window shutter's slats, followed by the clank
of cooking pots as ilheim prepared breakfast.

With a sigh, Martine clawed her way out of bed and
groped her way through the worn blanket divider, another


	28
	The Harpers


Soldiers of !ce
	29


thing her host had insisted upon last night. Instantly cold
air swirled around her bare legs, reminding her of where
she stood. She pulled her tunic closer to her for warmth.
"Morning," Vil called out as he ladled water from a barrel
and into a pitted old pot.

"Good morning to you, and thank you for the bed. Did
any woman ever tell you yon snore?" Martine cheerfully
tweaked him as she rummaged through her clothes at the
foot of the bed. Finding the warm leggings she sought,
Marfine pulled the curtain closed to get dressed.

"You're the first," Vii shouted over the makeshift wall.
"Rose hip tea or hot goat's milk?"

Goat's milk sounded revolting. 'I'ea--" Martine began,
only to suddenly awaken to the implications of the man's
words. "Wait... am I the first one to tell you you snore?
Surely you're jesting me." Even as she said it, Martine realized
it was none of her business. Damn, she chided her,sell.
I've really stuck my foot in my mouth.

There was a cough from the other side of the curtain. "I
meant that you are the first--umm--woman to tell me that.
Although the arrangements were always.., well.., pretty
much like last night."

Martine remembered to think this time and decided not
to ask any further questions. She was surprised her host
hadn't taken offense, especially since the man seemed possessed
of a decided puritan streak. Perhaps he was trying
to reassure her of his own intentions.

"Well, you don't snore much," she lied, hoping that would
end the subject. She straightened out her tunic and stepped
back into view.

Vil had just finished hanging the pot on the claw over the
fire and was leaning against the mantel, carefully prodding
the coals into life with a poker. A small swirl of embers rose
from where Vil poked the ashes. "Ready for breakfast?"

"Mm-hm. It smells wonderful in here." She wasn't


exaggerating; the air was tangy with the aroma of fruit and
herbs. She took down the curtain to clear space for both of
them at the small table.

"Cured venison, fresh cheese, whey, berry jam, and
hardtack; tea or milk, as you prefer. I have a chance to
make up for the meager table I set last night." He laid out a
simple meal for the pair, unwrapping cloth-bound packets
of soft, fresh cheese and dry biscuits, followed by pots of
thick jam and translucent whey. With a final flourish, he set
a marbled haunch of meat in the center of the small table so
that one leg wobbled perilously under the weight.

"Good meal, indeed!" Martine gaped. Pulling over the
two chairs, she waited for him to say a blessing and then
dug in. Eagerly she ate chunks of hardtack smeared with
buttery goat cheese and red jam and topped with slivers of
venison. Even the fresh goat's milk, which she tasted dubiously
at first, was refreshingly welcome after drinking only
cold water and birch tea on the trail.

After a bit, when the silence made it apparent that Vii was
rusty as a conversationalist, Martine asked, "Are you
known among the gnomes?"

"We are.., good neighbors, as I said last night." Vil
shaved off another piece of venison. "I respect their ways,
and they tolerate me." Behind him, the rekindled fire gave
a popping sound as a pocket of resin ignited. 'WV-hen I first
came up here, I didn't see a gnome for a year. I think they
hoped I would go away. It was only after I built the cabin

that any of the Vani came by."

"Three years ago?"

He nodded as he finished his tea. "Don't worry, you
won't have to wait that long. If we leave after breakfast, they
should still be in council when we get to the warren. With
any luck, they'll see you today."

This suited Martine just fine. She hurriedly finished her
breakfast, only to have to wait until Vii finished eating. After


	30
	The Harpers


helping him scrape the dishes and clean the table, Martine
struggled into her coat and stood by the door, waiting.

"Have you ever been on skis?" her host asked as he laced
up his coat, refusing to let himself be hurried.

"Yes." Twice... and the first time was when I was ten,
Martine thought.

"Good. It's time to go."

Outside, in the morning shadow cast by the mountains,
Martine, with Vil's paternal advice, laced the ungainly
boards to her feet and set out to follow him across the
snowy hummocks, wobbling along, barely steadied by her
poles. The route he followed led through an icebound
world of alternating light and dark. Where it could penetrate
the forest branches, the dawn sunlight turned the soft
snow-clad oufiines of trees and roots into a dazzling domain
of white. Elsewhere, deep shadows quickly closed in and
clothed the landscape in darkness.

The air was rich with the scent of pines. Martine's skin
prickled from the cold. The trees loomed over the pair,
their white-dressed boughs locked so close together that
the bottom branches were hidden permanently from sunlight,
leaving them scraggly dead sticks occasionally rafted
with needled clusters. The great trunks stirred with the
wind till the forest echoed with muted popping and creaking
sounds. Winter birds confided secrets to each other
and warned of the passing strangers.

After they had pressed on for an hour or so, judging from
the rise of the sun over the eastern ridge, and Martine was
lathered in a fine sweat despite the cold, they struck a narrow
path that twisted round gnarled roots and tunneled
through arched brambles. The path was clearly meant for
creatures much smaller than even the petite Martine. She
and Vil ducked, bobbed, and pushed their way through the
tangles until finally Vil pulled aside the last thorned branch
and slid easily into a small clearing at the base of a steep


	Soldiers of Ice
	31


knoll. The hillside was a tumble of granite shelves and trees
clinging precariously to the slopes, all draped with snow.

The trail they were following led to the very base of the
mound and then vanished--or so it seemed to Martine at
first glance. In truth, the path ended at a cunningly concealed
arch, shaped to match the jutting rocks that framed
iix Set back deep in the opening were a pair of squat wooden
doors of weathered gray pine, cleverly carved with vines
and rocks so that their shadowed surface mimicked the
summertime slope of the hill. Together the doors were
almost as broad as they were high.

With the tip of his pole, Vil rapped at the snow-dusted
doors. The sound hollowly reverberated from the hillside.

Barely a moment passed before Martine heard a muffled
scraping from inside the hill. With a creak of wooden peg
hinges, the doors swung inward, releasing a wisp of steam.
The weak eastern sun reached through the slim gap and
etched a thin line onto the polished floorboards beyond, the
hint of snowy tracks marring the perfect smoothness of the
wooden floor. The creaking stopped as a shadowy face
peered through the crack, scrutinizing the visitors.

Apparently satisfied, the doorkeeper nodded briefly.
"Welcome Vilheim, friend of the Vani," croaked a brittle
voice as the gnome swung the door wide.

"Greetings, Tikkanen. We have come to see the council.
Are the elders in session?" Vil bowed as best he could in
his thick winter coat, and Martine followed suit.

The object of their courtesy was a little man who stood
no taller than Vil's waist, stocky of build and buried in a
thick cream-colored cloak that covered him to the very bottom
of his chin. Despite his stocky build, Martine knew the
little man was actually lean for one of his kind. Airy strands
of long white beard escaped from the top of the collar and
swayed like cloudy wisps in the breeze. The gnome's face
seemed ancient, reminding Martine of a shriveled apple.


	32
	The Ha?ers

The doorkeeper's rheumy red eyes were barely noticeable
behind his bulbous nose, a pronounced characteristic of his
race. Tikkanen's nose was limned with thin red veins and
colored with age spots.
'q'he council sits today, it is true." The old gnome cleared
his throat and then pointed at Martine. "Before you enter,
Vilheim, will you testify for your companion, swear that she
will abide by the laws and customs of the Vani, that she
brings no evil to this warren, bears not the mark of a blood
feud, and carries no curse upon her?"
Martine's and Vil's eyes met for a moment. She was
uncertain just what he would say. After only a slight hesitation,
he answered, "I swear this upon the honor of great
Torm."
The god of loyalty seemed an appropriate choice for such
an oath, Martine decided, feeling relieved.
"Then enter, Master Vil and companion." The gnome
stepped aside with a grave nod, and the two visitors romped
into the small pine-floored antechamber. Vil had to stoop to
avoid hitting his head on the low beams. Mar tine was
thankful for once that she was short. Behind them, the old
gnome eased the outer doors shut to seal out the cold. In
the guttering light of a candle, the pair undid the bindings
on their skis. Tikkanen waited stiffly near the inner doors.
"Are they all this formal?" Martine whispered as she
crouched down to unknot the snow-crusted lacings.
"Tikkanen follows the old ways," Vil whispered back. "And he is not deaf." Martine bit her lip and spoke no More.
"Leave your things in my care," the gnome instructed
when they were ready. 'q'he council will see you at the first
convenient opportunity." He pulled open the inner doors,
which were painted with ferocious-looking badgers. Vil
bent down to pass through the low threshold, and Martine
followed, ducking her head. Beyond the door, the hall was
high enough for them both to stand up easily, although her

	Soldiers of lee
	33

companion's head barely cleared the ceiling. Old Tikkanen
closed the doors behind them, shutting out the remaining
chill.
Here inside the warren, the hall was filled with light from
a pair of wall sconces that held carved wands glowing with
magical light. While Tikkanen clicked the door bolts into
place, the humans brushed the snow from their leggings.
Eventually the ancient doorkeeper shuffled past to lead
them down the corridor into the heart of the underground
warren.
This was Martine's first visit to a home of the little folk.
She had never been inside the dwellings of either dwarf or
gnome, so she was fascinated by every detail. She had
expected to see stonework and dank moss like a dungeon
or cellar, or wooden beams like a mine, but not the bright
wood paneling that covered the walls, ceilings, and floors.
Far from dank and dark, it was bright and warm, with an
airiness that Martine found welcome, for she had never
been fond of the constricting quarters of caves.
Their path led them through another set of doors. These
were intricately carved with stylized patterns of birds,
trees, and entwined vines. This third door sealed in the warren's
humid warmth, and beyond it they smelled the rich
scents of pine, varnish, caraway, and baking ovens. As
before, the way continued to be lit by magical sconces.
Their route twisted deeper, past intersections and other
doors embellished with carvers' art, until at last Tikkanen
ushered the pair into a small room, undoubtedly large by
gnome standards. In the center of one wall stood a door
studded with brass medallions.
'I'he council is inside. You must wait for them to summon
you," the doorkeeper explained before leaving.
Apparently used to this arrangement, Vii settled into one
of the high-backed benches against the wall. Carved for
gnomes, the seat wasn't More than a footstool to the lanky


	34
	The Harpers

human. "Sit," Vilheim suggested.
"I think I'll stand." Martine couldn't look at the man, trying
to maintain his dignity while his knees were tucked up
practically under his chin, without feeling the urge to laugh.
"It could be a long wait," her companion cautioned.
Marfine regained her composure by feigning great interest
in the bare chamber. "I've been still too long."
Vil was right. The wait quickly became interminable.
Bored, Martine eventually perched awkwardly on another
bench, idly flipping the little silver knife Jazrac had given
her. "What do you suppose is taking them so long?" she
muttered.
"They're gnomes," Vil answered coolly. Thinking he'd
been asleep, Martine jumped at the man's voice. The blade
slipped between her fingers and stuck into the floor next to
her boot with a quivering thunk. 'q'he Vani have their own
sense of time. You'd better get used to it. I've never seen
anything hurry them," he mumbled drowsily.
'q'hey can't have that much to do. It's only a little valley." The Vani have their own sense of what is important,"
commented Vil, making idle talk as he shifted his legs to a More comfortable position. 'q'hey are important. This valley
is important. I doubt anything else is. Certainly you and
I rank low in their priorities. The elders are probably inside
having birch-bark tea while they try to decide the fair price
of a goose that was accidentally killed, or something like
that. It's the right way to do things as far as they are concerned."
None of this sounded particularly encouraging. It galled
Martine to be stalled so close to her goal, even though she
knew a few hours, even a day or two, would make little difference.
It's the same old me, wanting everything to go just
perfectly, she reminded herself. I just need to relax. Trying
to keep that thought in mind, she sank back into the seat.
The time stretched on and on, although the boredom was

	Soldiers of Ice
	35

occasionally broken by visits from passing gnomes. A few
even stopped long enough to give Vil an awkward greeting.
They spoke with such thick accents, their r's heavily rolled
and their vowels sharply clipped, that it was almost impossible
for Martine to understand them, but Vil apparently
did not have any trouble. He carefully responded to each by
name, occasionally asking about the health of a wife or
child.
Several times Martine caught glimpses of little gnome
housewives with blond-brown hair bound up in a bun. Two
of them peered into the room for a peek at the human
woman. After a brief look, they stepped out of sight to gossip
and cluck in whispered voices. Martine decided not to
disrupt their women's game and kept her eyes almost
closed, feigning sleep. If they weren't so short and broad,
Martine decided, they would be like housewives everywhere.
Here they dressed in red and blue dresses and
embroidered white aprons. In other lands, the clothes
might be different, but the gossipy curiosity was unchanged.
Sometimes children, More honest in their curiosity,
accompanied the women. They stood staring long after
their mothers stepped away in embarrassment. Martine
noticed that Vil generated no such attention. Perhaps he
was a familihr guest and therefore not worthy of note. "I
must be pretty unusual, eh?" she finally said to Vil. She was
growing fired of watching others watch her.
The man yawned and nodded. "Well," he finally allowed,
"they've seen humans before--me, mainly--but you're the
first human woman and, by their standards, not a particularly
ladylike one."
"Thank you!"
"I meant ladylike in their eyes. Fighting is a man's job
among the Vani. Women raise the children and rule the
home. Men hunt, farm, and deal with outsiders. You're different
You go against their expectations."


	36
	The Harpers

The council's in for a big surprise, then." Gods know
what they might think if they learned I'm a Harper, too. The
thought became the flicker of a mischievous grin on her
face.
"I guess they know already," Vil commented as he
stretched his cramped legs yet another time.
At last the brass-bound council door swung open. Standing
in the doorway were two gnomes in blue robes girdled
with sashes embroidered in red and green. Both were
young gnomes, hardly elders, Martine noted. The first had
close-cropped, curly black hair and a contrasting full beard.
The other looked a little younger and had More belly on
him; his face didn't look as weather-beaten, either. His hair
and beard were both black, long, and braided, the tips of
his chin braids just brushing his chest.
Vii rose to meet the gnomes. "Greetings, Jouka Tunkelo,"
he said to the leaner of the two. "And to you Turi Tunkelo."
"Greetings to you," the short-haired Jouka answered
with a curtness that discouraged further conversation.
'I'he council invites you to come inside." As she followed
the gnomes into the chamber, Martine wondered whether
the last was said with disapproval or whether it was just colored
by his dour accent.
The council chamber was a small amphitheater, square
in shape and higher-ceilinged than the other room. The
spacious height was necessary to accomodate three tiers of
benches on three sides of the hall. A scattering of gnomes,
all of them old, wrinkled gentlemen, sat in every posture on
the seats. One, bent with age, leaned forward on a gnarled
cane until his long white beard brushed the floor. Another
seemed to doze, his bald head wobbling sleepily as he
leaned back against the next tier. Others sat clustered in
little clumps, serious little bearded men sipping at cups of
tea. Judging by their beards, not a one of them, discounting
the two ushers, did Martine guess to be less than a

	Soldiers of Ice
	37

great-grandfather. At the same time, she knew the appearance
was deceptive, for gnomes had life spans of two hundred
or More years. These might be great-great-great
grandfathers, for all she knew.
At the very center of the benches, in a seat of obvious
authority, sat a most singularly dressed elder. While the
others wore pants and jackets of linens and wool, the old
gnome in the high seat wore a knee-length tunic of buckskin.
This alone was not singular; several other gnomes
wore items of buckskin, Martine noted. What made it
notable was that the elder's tunic was festooned with iron
charms that hung from leather thongs, so many that the
gnome clinked and rattled with every move. The charms,
which seemed to be mostly crude sigils and icons, swayed
against his stout chest, sometimes tangling themselves into
his curly white beard. His thick silver hair was carefully
held in place with a birchbark cap, More ornamental than
functional. From his d'ess and the position of his chair,
Martine figured the gnome to be the warren's priest,
although of what god she could not possibly say.
When the two humans reached the center of the chamber,
the white-bearded priest rose to his feet, age and formality
making his movements rigid. His charms swayed on
the ends of their thongs, and their harsh tinkling signaled
quiet to the rest of the audience.
'qhe Council of the Vani greets Vilheim, son of Balt, and
his female companion."
"Gracious is the council, wise Sumalo," Vil replied.
"Kind it is to be so generous with its time," Martine
added. Vil's look, seen from the corner of her eye, told her
she had said the right thing.
The gnome priest nodded slightly in approval. "We grant
you the right to present your case." There were a few murmured
grumbles at this point, although Sumalo, perhaps
hard of hearing, paid them no notice. "May Gaerdal


	38
	The Harpers

Ironhand bestow on us eyes to see through falsehood, ears
to hear the truth, and tongues to speak with wisdom." The
priest picked up a peeled birch rod from the seat beside
him. Pressing it to his lips, he murmured a phrase incomprehensible
to Martine. Sumalo held out the rod toward the
humans. Vil hesitated, then accepted the branch and kissed
the wood lightly. "Forgive me, Torm," he whispered.
Feeling no religious compulsions, Martine took the rod
and performed the ritual to satisfy her audience. "May your
god guide me," she invoked, figuring it did not hurt to ask,
before passing the rod back to the priest.
"The bond is now forged," Sumalo pronounced as he
held the rod aloft. "Let the outsider speak."
Until this moment, when every gnome's face was turned
toward her, Martine hadn't expected to be the center of
such attention. The ranger had never been one to get up
before a crowd and speak; in fact, she had always preferred
the isolation of the forest. Now she could feel her face
flush; it felt as if a cold fist were squeezing the pit of her
stomach. The speech she had rehearsed in her head all
morning evaporated from her memory. "Uh---elders," she
stammered, "I am Martine of Sembia, a huntswoman by
trade. I come to you with a simple request. I'm hound for
the Great Glacier and was.., uh... hoping that someone
here could be my guide." It was all sort of blurted out as
she hurried through a considerably shortened version of
what she had intended to say.
With her speech finished, Martine waited for some reaction.
The gnomes on the benches waited, too, not accustomed
to such brevity. Finally, after a long, awkward
silence, the Harper felt compelled to say, 'fhat's really all I
came to ask."
With slow understanding, the councillors came alive with
a wave of murmuring. Within moments, they were deep
into their discussion, seeming to forget the humans

Soldiers of Ice

standing before them. Martine watched with puzzlem{
the seriousness the elders displayed over her simt
request and the vociferousness of their debate.
"Gnomes... I told you so," Vil whispered over I
ranger's shoulder so only she could hear. "Never a siml
answer. There always has to be a debate."
"Do you know it's winter?" demanded one of the young
elders.
"Soon," she corrected.
The first question broke open a floodgate of others, a
Martine found herself besieged on all sides. She could:
understand many of their'questions, posed in thick gnomi
accents, and often had to look despairingly to Vilheim J
translation. With every answer, she did her best to choo
her words politely and carefully.
"How do you plan to get to the Great Glacier?"

',Are you a wizard?" That question raised a worrism
buzz from the council.
"No, I have a hippogriff named Astriphie. We could ri,
him."
'hat business do you have on the glacier?"
"My own, good sir."
"Why do you come here?"
"In truth, for no More than I said--to hire a guide."
After how many minutes and how many questions s!
did not know, the hollow thump of the priest banging tl
birch rod on the floor interrupted the interrogatio
"Enough talk," Sumalo announced. "Brothers, we will vot,
Standing in the center of the floor, Martine wonderec
she should sit or leave the room. She looked at Vil, but
only shrugged to show he was as perplexed as she.
Mumbling, the old gnomes settled back into their seal
their white heads bowed. Slowly, one after the other and
no particular order, each raised his head and looked at tl


	40
	The Harpers

priest. At first Martine wondered if it was some kind of
thought speech, until finally she started to notice the
almost imperceptible gestures each made. Finally the
gnomes were finished and once again looked at her. Standing
to his full, short height, Sumalo spoke. "Our answer to
you is this: Come back in the spring, Mistress Martine of
$embia, when the weather is good for travel. Now is the
season of the hearth, the time of rest for our people. It is
bad luck to stray far from the warmth of the fire. Spring is
the time to begin journeys, when good luck will be with
you. Go now and return when the sap flows in the maples.
Let your gods guide you wisely."
Martine's shoulders sagged, crestfallen. Struggling to
hold back bitterness, she somehow managed to find the
composure to speak. "I thank the council for hearing me,
but I cannot wait for spring. I must reach the glacier now."
The Harper bowed slightly to all assembled.
After Vii said his good-byes, the two departed. Outside
the council doors, Tikkanen met them and guided them
back to the outer doors. Once they were bundled and had
their skis on, the two humans set out through the woods.
Martine set a punishing pace until finally, exhausted, they
reached the woodsman's lonely cabin.
Once inside, Vii built a fire while Martine squirmed out
of her bulky gear. Freed of its weight, she collapsed into
one of the hard-backed chairs, exhausted and discouraged.
'qrqhat will you do now?" Vii asked while adding bits of
tinder to the fire.
The woman shook her head in resignation, her short,
sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. "Go on to the Great
Glacier, of course. I've got a job to do." With a groaning
sigh, she considered just how much she had banked on the
gnomes' help to accomplish her mission. Now, without a
knowledgeable guide, the chance of quick success was
almost nonexistent. The same was true of her opportunity

	Soldiers of !ce
	41

to impress the other Harpers with her efficiency.
Her fingers brushed Jazrac's knife, and then it was in her
hand. Weighing the dagger in her palm, she thought about
writing to Jazrac for advice, an idea she quickly discarded.
Without thinking, she twirled the blade between her fingers
effortlessly and flipped it point first into the tabletop,
where it stuck, quivering.
Vil rumbled in disapproval.
Martine quickly whisked the blade back to its sheath.
"Sorry. Nervous habit. If you'll have me as guest one More
night, I'll be gone in the morning." She rubbed her hand on
the table to smooth out the nick.
"Of course." Vii stood to his full height. "You're determined
to go north, then?"
The Harper nodded.
Vil hung a pot of water on the firedog and swung it over
the flame. "If you're willing, I could guide you," he offered
almost casually.
"You?" Martine asked, realizing how she sounded even
as she spoke. "I mean, I know you could, but aren't you--"
'Foo old?"
"--too busy?"
Vil chuckled. From him, it sounded strange. "In wintertime,
there's hardly a thing to do but split wood and hunt up
here, and I can hunt at the glacier. I admit I know less about
the north than the gnomes do." The old warrior sat on the
hearth and still managed to be taller than Martine in her
chair. "But I know More than you."
''You don't have to do this."
"I want to help."
Just as she was about to voice another protest, Martine
reconsidered Vil's offer. There was no mistaking the
earnestness in his eyes.
"How soon can you leave?" The question was cautious,
designed to still give him an excuse to say no, but Martine


	42
	The Harpers

could only remember Jazrac's old advice about allies that
no one ever helps without a good reason. What was Vii-helm's
reason? She wondered if the old wizard would have
agreed to let him accompany her.
"As soon as you're ready. Tomorrow?"
"Seriously?" It was Vil's turn to nod. 'q'hen tomorrow it
is," Martine agreed, still not comfortable with her choice.

The next morning found the pair airborne as Astriphie
labored under the double weight of two riders. Vil sat
behind Martine's saddle, bloodless fingers clutching the
saddle's angled back. Although the wind was bitter at this
height, it was More than the cold that made him shiver.
Even with a rope lashed around his waist, the man clearly
did not feel safe. Martine tried to distract him, but between
the wind's howling bite and the hippogriff's labored pants,
it was only possible to communicate by shouting. After a
few minutes of that, Martine knew she had to stop or lose
her voice.
Nonetheless, the woodsman's ability to guide from the
air impressed the ranger, considering that common landmarks
seemed to transform themselves from a height of a
thousand feet. At Vil's direction, Astriphie was making a
straight course for a low gap in the mountains to the north.
Unlike the pass at the southern end of the valley, which had
been a smooth, open snowfield that stretched above the
timberline, the northern pass stood out dark green as the
trees marched right up and over the crest of the ridge.
To the left and right of the gap, the mountains sloped
down like weak shoulders till they joined the curve of pass.
Below them, Vil pointed out the river that flowed from the
pass, a churning white ribbon that cut though the green
foliage. That, he shouted, was their path until they crossed

	Soldiers of !ce
	4

over to the north ridge.
Gradually, pulling higher with each beat of Astriphie'
wings, the trio passed over the ridge, crossing from th
gnome-occupied woods of the south to the cold and fer
north. Beyond the ridge lay another valley penned in b
mountains. It stretched out like a narrow finger to th
north until it abruptly ended, truncated across its length b
a sparkling wall that at this distance seemed to flow frm
between the mountain peaks like frozen treacle. In th
morning sunshine, the distant glacial ice looked like a di:
mond set in silver. The wall's many facets glittered an
glowed, beckoning them forward.
"Amazing!" Martine leaned back as she shouted so 
could hear. The Harper had never seen such a great wall
ice before. The jewel-like glacier rose over a bed of darl
brooding green, a virgin forest that seemed to shrin
before the ice's advance. The glacier towered over even th
tallest trees and then stretched backward into the mom
tains until everything disappeared in a tangled horizon
smooth ice rivers and rock.
'WV'here to now?" Vil bellowed.
Martine realized she didn't actually know what she wa
looking for. Jazrac had been long on explanation about h!
elemental rift, but the wizard had never really told her whl
to look for. He had said it was on the glacier, but that w,
all. Martine didn't realize then how vast a glacier could b,
Still, she couldn't admit not knowing what to do after dra
ging her host this far into the wilderness.
"When we get there, look for some kind of a disturbanc
something unusual on the glacier." Although her answl
seemed a safe bet, she was thankful that the yelling effe
tively hid any doubt in her voice.
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long for your mount to get us there?"


	44
	The Harpers

"An hour, maybe less," the Harper answered as she
scanned the valley floor, trying to gauge their distance to
the ice wall. Just then she thought she spotted something
below. "What's that down there?" Used to traveling alone,
Martine pulled Astriphie into a quick dive, prompting Vil to
clutch frantically at her waist. "Hold on," she remembered
to caution tardily.
"Look down there," she asked, pointing toward a small
clearing as they leveled out once More. '/-hat's that?"
Vil strained, his eyes tearing against the cold, until he
made out what had caught her attention. It was a thin
stream of smoke rising from the edge of the clearing. As
they swooped closer, he made out a cluster of long narrow
huts in the shadow of the trees.
"Gnolls--this is their valley. They are the reason the Vani
would not come here."
"The gnomes were afraid?" There was no mockery in
Martine's question.
"Each respects the other's valley. Usually there is no
trouble. Besides, it is best not to rouse the hornet's nest."
As he spoke, three figures darted from the huts for the
dark shelter of the woods. "Best to fly high. They are
skilled with the bow."
Were she alone, Martine would have swept as low as she
dared for a better view. Instead, she heeded Vil's warning
and pulled Astriphie back up.
"Are there many of them?"
'I'he gnolls? It's not a large tribe, but More than the Vani
... enough to be a threat."
Vil's answer sounded ominous. Although there were More questions she could have raised about the skills of
the gnolls, their hunting patterns, and even their totems,
Martine lapsed into silence, the cold and the shouting getting
the better of her throat. There was a great deal you
could learn about such creatures from things like totems,

	Soldiers of lee
	45

she thought idly. Take a bear totem--it meant the tribe
respected strength and solidity, a good sign all in all, even
in savage creatures like gnolls. On the other hand, if the
totem were, say, an ice worm, that wasn't a good sign.
Tribes that chose totems like that were too often cruel and
ravenous like their god.
Given the proximity of the glacier, she wouldn't be surprised
if this group had chosen the latter. The closeness of
the ice probably made for sudden death. Hard lives bred
hard gods.
A tug at her coat reminded Martine of her duty. 'q'here!"
Vil shouted at her ear to be heard over the wind. "Over
there!" Tentatively easing his grip, he pointed to a swirling
plume of ice, a jet of frozen crystals, that heaved and
spurted like the irregular storms of the sea against the
crested shore. The icy column rose up until it expanded
like some swollen vegetable--a cauliflower instantly came
to Martine's mind.
"See it? Is that it?" Vil shouted again, uncertain if she had
heard him.
"It must be. It's certainly unusual," she howled back.
Martine had no doubt it must be her goal. What else but a
geyser of hoarfrost would mark a rift such as Jazrac had
explained? She understood now why the wizard hadn't
bothered to describe it. With a rekindled confidence that
she could end this quickly, Martine leaned the hippogriff in
a broad arc that would carry them toward the plume.
When they had less than a mile to go, the air around
them changed, the temperature plummeting with ferocious
suddenness. Bone-gnawing cold attacked every inch of
exposed skin, even penetrating through the layers of fur
that had managed to keep them warm till now. Astriphie
rocked and struggled mightily against the increasing buffets
of the frenzied gale.
The trio were close enough now to make out vaguely,


	46
	The Harl)ers

through the swirling gaps of wind-burning ice, the star-shaped
fissure, crudely heaved upward in cracked blocks.
The main ice jet, for now it was apparent there was a small
group of lesser fumaroles, pulsed with the otherworldly ride that forced its icy discharge up from the center of the
fissure and sent it flowing down one of the jagged arms.
The tighter the gap became, the higher the plume shot as
the pressure increased until it hit the end. Lightning
couldn't have raised greater thunder as the geyser broke
over the splintered end, blowing out chunks of glacial ice
visible even at a distance.
Vil shouted something, but most of it was lost: "--so
close?
Martine shook her head furiously at what she guessed
he had said. "Closer. The less time on the ground, the better.''
She hoarsely shouted her explanation, although it was
unlikely Vil could hear any better than she. With a firm
command, she pushed the hippogriff, its normally keen
eyes now flashing with fire, closer and closer. "We'll move
in quick and--"
The concussive boom of the roaring flux devoured the
rest of her words. Astriphie's wingbeats faltered, momentarily
pitching the group into an unplanned dive. Behind
her, Vil's weight shifted, threatening to overbalance the
hippogriff. Dropping the reins from one hand, Martine
thrust her arm back and levered the slipping woodsman
back into his seat. The effort burned her throat in frozen
gasps and triggered a fit of wracking coughs. The fire of ice
scorched her lungs, left her mouth filled with pasty spit.
The shuddering gasps left her unable to steer, and by the
time Marfine recovered, it was too late. Astriphie, uncontrolled,
had panicked and plunged iceward while attempting
to wheel away from the fissure, the source of the beast's
terror. Just as the hippogriff slipped into a steep-banked
turn, the geyser spewed forth another shuddering blast.

	Soldiers of lee
	47

The great pinioned wings were spread almost full against
the outrushing force of the wind, catching it like the
swollen sails of a yacht leaping before the ocean breeze.
Frantically sensing the danger, Martine pitched her slight
body hard into the rushing wind the way a sailor on that
same yacht would lean himself as a counterbalance against
the tipping hull. Understanding the need for her move, Vii
leaned with her. For a perilous moment, they held the balance,
the arc of a perfect parabola suspended between the
shattered white ground and the roiling sky. We can make it,
Martine exulted.
And then it was over. Astriphie's voice, a whinnying
screech of pain, sundered all hope. The hoarse cry barely
drowned out the sickening popping noise as the
hippogriff's uppermost wing crumpled, flexing back over
Martine and Vil to angle in directions it was never meant to
point. The imaginary parabola collapsed as the rushing
wind seemed to roll the crippled hippogriff completely over.
Suspended time was replaced by a whirling blur of snow
and sky as the hippogriff tumbled from the heavens. The
beast frantically beat at the air with its remaining wing, the
other flopping uselessly with each roll, feathers raking the
Harper's face as she struggled to guide her frenzied mount
down. Behind her, Vil could do no More than cling to whatever
purchase he could gain, More than once finding himself
suspended helplessly by the single safety rope around
his waist.
Loosing the now useless reins, Martine lunged to the
side, flattening against the hippogriff's unsocketed wing as
the fall righted the creature. The agonized screech from
the pain she caused echoed in the woman's ears, but the
great wing responded and struggled to spread itself full
once More. It was barely enough time, for the ground, all
icy barbs and jagged ridges, was speeding up toward them.
There was no hope of slowing their furious glide, indeed


	48
	The Harjers



barely any chance of remaining righted. As the glacial landing
field swelled closer, Marfine knew it meant the death of
her brave steed and almost surely its riders.
"Cut free!" she screamed, one thick gloved hand fumbling
for her knife. "Cut yourself free and jump!" With the
jagged ice splinters that lay below, it wasn't much of a
chance, but it was their only one.
Martine heard a sharp twanging sound behind her, and
the plummeting hippogriff lurched as its load suddenly
shifted. The Harper thought she heard a human howl, and
then it was lost in the sweeping gale.
The ranger's mittened hand closed on the handle of
something she could only hope was her knife, and with a
blind slash, she hacked at the saddle's restraining belts.
Half her body, suddenly freed of its bonds, swung upward
as if it had lost all weight. Instantly she lost her position,
and the hippogriff's wing folded, slamming against her with
a force that almost knocked the blade from her grasp. Beating
back the feathers with one hand, Martine slashed furiously
at the last strap. As she was still sawing at the leather,
she tumbled away from the doomed mount, and at the
same instant, the last strap gave way. She flew off the rump
of the hippogriff, her feet flying over her heels just as Astriphie's
wings cracked into an upthrust sheet of ice. The roar
that filled the glacier was superseded by the squealing, popping,
pulpy grind as the hippogriff gouged a bloody track
across the dirty white snow.
Marfine saw none of this, however, for in the instant Ast-riphie
hit, she was twisting futilely in midair in an attempt
to land on her feet. Then all at once the white was upon
her--tearing, ripping, and beating as she smashed through
the frozen crust and sank into the needlelike snow beneath
it.

Three

Martine's next recollection was of
darkness--a blessed darkness that
numbed the raging fire coming from
somewhere inside her body. She floated
back in the light cocoon where she had
been hurled and tried to pinpoint the
source of the pain that dreamily eluded
her understanding. Even so, the fire became steadily
stronger, and with it came awareness. The pain settled over
her the way autumn leaves accumulated on the ground,
slowly spreading throughout her body but primarily in the
legs, a frightening combination of raw, shredded nerves
and cold, soothing numbness. The here and now struggled
through the agonizing haze, bringing a view of a queer,
phantasmagoric world, exaggerated and tilted. Shades of
white, lathered red, and pink resolved themselves into
angles of ivory all splattered with blood and gore.
Not ivory, Martine corrected herself. Ice... I'm half
buried in ice tinged with blood. The crimson stains captured
her attention, a clarion call to warn her of the danger


	50
	The Harpers

of her condition--the steady glaciation of her limbs if she
didn't get moving, and soon. Floundering in the broken
snow, Martine twisted about to view her own body, make
sure it was intact, only to have the constant fire give way to
stabbing pain. The darkness swirled back, threatening to
overwhelm the dim light of her world. Martine held it at
bay by focusing on her serf, on her mission.
Using the strange clarity that torment brought, Martine
drove herself further, seeking to learn what had happened
to her body. From the way her side hurt, one or More ribs
were probably cracked. She had felt that pain once before,
and the woman knew she could survive that. Elsewhere
were More cuts than she could guess. Blood trickled down
the ice crystals on her brow and clouded the vision in one
eye. Reaching up to wipe the warm smear away, the Harper
discovered that her arm throbbed fiercely. She remembered
with absolute clarity hitting the snow with her shoulder.
After that pain, Martine gingerly put the rest of her body
through a mental inventory. Although every move caused
pain like fire to play along her bones, nothing seemed to be
broken, other than perhaps her ribs. Ice-clotted, black-red
scratches scored her once sturdy winter gear, but overall
the woman was pleased she had no great gashes or dangerous
wounds, at least so far as she could tell. Frantically she
remembered Jazrac's stones as if they, too, were part of her
body. A quick pat assured her that these had also survived
unbroken.
Satisfied that she was bloodied but in working order,
Martine stiffly floundered out of the trench her body had
dug. She had to find Astriphie and Vilheim. To her relief,
she found that at the glacier's surface, the howling wind
had eased considerably, although the thundering booms
from the fissure still shook the crystalline ground. It
seemed that for every four steps she took, the ground

	Soldiers of Ice
	51

would suddenly heave and tremble in response to the rift's

violent shifting.

Finding Astriphie was no problem. The hippogriff's body

was splayed across the glacier, smears of its blood trailing,

sledgelike, in the beast's wake. Astriphie had struck the top

of an ice cap, shearing that away in a neat gouge. Pinion

feathers decorated the bloody grooves where the animal

had slid, and Martine could see clearly the long scratches

where the beast had clawed the ice in its death slide. At the

base of another mound lay the hippogriff, its mighty wings

ripped and pierced by jagged splinters of ice. The beast's

eaglelike head was twisted around at an impossible angle.

Below the neck, the left half of the mount's feathered rib

cage was caved in; white angles of bone and tissue showed

through the remains of the downy hide. Steam rose from

the blood and viscera spilled onto the snow, partially held in

by the tangled straps of the Harper's saddle.

Martine suddenly felt the intense cold penetrating deep

through her body. She collapsed to the ice, seized by vio
lent trembling, and tears mixed with blood in her eyes.

Breathing was possible only in lancing heaves that sucked

in swirls of icy air. Her throat burned with each spasmodic

gasp.

Even after the fit passed, Martine could not move for a

long time. The cold ground, smooth-slick and red, sapped

her energy, making it harder than before to rouse herself. It
would be nice just to sleep here with Astriphie 	The
thought
whispered insidiously in her mind. Surely she could just lie
here and rest a bit before doing anything else ....
Martine swore as
she realized what was happening. It was a decidedly
creative oath, laced with a sea dog's salt and bitter references
to geysers. The thought of what Jazrac might think
of her less than ladylike tongue made Martine appreciate her
cursing all the More. It helped immensely. Before she
realized it, she was up on her feet,


	52
	The Harers

Soldiers of Ice

53

wavering unsteadily as she surveyed the crash site, looking
for Vii.
Unsupported by snowshoes, her feet sometimes broke
through the snow crust in places where the surface was a
deceptive sheet of old snow. Every time it happened, the
glacier seemed to try to swallow her whole. As she labored
her way out of another snowy morass, she sardonically
thought how fortunate she was to be on the smooth ice
field here and not in the tangle of crevasses they had seen
from the air.
The Harper found Vil about a hundred yards from the
hippogriff's corpse. Luck had favored Vii More than Mar-tine,
providing him with a soft landing in the lee slope of a
powder-crusted hummock. From the tumbled track through
the snow, it appeared that the woodsman had hit near the
top of the hummock and then slid to a rest near the bottom.
There he lay, still sprawled out and unmoving. Hurrying to
him as best she could, Martine was relieved to hear a choking
gasp as she rolled his body over.
"Are you okay?" she demanded as she began examining
him for broken bones.
"I'm--" Vil winced as her hands prodded his hip. "I'm all
right." He heaved himself to his feet stiffly. "How about
you?"
Martine shrugged stoically. "I'm walking."
"Good. And the hippogriff?.'
"Dead." The wind swept away the pain in her words.
Vil didn't offer any condolences. "We've got to gather our
supplies and move on," he said brusquely as he started
plodding across the snow.
"I've got to finish my mission."
The man wheeled on Martine, wind whipping his crinkled
face. "Your mission? Just what the Nine Hells is this
about?" His voice wavered furiously. "When you needed a
guide, I trusted you, and now, after damn near killing me,

you want to go on. You've already killed your horse. Isn'
that enough?"
"I didn't--"
'q'hen why in the hell did you fly so close?"
"I--I took a chance, okay? And it wasn't a horse, it wa
Astriphie, my hippogriff. Astriphie's dead, and I didn't wan
that!" Marfine shouted back, shivering with cold and fur3
The wind caught the tears as they welled in her eyes an
blew them across her cheeks. Biting back her words, Ma
tine blindly stumbled past the man. "Go home if you wan
to. I'm staying here."
The Harper cursed Vil, cursed the ice, cursed herselt
The man was right, of course. She should not have pushe
Astriphie so close to the rift. Her eagerness to finish th,
mission quickly meant everything was in ruins. All sh
could do was try to continue, even if that meant risking he
own life. Pulling up the hood of her parka, she hid her fac
against the cold.
The snow crackled with Vil's steady pursuit. "I'm sorry
lost my temper," he shouted over the gusts.
The Harper nodded a bitter acceptance.
'"Ne cannot stay."
"I must." She did not break her short, struggling stride.'
"Is your mission that important?" "It is to me."
'you could die out here."
"I won't." Words of false confidence, she thought bitterl3
'grhat are you doing here, anyway?" The man would m
relent. 'qhat are you hiding?"
"Nothing! My business is my own, that's all." Martir
stepped back warily from the man as his tone becarr
increasingly demanding.
The woodsman stopped her with a mittened hand on h,
sleeve. A swordsman's suspicion filled his face. "Who ,r
you? Someone I should fear?" The honed words slic{


	54
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	55



through the defenses of polite trust between the two. The
tenseness of his body and the hand hovering close to the
sword were signs of his nervous state.
"You think I'm evil?" Her own body slipped into fighting
tension to match his, a dog and a cat sizing each other up.
"I don't know. Tell me otherwise."
With the pair of them alone in a world of arctic white,
Martine knew the truth was her only defense.
"I'm a Harper," she stated in flat, cold tones that matched
their surroundings. "Sort of, anyway. I've come up here to
close that fissure." She slowly pointed toward the turmoil
overhead.
"A Harper?" Vil echoed doubtfully, though his body
eased somewhat.
"Yes. You know, agents of good and--"
"I know what Harpers are. I just didn't expect to find one
here."
Martine was growing increasingly testy, having bared
her secret only to be met by doubt. "I didn't choose to come
here. I was sent." She beat her arms together for warmth.
"I'm supposed to close that--that thing--before something
unpleasant happens."
Vil looked away. "Torm's eyes," he swore softly, "a Harper." Dropping his hands away from his weapons, he
turned back to face her. "Why didn't you say something? I
was ready to kill you."
"Don't worry. I wouldn't have let you," she said as she
started toward Astriphie. "Harpers are supposed to keep
their activities secret. That's why I didn't tell you. Now that
you know, will you help me?"
Vil fell in beside her, his suspicions gone, and the two
trudged back to the hippogriff's corpse, quietly listening to
the sounds of the glacier as it cracked and rumbled beneath
their feet. Already the hippogriff's body was cool, and the
bloody carcass had begun to freeze over. Ice and feathers

cracked as the two humans set to the grim business of
recovering their supplies.
What they recovered wasn't promising--several blankets
iced up with blood and a little food that hadn't been scattered
in the crash. "It's not enough," Vii announced. "We
need More food." He drew his thick-bladed skinning knife
and gestured toward Astriphie's carcass. "It must be done.
You can keep watch."
Up here there was nothing to watch for but stinging
snow, yet Martine gratefully accepted Vil's excuse not to
help as the woodsman, with the cold practicality that
matched the terrain, sliced strips from Astriphie's haunch.
Bloody meat plopped onto the snow as he sawed at the carcass.
Finally, the work finished, Vil skewered the meat on
arrows and jabbed them into the snow, leaving the meat to
dry in the breeze.
"Still not enough," he muttered as he turned away from
the bloody task.
"How so?" breathed Martine from where she crouched close to the ground, as if the ice held warmth.
"We cannot both live on the food we have. Not up here, at
least. One of us could, but there isn't enough for two. One
of us must go back for supplies."
The Harper cast a shivering glance at the meat-weighted
stakes. "And?"
The woodsman was already loading one of the salvaged
saddlebags with supplies. "Since you will not leave, I must.
I'll take a little food and hunt for whatever else I need on
the way."
The glacier rocked under their feet as the geyser shot up
another of its massive plumes. Martine looked to the sky,
knowing that soon they would be showered with a flurry of
ice crystals too large to be snow, yet too small to be hail. She
pulled one of the stiff blankets closer about her shoulders
and began chipping at the frozen ground with her dagger.


	56
	The Harers

Now it was Martine's turn to be suspicious as she looked
up at the woodsman. "And why should I trustyou to come
back?"
Vilheim snorted, amused by something Martine did not
understand. The Harper couldn't judge his reaction at all.
His mouth was drawn tight, and his eyes were lost in the
distance. At last he spoke in an almost perfect monotone,
unconsciously beating mittened fist to mittened palm. He
had all the air of a man giving testimony at an inquest,
"I am... was.., a paladin of Torm."
Martine blinked, so stupefied by the admission that it
overcame her thoughts even of the cold, then waited for
Vilheim to continue. He waited, perhaps expecting More of
a reaction, and the two stared at each while the wind
whisfied across the icy plain.
"You were a paladin of Torm?" Martine finally echoed,
thrusting her dagger deep into the ice.
His reply was fierce, filled with passion that she should
doubt his word. "Yes... Torm the True, Torm the Brave,
Torm the Binder of Oaths 	We...
they.., hold his faith
in
trust."
Martine
quickly thought back to everything she knew about
paladins, which was mostly hearsay and opinion. The few
she had met were stiff-necked, self-righteous, and unlikable
swordsmen who were supposed to be austerely virtuous,
lightened only by the glory of their god.
"A
paladin? All that business about honor, truth, goodness,
purging wickedness?"
Vil
broke into a genuine smile, amused by the description.
"Something like that. We were taught to keep our word.
But it does not matter anymore. I am no longer a paladin.''
The
words stirred sudden concern in Martine. What had prompted
Vilheim's fall from grace? She caught her breath as
she waited for some sinister revelation to follow, her

	Soldiers
of Ice	57

gaze
flicking from the bloody knife Vilheim held to Astri-phie's ice-whitened
remains. "So I'm supposed to trust you because you
aren't a paladin anymore?" she breathed, the words
forming ice crystals in the air.
"I
woke up one day and my god was gone. I did not sin, if that
is what you are thinking." The man carefully cleaned his
knife and slipped it back in its sheath, defensively aware of
her unwavering gaze. "It was during the Time of Troubles.
One morning I woke up and Torm was no longer there.
Before that day, I could always sense Torm's purpose in
everything. That day the feeling was gone. Torm had disappeared,
as a good many of the gods did."
Martine only
remembered the Time of Troubles somewhat vaguely.
She had been young and had not yet taken up the adventuring
life. For her, the gods and their turmoils had seemed
distant compared to Giles, the prefect's son, who lived
just down the lane.
'q'orm came
back, though. You could still be a paladin." Vil spoke
softly but resonantly, his voice carrying force across the
frozen gap. "Life is never simple. When Torm left me,
I was suddenly on my own for the first time in my life, and--and
I liked it. You could not know the freedom I felt."
And
now
you want me to trust you? Martine thought. Perhaps it
was a raised eyebrow or a quirk in her face that prompted
Vil to speak. "I give you my word I will return. I
am still an honest man, Martine of Sembia. A lifetime of
training does not evaporate into thin air overnight." The man
rose with firm resolution, shouldering the saddlebag to
go. "Besides, there is no choice. You will not leave, and two
cannot stay. I will find you here in four days. Take care, and
good fortune in your mission, Harper."
Martine knew
she could protest. She could stand out on this glacier
arguing until they both froze, but their time spent trading
secrets had already chilled her to the bone,


	58
	The Harpers

and she knew the ex-paladin was right. There was no
choice. "Travel safely," she offered. "In four days, you'll find
me here."
The words practically vanished in the wind, and the former
paladin bent forward as he turned into the gale to
begin his journey. The Harper didn't waste any time watching
him leave, but instead busied herself gathering up the
supplies, the bulk of which he'd left behind. As she worked,
the ice heaved again, this time hurling her to the ground
with its violence. Three More tremors, each almost as
fierce, struck before Martine started toward the edge of
the rift.
The hike was no More than a mile, and the woman made
good time with the snowshoes that had survived the crash,
a miracle for which Martine thanked Tymora, the mistress
of luck. The snow was deeper and softer here, much of it
fresh powder from the seething fountain that created its
own massive cloud overhead. Through the cloud, light
from the the noontime sun was deflected into a million
sparkling motes of swirling silver frost. She found that looking
at it directly burned her eyes, but at least it distracted
her from the ground glare that might otherwise blind her.
As she drew near the fissure, the tremors and the roaring
swelled like some fulsome giant struggling to break its
frozen chains. The rift had pushed the glacier's crust
upward and outward to form a ridgelike cone. Not knowing
how close she needed to be for the seals to work, the
Harper elected to climb to the rim, in order to be certain of
success. Besides, coming this far, she had to satisfy her
curiosity. No doubt, she rationalized, Jazrac would appreciate
an eyewitness description of the rupture.
The base of the slope was a jagged mass of icy scree.
Closer now, Martine watched how with each surge, great
ice blocks have over the crack's broken edge, some to fall
back inside while others tumbled down the slope. Bound-

	Soldiers of !ce
	59

ing and crashing, these arctic boulders smashed into
others below with sharp cracks that sometimes triggered
other shifts and slides in the unstable mass. Wary of the
risks, the Harper took extra caution as she picked her way
through the frozen scree, mindful that an avalanche could
cascade down upon her at any moment. The whistle of the
numbing wind was drowned out by the grinding crashes
that emanated from beyond the rim and repeated themselves
all down the slope.
Finally above the scree, the woman continued her climb,
using the dagger to help now, for here the ground was
nothing but smooth, windswept ice. Slowly she chopped
footholds in the angled slope, all the time watching for danger
ahead. The work raised a sweat while her fingers went
numb even through her leather gloves and thick mittens.
Wedged into grips of ice, her toes felt almost as chilly. Her
side throbbed, and her shoulder protested with every twist,
until she doubted the wisdom of the whole mission. I can't
give up, she fiercely charged herself. Not this close to my
destination.
The jagged surface of the top finally came into view, and
Martine dragged herself up on it with gasping relief. Every inch of her burned, inside and outside. Her throat was
scorched with bitter cold, her muscles ached as if aflame,
and her fingers curled with the peculiar fire that near-frost-bite
brings. Then the roar and tremble struck again, heightened
by the crash of ice nearby, all of which urged the
spent woman to her feet.
Three steps and Martine reached the inner rim. There
she halted, dumbfounded by the grotesque landscape
below her. From the air, she had only seen how the rift
spread like a starlike crack a half-mile or so in length, but
now, close up, she could see the canyon bottom. The
canyon floor flowed impossibly, like water--no, she decided, More like gelatin or unset custard. The surface rippled in


	60
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	61



smooth waves that still glistened with the shining hardness
of ice. Where the waves broke like water against the
canyon walls, the spray turned instantly rigid, hurling hail
and frost into the air. The water-ice bubbled and roiled, its
feathery spouts frosting the walls of the rift, small at first
but gradually increasing in speed and height-
Martine
suspected another jet was forming and hurriedly
dug from her pouch the first of the stones Jazrac had given
her. Remembering her brief instructions, she panned it
about until the internal fires lit and then buried it in the
snow safely back from the edge. It wouldn't do to have the
stone fall into the pit, she decided.
In another painful hour of trudging, Marfine was at her
second position. Stone in hand, she moved along the crest
slowly until the rock began to glow in her hand. She planted
it quickly. At this pace, she guessed there was barely
enough daylight left to finish the task.
En route to the third point, Martine spied a movement
among the ice blocks of the talus slope below. At first she
dismissed it as merely a shifting in the loose boulders, until
she saw another flash. She barely saw it, a blue-white form
against the ice. It was small and incredibly fast, for before
she could even take a step closer, it had disappeared once More . The huntress swore it had arms and legs, like some
kind of little creature. Caution and curiosity warranted she
track it down, but the Harper rejected the idea, since it
would delay her mission. All she dared spare was a brief
pause, but after a few minutes of inaction, the Harper
pressed on before she froze on the spot.
It was only a piece of ice or a wayward snow eagle battered
down by the wind, Martine decided as she passed the
sighting point. She was too tired to ascribe it to anything
else. Nonetheless, she remained watchful all the way to the
next point of the seal, so much so that she almost ignored
the stone when it started to glow in her hand.

With the third stone was buried at the highest tip of the
fissure, the Harper began the descent along the opposite
edge of the bubbling rift, swinging wide to work around the
crevasse that formed the next point of the star. Eventually
the crumbled crack tapered to almost nothing. After leaping
the dwindling gap, the Harper blindly crisscrossed the
plain, stone in hand, searching out the juncture that would
make it glow. With each stone, she despaired, it took longer
to find the point where all the forces balanced. Just as she
was beginning to wonder if she'd missed the mark, the glittering
opal lit with its internal fire. Collapsing thankfully to
her knees, the Harper buried the stone. Inside, her cracked
rib throbbed as fiercely as ever, but her mind was now too
dulled to the pain to even notice.
The glittering orange winter sun, hanging barely over
the mountain peaks on the opposite side of the glacier,
reminded Martine of the need for haste. Darkness would
come quickly as soon as the sun slid behind the peaks, and
Martine still had one stone to place and camp to make.
There was no hope of getting off the glacier today, so the
Harper wanted to dig herself a shelter before darkness fell.
Her chest heaving from the long sprint, Martine reached
her last goal, the southernmost tip of the fissure, only a few
hundred yards from the glacier's edge. Sweat seeped out
from under her parka hood to form ridges of sour frost in
her eyebrows. The cloth mask that covered most of her
cheeks and mouth was heavy with ice that grew thicker
with each passing minute. Cold, fumbling hands shook the
last stone from the pouch. The heart of the opal sparkled
weakly in the setting sun. Holding it in her cupped hands
like a precious child, Martine shuffled zombielike in questing
arcs, searching for the stone's resting place. She
mumbled curses against the coming nightfall, but the rising
evening wind tore away every breath that escaped her lips
so that she couldn't hear her own voice.


	62
	The Harpers

The last of the passing sunlight disappeared before the
advancing mountain shadows, taking with it any pretense of
warmth the light had promised. The deep-throated roars of
the geysers sounded like thunder in the chilling air. High
overhead, the soaring spume sparkled in the receding sum
light till the glittering cystals looked like descending stars
in the darkness. The wind-whipped frost flew thicker, each
flake biting with More sting.
After how much distance she did not know, the stone
suddenly swelled with light. Exhausted and cold, the
Harper stood dumbly watching it at first, not comprehending
the meaning of the blue-whito fire she cupped in her
hands. Only slowly did it dawn on her that this was it, the
end of her task. In moments, she would set the seal and fulfill
Jazrac's trust in her. She was sure the wizard was watch-ing--no,
sensing--for some ripple in the cosmic sea that
marked the healing of this great wound in the earth.
'hank the gods!" she croaked through cracked lips as
she knelt and scooped out a nest for the stone with excessive
care. With both her thick mittened hands, she gingerly
lowered the stone onto its bed. For a moment, she paused
to admire how the stone glowed and throbbed in its cradle.
"The cinder," she muttered suddenly. "I must touch it
with the cinder!" In her relief and admiration of the stone, she had almost forgotten the last step. Her fingers too rigid
to work the strings on the little pouch, she tugged at the
cords with her teeth until the neck was wide enough to
shake the stone free. To Martine's terror, the cinderlike
stone plopped into her palm, hung there precariously, and
then fell to smack against the glowing opal with a resounding
crack so sharp she was convinced both had shattered.
Frantically the Harper tore off her mittens and scooped at
the snow to retrieve the fallen key.
Just as she wrapped her fingers about it, the glowing opal
swelled with brilliant white fire. Clutching the key, Martine

	Soldiers of !ce
	63

flung herself away from the flare, her sight dazzled. The
blaze from the stone expanded outward like an immense,
unshuttered lantern until the Harper, still sprawled in the
snow, wrapped an arm over her eyes, but still she could not
block out the glare.
Then the shape of the light changed, though not its intensity.
The diffuse brightness that burned out all the shadows
on the snow drew in on itself, tightening and crimping into
a brilliant ice-blue tendril. As if leaning against the wind, it
stretched and strained in an arc that yearned toward the
riff--and then, with a sizzling roar, the beam lanced like
some wizard's fiery missile in an arc that carried it straight
for the rift's heart. The crackle echoed--no, was echoed, Martine realized--by four other reports. Blue-white
streaks like shooting stars returning skyward rose from
four other points, each rocketing to a single rendezvous
point in the sky. The five radiant arcs clashed over the center
of the canyon in a brilliant display of sparks. Martine
squawked and rose to run, only to stumble backward, tripping
over her booted feet to land sprawled in the snow.
"Damn it, Jazrac, you could have warned me!" the Harper
shouted in awe.
Flopping around, she blinked away the dazzling lights
that hung on the inside of her eyelids and looked at the
canopy strung over the canyon--five burning blue beams
that glowed as they hung suspended in the air. Pulsing
waves of light rippled from the intensely glowing shafts,
only to break like waves over the rift. The evening darkness
rose and fell with each pulse, and at the moment of brightest
glare, Martine could see the canyon center, only minutes
before a seething pit, erupt into ever-widening waves.
The rounded, hardening forms of the frozen waves reminded her of the iron drops that fell in gelatinous puddles from
her father's forge when she was young. She lay there
absorbing the light, feeling the magical wonder of it all.


	64
	The Harers

Soldiers of Ice
	65



What had Jazrac done to make those five stones, she wondered
as the world crackled with the solidifying roar.
As the pulses grew longer, a grinding bass note sundered
the calm, and lightning-lit air tingled with the ozone scent
of disaster. Fresh tremors, stronger than those Martine had
grown accustomed to, quavered through the ice, letting
loose a rolling wave of ice-rending shrieks. It was as if in
that moment all the ghosts and all the lost souls ever
devoured by the frozen waste howled out their torment.
The cacophony was accompanied by deep thunder that
shook the woman down to her toes. From the rim, fractures
fingered across the snow like streaks of lightning, zigzagging
little puffs of powder tracing their manic paths.
"Damn you, Jazrac!" Martine howled, no longer amused.
With a crack, the rim suddenly broke off and slid into the
canyon, throwing up a wall of snow as the air rushed forward
to fill the gap caused by the collapse. The fingering
fissures raced closer toward Martine, and the ranger didn't
wait to see what danger she was in but struggled to her feet
and ran.
Behind her, the snapping, ripping cracks fanned out
rapidly, lunging closer, as if trying to catch her heels in
their frozen jaws. Once, twice, Martine faltered as the
fierce pain in her ribs, almost forgotten since the morning,
spasmed and locked her muscles and nerves in pain. Her
throat no longer burned because it was too parched to
breathe, too parched to spit. Fear drove her forward toward
the safety of the glacier's edge, where her only plan was to
plummet blindly into the dark void beyond.
With no More than a third of the distance crossed, the
nipping fissures caught her. The fractures shot between
her legs and raced ahead of her, reaching for the glacier
wall. The hard ice field became a mosaic that abruptly
began to shatter, each fragment tilting, reacting to the glacier's
mad rush to reclaim what the rift had stolen. The

tremors that Martine vainly fled punched the ground out
from under the Harper, throwing up shards around her.
"No, by Tymora, not again!" Martine wailed as the
ground slipped backward beneath her feet. Like a sailor
washed overboard, she helplessly slid into the seething ice
sea and rode down into its rough darkness. "Not twice in
one day! It isn't fair!"
And then there was the cold and the darkness.


Soldiers of Ice
	67



Four

Scrabbling noises like fingernails
grating on rock, teeth crunching bones,
ice freezing in my veins--I hear scrabbling
noises, the woman dreamed. It's
the sound of fresh earth being thrown
on my grave, thumping with each shovelful.
I have to scream. I have to yell and
let them know I'm still alive.
But that's so much effort.
"Dig, dig, dig," said a little voice in singsong.
It's not coming from my throat, the woman concluded
dreamily. It's too dry.., my throat's too dry.
"Dig, dig, dig," said the voice again. It sounded like a
peevish child. "Just because he says so. Does he dig? No-oo.
That's why he brought me along--so he could make me
dig. He gets to sulk, while I, Icy-White the Clever, I get to
dig.'
"Ow!" A sharp jab pierced Martine's numbness.
"Ow?"
The pain brought things into focus. Martine was on her

side, pressed beneath a mass of ice and snow. She could
vaguely see a tumbled field of ice, perhaps the base of a
slide, that stood out in stark shadow from the fading blue
glow that lit the night, the last light of Jazrac's magic. The
slide apparently ended in the rift floor, now hard and still.
The canyon walls had fallen inward, leaving a broad bowl
where the rift's jagged scar had been. Distant crashing
rumbles still echoed across the snow, warning that all was
not yet still.
The jab repeated, not as sharp this time but still painful.
"Get... me... out of here." The words were a great
struggle. A layer of frost settled on her cheeks cracked as
she spoke.
"Ice talks!" squeaked the voice. The scrabbling renewed,
faster and closer. Suddenly sharp claws raked the Harper's
cheek and harshly brushed away the snow that coated her.
The sting cracked the lethargy the ice was sealing about
her. The Harper struggled against the enclosing tomb of
ice and heaved upright, the motion accompanied by the
grinding sound of cracking snow.
"Awwwk!"
"What the--" The cry escaped Martine unwillingly as
she found herself faced by a creature of ice. It couldn't have
stood any taller than her thighs, though it loomed over her
now as it stood on a block of ice pinning her legs. Its skin
was pearly and smooth with blue-white translucence, yet
cut in hard angles and sharp edges like shattered ice. The
head was broad and flat, eyes gleaming under razor-edged
brows.
The creature hopped back, momentarily as startled as
she. "Not ice! No, no, no. This is not ice."
The Harper tested her legs, trying to shift free. The
block that pinned her legs was loose, but at the first tremor,
the creature lunged forward, seizing her neck with one
clawed hand. Its grip was cold and strong, its fingers


	68
	The Harpers

clicking bonily against each other as it squeezed her throat.
"No, no! You belong to Icy-White now. My prize--mine
and mine only," the creature babbled, its mirror-sharp face
fractured with glee. An iciclelike claw waggled through the
steam of her exhalations. Abruptly the creature gave a
startled squeal and snatched its hand away. "You burn, you
steam!" it chirped in wonderment while licking furiously at
the finger Martine had just breathed on. "I'll show you to
Vreesar when he comes," it continued craftily. "Then he'll
let me stop digging."
Scampering like a monkey, the creature seized the
Harper's shoulder in its cold claws and dragged her from
the icy debris, all the while taking care to avoid the steam
of her breath. Its talons dug through her furs and drew
blood beneath them, but Martine was too tired to fight
back. It was all she could do to feebly kick free of the last
bits of crust.
"Now, no fight from you, hot one, or Icy-White kill you
and feast on your cold meat," the creature cackled near her
ear before it released her. Its breath was chilling, without a
hint of warmth either in spirit or body.
The ranger didn't answer, nor did the creature care. In
springing hops, it leaped from block to block, bounding
across the slide, but never far from where the Harper lay.
Martine remained still, watching and gathering her strength.
I'm too weak to get away yet, Martine calculated after noting
the creature's nimble speed as it crossed the treacherous
tangle of the slide. She felt wary but not fearful, since
the thing didn't seem immediately intent upon killing her.
Indeed, for the moment, it seemed to have forgetten her
as it scrambled over the slide, poking here, sniffing there,
all the time muttering to itself. Eyeing her weird captor, the
ranger tried to match the creature to all the fiends she'd
ever seen or heard of. With its stunted size and shimmering
skin, it looked like a malevolent sprite sculpted from

	Soldiers of Ice
	69

ice. Its form lacked gentle curves, each joint capped by glittering
little spurs. Nothing about it matched her experiences
nor any of the tales she'd heard. Glacier lore was not
her strong suit.
While the strange creature capered in the ghasfiy light of
fading magic, Martine discreetly probed the snow for her
gear, a search that turned up her sword and pouch but little More . Jazrac's cinder was still there, she noted with relief,
along with his dagger. She thought of statdng it in the snow
in hope Jazrac might be at his crystal ball at that very
moment, but she couldn't. Calling for his help now was
admitting her own failure--and she still had hopes of succeeding. All she needed was a little time to get away.
"Who are you?" she called to the impish thing. The question
was partially a stall and partially curiosity.
"You talk--you talk again!" Sliding and bounding, the ice
sprite careened down the slope to land not far from her
feet. A stream of dislodged ice and snow clattered down
after it.
WZho are you?" she repeated.
"Me? Me?" The thing sprang about in glee, all the while
grinning in cold, false modesty. "Hot Breath, you were captured
by Icy-white the Clever, Icy-white the Quick--"
"The greatest of the..." It was a thin trick, but Martine
was banking on the thing's simpleminded vanity to finish
the phrase.
"yes, yes. The greatest of Auril's children, the greatest of
the mephits. Clever warrior I am to capture you. Vreesar
will be much impressed with me."
Auril, mephit, Vreesar... Martine seized on the three
clues, even as she nodded in false awe. Auril was the Frost
Maiden, goddess of cold, and supposedly worshiped by the
people of the far north, not that the Harper had ever seen
one of these so-called ice priests. Mephits she knew even
less about--some type of elemental imp or fiend. Still, it


	70
	The Harpers

was enough to confirm her suspicion. Shifting closer to her
sword, she asked anyway.
'q'his isn't your home, is it?"
The mephit stopped and looked all about, head snapping
to and fro in nervous tics. "Home? Oh, no. Oh, no. This
place is too warm. But Vreesar found the path and wanted
to explore. Dragged me with him, he did. Made me come."
Her guess was right; something had passed through the
rift. But how many, and how dangerous were they? She
needed to know if all her work to seal the riff was too late.
"Vreesar?"
"Vreesar's mean, bosses me around, thinks he can tell
Icy-White what to do, but now look who caught Hot Breath.
Now Vreesar's just--" The mephit's gaze strayed upward,
looking at something behind Martine, and as it did, the
bold words in its throat choked off in a stunted gurgle.
"Vreesar is very clever--and quiet," Icy-White concluded in
a squeaked whisper.
The mephit had barely spoken before Martine, her fighting
senses coming back to her, scooted around to the side
so she could see both the mephit and where it gazed, pressing
her back against an upturned ice block.
Towering over both of them, a good two feet taller than
Martine's five-foot frame, was an overgrown version of the
mephit that had captured her. The beast had the same
armor-sheened skin, smoothly flowing over its body to
taper off into sharp-edged flares. The icelike carapace rendered
the creature insectoid, even though it stood like a
man. The look was further enhanced by the fact that its
frame was overly thin and elongated, yet that same thinness
made menacingly powerful the hard bands of muscle that
swelled like cables across its body. It was the effect one
might have gotten, Martine imagined, if you pared all the
soft parts away from a normal creature, leaving nothing but
the hard masses behind.

	Soldiers of Ice
	71

The creature's head was triangular, tapering at the chin
into a beard of icicles that grew out of its flesh. The barbed
ridge of its brow was crusted with More of the same, veiling
the deep pits of its eyes. A mouth, small and precise, set
below two narrow slots that were its nose, gaped eagerly,
revealing a formidable line of spinelike teeth.
"What iz thiz?' the creature buzzed in one rapid breath. It
stared at Marfine, pivoting its head on a virtually nonexistent
neck. "What have you found?"
Wreesar, I captured it," the mephit boasted with a prat-fling
squeal. The ice-bred imp sprang forward to show off
its conquest, staying just out of Martine's reach. "It breathes
smoke and steam, hot enough to burn me, but I captured
it." With those words, the mephit danced about in triumph,
waggling its long claws overhead. "I captured the Hot
Breath! Me!'
"Simpleton! It iz a human!" The creature's buzzing snarl
rang through the cold air like the scrape of a cufler's grindstone.
With a fluid stretch that defied its angular legs, the
creature stepped off the slope to place itself before the
Harper, twisting its head this way and that as it eyed her.
"The little one found you?"
Marfine nodded slowly, doing her best to meet the creature's
gaze. Her previous confidence was fading fast. It was
one thing to be the bold prisoner of a small, silly mephit,
but the smooth power--and evil--of this creature raised
the stakes dangerously. You should have tried to contact
Jazrac, a small part of her whispered. Marfine doubted her
strength or speed could ever hope to match this creature's.
"Did you do thiz, human?" The creature leered straight at
her with its frosty face till its icy breath, colder than the
glacial winds, burned her skin.
Martine bit the inside of her lip. Silence was her only
plan, even though she had no idea how the creature might
react.


	72
	The Har)ers

Perhaps it found the answer in her eyes, or perhaps it
saw her determination, for the fiend drew back. "Do you
see what haz happened, human?" The creature turned its
gaze to the tangled floor of the rift, shifting and wavering in
the last light of enchantment. The sapphire-colored fire was
gone from the sky, although it still seemed to tinge the
color of the stars as they washed the glacier in weak light.
'`you have trapped me!" the beast shrieked, its voice ringing
from the sides of the bowl. A hundred fiends seemed to
stand among the distant ruins, echoing back its words.
"You have closed my door!"
In a blur, it sprang over Martine, straddling her. Clawed
hands pressed against her parka. Its hoary face hung over
her, thin lips pulled back in the menace of a smile. "What
did you do?"
"Nothing." It was a desperate surge of bravado. She
tensed her body for the strike.
"Liez," it hummed, pressing its claws against her harder.
''You and your friendz did it. You will tell me how to reopen
the path."
Friends? she wondered.
"No." It was only her determination not to fail in her mission
that gave her defiance voice.
"No?" the beast shrieked. "You defy Vreesar, one of the
great elementalz? My brotherz waiting to come will not be
halted by your little trickz. I will learn how to reopen the
gate." In its rage, the creature raised up one taloned hand
to strike. Marfine, ready for her last desperate act, closed a
hand around the hilt of her sword. I will not die easily, she
told herself fiercely.
'%rreesar, the Hot Breath is my prisoner! Mine!" screeched
the mephit from its perch up the slope. ''You cannot kill it!"
In frustrated rage, the imp pelted the larger creature with
fisffuls of ice.
"Cursed mephit!" the fiend roared, batting away the

	Soldiers of !ce
	73

missiles. With its claws finally removed from her ribs, Mar-tine
took advantage of the distraction to jerk loose her ice-encased
sword. Before she'd gotten the blade free, the
shadow-cloaked elemental seized his little tormentor and
whirled back on the Harper, swinging the mephit about by
its scrawny neck. The dark fiend, lit by the last flashes of
blue, trembled and twitched as its vile passions warred
within it. The mephit writhed helplessly in the great creature's
strangling grasp.
The monster's head tipped left, then right. Finally stopping,
the gaunt monster looked curiously at the mephit,
now nearly limp. Evil light glistened in the ice-bearded
eyes, and with a callous gesture, the gelugon hurled the
mephit at Martine's feet.
The little ice imp flopped feebly on the ground, gasping
for air, and Martine seized the opportunity to scramble
backward, putting More distance between her and her captors.
"Icy-White, I forgot your great might to have captured so
powerful a human," Vreesar mocked as it crouched down
spiderlike before the mephit, looking beyond it to Martine.
"Waz foolish, yez, to think thiz human waz strong enough
to close the gap. There must be otherz who did thiz--and I
will find them. Keep your prize, Mephit. Make it tell you of
the otherz.'
"I will do this, Vreesar.' Long claws scissored the air as
the creature sidled over to Martine until it could reach out
and chuck its taloned tips under her chin. 'Whe Hot Blood
will talk. It will tell me everything."
Martine's boot lashed out, but it was a little too stiff and
slow to catch the agile creature, which scooted aside.
"See, Vreesar, it fears me already," it chuckled gleefully.
It skipped back close, watching Martine carefully. "It knows
I will make it talk."
"Then do so, pest! I hunt!"


	74
	The Harpers

With a sinuous leap, the elemental departed into the
night as suddenly as it had arrived. The clatter of loosened
ice tumbling from upslope echoed its retreat.
Martine tensed as she waited for the last sounds to fade
away. The howling wind and distant rumbles from the rift
quickly separated them from the world. Human and mephit
faced each other at the bottom of the snowy world.
"How will I begin?" the thing across from her chortled,
almost forgetful of her presence. "A finger? A nose? A cut
here.., or there?" With each question, it mapped out its
intentions in the snow.
Preparing to spring, Martine drew in a great breath, a
breath the mephit mistook for fear. It was time to strike,
she knew. Her fingers dug into the snow until they squeezed
tightly on her sword hilt once More.
"How--"
The question was cut clean by Martine's charging
scream, bellowed out as if to waken her rigid muscles.
Snow burst outward as she jerked the sword free in a wild,
slashing arc. Her legs were too stiff, her arms too weak as
she lurched to her feet and lunged wildly toward the
mephit.
If only she'd been faster, unfrozen and unspent, the
ranger knew she could have caught the creature in that
transitory moment when it froze in surprise. But her legs
sagged under the need to move, her arm pulled the arc of
the sword just a little too slow. With the blade still in
midswing, the mephit lashed out a clawed hand. Martine
heard the tear of leather and skin as the talons swept across
the shoulder of her sword arm. Fire and ice mingled as
blood rushed from the gashes and over her exposed skin.
Pain charged her cries now.
The mephit didn't wait for the sword to complete its
crippled arc but lunged forward to meet her charge. Its
barbed arms sliced viciously at her legs and left her

	Soldiers of Ice
	75

sprawled in the snow. Springing onto her back, the imp
wrapped its hard arms around her like a wrestler. With one
arm, it wrenched her bleeding shoulder, triggering fits of
pain, while the other wrapped around her neck and pulled
at her hood to expose the soft flesh. She could feel its bitter
breath, hear its teeth snap as it struggled to tear her throat.
Martine writhed and thrashed, desperately trying to
reach the sword that had skittered once More beyond
reach. Like a wild mare, she bucked and rolled, slamming
the little imp on her back against the jagged ice.
"Let go, damn it!" she raged, but the imp clung with stubborn
determination. Each rolling smash brought the
Harper More numbing pain, at best preventing the little
monster from biting home. But it seemed each lunge
brought her sword no closer.
I'm not unarmed, she suddenly realized. Twisting, she
gazed directly into the imp's face. Its tiny jaws snapped,
crystal teeth shining fiercely. Gulping for air, the Harper
blew as warmly as she could into the mephit's ice-ridged
eyes.
"Burns!" squealed the imp. Its death lock grip loosened
as it clutched at its scalded face, and in a flash, Martine
clenched Jazrac's knife.
"Burn, Hot Blood! You burn!" the creature squealed in
her ear.
Martine wrenched her bloodied arm free and reached up
to seize the creature's forehead. The stretch of muscles
triggered fires of pain that she forced herself to ignore.
Somewhere she'd lost a mitten, and now the mephit's icy
ridges tore at her hand. With a panting effort, she bucked
once More, twisting the imp's head back as she did. Blindly
she jabbed the dagger over her shoulder. It hit something
solid, held, and then dug in farther. The mephit shrieked in
her ear, proof enough she'd hit home. With all the strength
she could muster, Martine shoved the blade outward,


	76
	The Harers

feeling it slide in jerky pops as it cut through something. All
at once the blade broke free, and her arm shot out like a
punch-drunk fighter's.
The shriek still rang in her ears, almost blocking out the
choking gurgle that replaced it. Clear blood, colder than ice
water, washed down her shoulder as the arms of the imp
broke loose in wild flails. Martine flung the creature off her
and spun around to deliver the coup de grace. The killing
stroke was unnecessary, for the mephit already lay on the
ground, its head lolling as the body heaved in reflexive
jerks. Her thrust had caught it just below what looked like
its ear and sliced down the length of its neck, releasing a
flood of silver-white blood.
Martine didn't wait for the creature to die. Already she
felt unsteady on her feet, and her wounds were icing up
with blood-soaked frost. Concentrating dully, she gutted
her pouch, first taking care to pocket Jazrac's keystone, then plastered the leather over her shredded shoulder. A
quick inspection gave her no relief, for her wounds were
both bloody and deep. She recovered her mitten and gingerly
slipped it over her scraped hand.
"I can't wait here. Vreesar might be back." Talking kept
her focused. She looked up into the darkness at the jumble
of the slide. Somewhere up there was the glacier wall and
the valley beyond. Gathering her sword and her few recovered
possessions, the woman began to climb.
Two steps up, one back; two steps up, one back... So it
seemed through the long ascent. Boulders tauntingly gave beneath her feet, triggering slides that threatened to drag
her back down to the bottom of the slide. Ice made her footing
treacherous. Wind froze her hands into claws. She
stabbed into the ice with her sword like an ice axe, chipping
footholds with the point, driving the blade in as deep as possible.
The blue light of magic was gone, leaving only the
feeble starlight to suggest the way. More than once she

	Soldiers of Ice
	77

almost plunged into darkened hollows, thinking they were
solid ground.
How long it took her to reach the top or how she reached
it, Martine could not say. After a point there was no memory
of the climb's details, only the need to climb and keep
moving. The exhausted ranger wasn't even aware she'd
cleared the worst of it until she found herself staggering
across the cracked ice plain of the surface. Up here, with all
the stars of the night to guide her, Martine could just see
the subtle change where the frozen wall sagged to the valley
floor, a descending road to safety. She made for it.
At least I can die in the forest, she thought morbidly.
At the edge of the great ramp, Martine heard voices.
Dumbly, she froze where she stood, unable to think of
cover or safety. She concentrated on the voices. They were
guttural and sharp, not like Vreesar's hissing buzz. There
were several of them, too--a group, though she couldn't
tell how many. Numbly she moved slowly closer to the
source.
Then she saw them, no More than twenty feet below her.
There were six, perhaps seven gnolls, working their way up
the slope, well armed and thickly furred. They were still too
far away to understand their words, but Marfine could only
presume the night's events had drawn them here. Vreesar
wasn't with them, and she doubted they even knew of him.
Perhaps it was blind exhaustion that gave her the idea, or
perhaps it was the need to survive. Although the Harper
knew she could hide and let them pass by, instead she
stepped boldly into the path---or as boldly as her wavering
muscles could support her--and raised her arms above her
head in the universal sign of surrender.


Soldiers of Ice
	79



Five

For a moment, the gnolls stood gaping
at the apparition over them, their
weapons dangling at their sides. The
leader tore back its parka hood and
sniffed the air in suspicion, its glistening
muzzle quivering to catch the scents
of the night. Its black lips curled back
from yellowed fangs as it barked orders to the others. In a
concerted rush of flapping furs and clanking weapons, they
fell upon their prisoner with astonishing haste.
The five dog-men acted quickly to take control of their
prize. Martine was so weak and consumed with fatigue that
she practically fell into their arms. She knew surrendering
was a risk, but if it worked, it would at least get her off the
ice. She denied to herself the other possibility--that they
just might kill her.
Under the leader's command, the group stripped her of
weapons with brutal efficiency, even finding Jazrac's pretty
little knife, before lashing her wrists with a spare bowstring.
Her torn shoulder hurt terribly, but at least they

hadn't killed her outfight.
"What do we with it?" the smallest gnoll in the group
yipped finally. The fur of its hide was still raw beige and
downy. It was barely More than a cub, Martine guessed.
"Kill it." The snarl came from a stocky male, the long jut
of its muzzle barely visible under the cowl of its hood.
The leader of the pack, its hood pulled back as it surveyed
the glacier, flicked a loose ear in irritation. "No
killing now," it barked in gravelly whisper. "Later--back in
camp. We will share meat with our females." A sharp finger
prodded the Harper's side, as if testing the thickness of her
fat. "Or maybe we eat it all ourselves." The group broke
into a coughing laugh, stomping their snowy feet with
approval.
It was clear her captors didn't realize their prisoner
understood every word of their guttural language, knowledge
gained from her years as a huntress. Nor was she
about to tell them. It might be the only advantage she
would get, so it was best to keep her knowledge concealed
for now. Doing her best to play dumb, Martine waited for
the last of their chuckles to die.
"And the lights on the tall ice?" the runt asked with a nod
toward the crest of the plain. "Do we go closer?"
The bareheaded one, its thin white fur wisping in the
breeze, shook its head from side to side. "We came to hunt,
not to look at colored lights. Now we have good game. We
go." There was no debate against the old gnoll's decision,
and Martine could tell it expected none.
The group made a quick descent, their keen night sight
allowing them to move easily through the darkness. Mar-tine,
her bound hands hampering her balance, unable to
see the path in the blackness, stumbled along trying to
keep up. None of the hyenalike men ever once slowed its
pace or suggested concern for the struggling human. Each
slip and fall was rewarded with a savage jerk or shove to set


	80
	The Harpers


Soldiers of Ice
	81


her back on course, the fire in her shoulder renewed.

Even at their breakneck pace through the starlit night,
Martine tried to note their passage. It was an attention to
detail born of habit. The curl of a drift, the switchbacks of
their trail, even the grating shifts of crumbling snow
beneath her feet were like islands of reality in a nightmarish
sea of ice. The slide they were on was not fresh. She
could tell by the way the wind had sculpted the snowy
blocks and by the stiff-crusted drifts that nestled in the hollows.
Near the base, where the slope tapered off, the path
crossed a ribbon of ice that left the ranger confused. Even
in the starlight, it glinted with clear purity, reflecting the
night back in the smooth ripples of its surface. It should
have been jagged and cracked, the way ice gets when it
warms and freezes, but she could only imagine it as a flowing
river.

She noticed, too, that there was something about the ice
that spooked the gnolls. Their rapid pace broke as they
neared its edge, and they crossed almost gingerly. The eyes
of those closest to her were filled with fear, constantly straying
to one another as if waiting for some hidden peril. Once
they were off the ice, the tension faded as quickly as it had
risen.

At the leader's barked call, the pack plunged across the
snowy moraine at the glacier's base. They followed the
winding moraine straight into the woods, moving along a
well-packed track that cut through the waist-deep snow.

In the darkness of the screening branches, Martine had
no opportunity to take sightings and therefore had no clear
idea where they were when the pack finally rounded a
dense thicket and broke into a shimmering clearing. Five
dark arches of primitive longhouses were nestled at the forest's
edge. The tang of pine smoke and burnt meat filled
the air.

"Harrrooo!' the pack's leader howled before stepping


into the clearing. A deep-throated howl blended with the
echo. Satisfied, the pack hurried across the trampled snow,
past cold fire pits and snow-buried mounds of wood to the
largest of the longhouses, an arch of bent wood clad in
birch and leather that flapped in the breeze, as if welcoming
the hunters with ghostly applause.

The leader threw open the thick hide doorway and
barked at Martine to go inside. She stumbled at the sill, and
a gnoll shoved her through, mistaking the near fall for hesitation.
The inner curtain was pulled aside, unleashing a
thick rush of humid odors, a mixture of leather, blood,
smoke, flesh, birch, and sweat. A mumbled snarl rising
from a horde of throats greeted her entrance.

The lodge was filled with warm yellow flickers of fire that
made Martine blink. The long hall was draped with furs
and hides. The work was sloppily done. The coverings
didn't always match up, leaving the frame of woven saplings
that formed the longhouse's arch exposed. Elk skulls and
antlers hung from the arch as macabre decorations, alongside
soot-black strips of jerky. The general impression was
that of a moldering cellar. The ranger could guess the rest
of the lodge's construction--a layer of pine boughs for insulation,
capped by the outside shell she'd already seen.

This place is a tinderbox waiting for a spark. The thought
came nervously to the Harper's fired mind. Perhaps it was
prompted by the source of the glow, a long fire trench dug
at the far end of the hut, filled to the edges and beyond with
glowing coals.

The fire illuminated a tangle of furry bodies that covered
the floor, a carpet that drew back before the blast of winter
air that accompanied her entrance. Tawny, spotted arms
stretched curiously while muzzles raised to sniff the new
scent that had suddenly intruded upon them. Ears twitched;
fleshy lips curled back from needle-sharp fangs.

Just beyond the sprawled mass, at the far end of the


	82
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	83



lodge, stood a high bench, the only recognizable piece of
furniture in the place. The wooden benchtop was heaped
with elk robes and mantles stitched together from the pelts
of innumerable sables. Planted deep in its center was a
burly gnoll. He dozed upright, robes pulled around him till
they fell away from his shoulders like the talus slope of a
mountain. Even asleep, his immense size and his passive
dominance over the rest of the pack left no doubt that he
was the chieftain.
"Forward," grunted her guard. The command prompted
another of her guards to step forward and force a path
through the pack, which reminded Martine of dogs or
wolves sleeping in huddled mounds to generate warmth as
she gingerly stepped through the narrow passage.
Unlike the party that had found her, most of the gnolls in
the hall were nearly naked, their winter gear hung from the
arches near the entrance. Propriety was served only by
simple loincloths and ornaments of bone, wood, and feathers.
Each was covered with tarnished white fur, dappled
with spots that ranged from red to black.
"What is it?" The chorus of whispered voices slithered
through the cramped lodge.
"Human."
"Trouble."
"We kill it?"
"And eat
"Too stringy."
"What is this you bring me?" rose one voice above all the
others, speaking with presumptive authority. The whispers
stilled only slightly.
"Tonight we found new game, Hakk," the old gnoll
boasted, shoving Martine forward roughly. Pain shot
through the Harper's wounded shoulder, penetrating
through her freezing numbness. With a strangled moan,
the woman lost balance and sprawled onto the dirt floor just

before the fire pit. The landing caused another searing stab
of pain, which left her sweating, almost writhing before the
coals.
"We trapped it on the tall ice, Hakk," the old one continued.
"It was doing terrible magic, but me and my pack
mates caught it." He proceeded to tell a tale of their great
victory, More fanciful than real. In it, Martine became a
powerful fiend, able to make the whole glacier tremble. The
guoll's lies were palpably obvious as it strutted about, miming
out the tale. Martine was astonished to note the rapt
acceptance of the huddled pack. Martine was in no position
or condition to object. As the pain finally eased, she
struggled to a kneeling position, no small accomplishment
with her hands still bound.
Just as the mighty sorceress of the tale was about to fall
for the final time in the leader's spirited retelling, the one
called Hakk cut in. "Enough! You are a brave pack leader,
Brokka. You will have the choice meat." With a thick-necked
shrug, Hakk stood, letting the robes fall to the floor.
Golden fur with fat rubbed into it was plastered smooth
against the gnoll's hard muscles. With a casual move, the
chieftain sprang across the fire pit, landing in a squat just
before the Harper.
Hakk is not without his share of vanity, Martine noted.
That might be useful.
"It might need fattening up." The chieftain prodded at
Martine, reigniting the shuddering pain in her shoulder.
Instinctively she reeled back, only to be shoved forward
again by strong hands behind her.
"Kill me and you won't know the danger of the tall ice,"
Martine sputtered out in a mixture of gnoll and trade common.
The chieftain's eyes flared, and a deep snarl forewarned
her of the savage backhand that followed. Martine barely
had time to pull back and roll with the blow, but the gnoll's


	84
	The Harpers

fist still glanced viciously off her temple. Her vision blurred
in one eye, and it took More willpower than she thought
she possessed to face the chieftain once More. She dare not
show weakness now. She had to play it out all the way.
"There is someone else on the ice." The words came
hard as she blinked, haft-blind and shivering.
"You speak only when I say!" the chief raged, but his face
gave away his curiosity.
The Harper took a deep breath and then daubed with her
bound hands at a trickle of blood seeping into the corner of her eye.
"What other? Speak, human, or I kill you." The gnoll's
hot, greasy breath steamed against her skin.
"If you kill me, you'll never know," she whispered. She
heard him snarl, heard the clawed arm draw back. She
tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone bone dry.
"Consider the human's words before you strike her
again, Hakk." The voice came from the very back of the
lodge, from deep behind the anfiers, the skeletons, and the
furs. It was clear and authoritative without being loud.
The chiefs arm remained poised. "I asked for no advice,
Word-Maker."
The darkness rustled, and from its perimeter emerged
the speaker. As the creature neared, his features resolved
themselves out of the gloom. Martine's first impression
was of a skeletal mockery of a living thing, even of its own
kind. He appeared emaciated, with a sunken muzzle and
bony pits for eyes. Mustard-brown skin was drawn tight
over hard ridges, while patches of fur hung in stringy
clumps from his long jaw. Unlike the others in the lodge,
the stranger was dressed for warmth. Ragged ears jutted
through gaps in a dirty scarf wrapped around his head.
Bandagelike wrappings covered his arms, twining all the
way down to his clawed fingertips. Leather straps, gleaming
red in the firelight, crossed and wound over themselves

	Soldiers of Ice
	85

to hold the rags in place. Where the straps crossed the
backs of the gnoll's hands, they glittered with spiked silver.
Broad crossbelts of dark brown banded his skeletal chest.
Each was decorated with metal studs and beadwork worked
into crude designs of birds, wolves, and other symbols the
Harper could not identify. They rippled in the lodge's
wavering light like things alive. A grimy bearskin cloak was
draped over his gaunt shoulders. The incongruity of his
dress made him stand out from the bestial crowd.
The gnoll came forward almost hesitantly into the light.
As it had for Martine, the pack parted before the new
arrival's advance, shrinking back with his every step forward.
At the edge of the fire pit, just short of where Hakk
stood, the challenger stopped. His black lips pulled back
from his long muzzle in a brutal smile. From this distance,
the Harper could see that fully half his taut face was etched
with tattooing. Two purple-black scars radiated from one
eye, the first cutting a wedge from his matted hairline, the
other running down the length of his muzzle.
With the sweep of one long arm, the new arrival threw
his heavy bearskin cloak off. It landed with a dull thud on
the ground behind him.
"You may not wish to hear my advice, but a corpse tells
neither truth nor lies."
"It lies about another creature on the ice, mighty chiefi
We told you the truth about what happened. Nothing else is
on the ice." Brokka stepped closer to Hakk, leaning over
the chieftain's shoulder to hiss the words.
The chieftain took it as a cue. "You question Brokka's
word, Word-Maker?"
"I am sure Brokka saw what he saw."
Clever, thought Martine. His answer ducked the chief-rain's
challenge. Better still, it was beginning to appear as if
Word-Maker wanted her alive. Tymora's wheel seemed to


	86
	The Harpers

be turning back in her favor.
'I'hen she knows nothing and is of no use to us. We will
kill her for the meat."
The Harper could see her chances doing an about-face
again and refused to remain silent about her own fate.
"Brokka did not see the death creature.., the fiend. The
fiend hunts us all."
Barely had she finished the words before the chieftain
threw his head back and burst into a chorus of baying yelps
that sounded like laughter. The pack held silent for only a
moment before the young curs began to yip derisively. The
joke grew as they drummed the earthen floor with savage
delight.
'q'his is our valley. No one comes here who does not fear
the Burnt Fur. Let this fiend come if he does not fear our
might." Hakk's boast triggered scattered howls of approval
as the drumming faded in the hall. Then he turned once More to face Martine. "As for you, you will be meat in our
stewpots." The chieftain drew a knife of curved bone from
its sheath.
"It is a shame to kill such a prize, Hakk Elk-Slayer," the
one called Word-Maker said, nodding toward the woman.
Already tensed for the deathblow, Martine grew tenser still
as she wondered what the gnoll was up to.
"I do not fear a shortage of meat for the tribe," the WordMaker
continued, so softly he was almost whispering. 'q/ou are a great hunter and will lead us to game. You do not
need to kill this scrawny human for our pots. Let her live,
and we will steai the humans' secrets from her."
Hakk shook his head. "Humans are weak. They teach us
nothing. She will merely be another mouth to feed."
"But think of the fame you would gain with a human captive
in your lodge. In all the tribes, the packs would repeat
your name with respect around their fires."
The chieftain paused and gave a sly glance toward the

	Soldiers of Ice
	87

one called Word-Maker. By now the lodge had quieted as
their audience slowly realized something was afoot.
"What other chief could rival you?" Word-Maker pressed
on. 'qhe human is a good omen. Brokka said the ice stopped
moving when he found her. She might have great powers."
His long tongue licked greedily as the chieftain prowled
before the fire pit, considering the Word-Maker's words.
The scene swirled before her as Martine awaited the outcome.
Blood loss, fatigue, and the raw grate of overtaxed
nerves were overcoming the Harper. Only fear kept her conscious. The scene around her blurred until she saw only
Elk-Slayer and Word-Maker standing before the glowing
pit.
The chieftain stopped pacing and reclaimed his position
on the wooden platform. Martine snapped back to full consciousness.
"I have chosen!" Hakk barked loudly to the
pack. Ears eagerly perked to listen, the gnolls ceased their
murmured barking and focused their attention on the platform.
"Brokka, you are a brave hunter. You bring the tribe
much meat." At these words, the old gnoll smiled toothily
at the rest of the pack. Praise from the chieftain probably
translated into improved status--better meat, better
females, Martine guessed.
The chieftain wasn't done speaking, however. The ranger
tensed again, fully expecting him to pronounce a grim judgment
for her. "Let the tribe know I offer three fine robes
and the first meat of our next kill for the human. Does my
hunt-brother agree?"
Martine hadn't enough skill to read Brokka's emotions
accurately and could only guess that the gnoll was surprised.
Still, considering the honor just accorded, the gnoll
.was not in a position to refuse. "Elk-Slayer is kind. He gives
me More robes than the human is worth." Apparently the
old gnoll knew how to play the game.


	88
	The Harpers


"It is good," the chieftain said. The pronouncement
ended what little bargaining there was. With cold yellow
eyes, he sized up his new possession, still sprawled on the

floor. "Word-Maker!" he roared.

"I am here, Elk-Slayer."

"I claim the female for my harem. I will not eat the
human unless she displeases me. Will this bring me honor?"

"A human female among your wives--every lodge will
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 Word-Maker 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 Word-Maker, 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 Word-Maker 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 Word-Maker 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. Word-Maker 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.
Word-Maker 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 Word-Maker 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 cross-belts. 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 Word-Maker. 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.
It reminded Martine of the way her brothers used to
wrestle, though maybe without the biting. The thought
came so naturally to mind that the Harper had to force herself
to remember that they were not the same. These were
her captors, and not even human.
Krote pushed her toward the largest of the lodges. The
chief's lodge looked no different from the others, only
slightly higher and longer. The main distinctive feature was
an arch of painted skulls that hung over the entrance. Invisible
by night, the gaudily striped and spotted faces stared
down at Martine now. They comprised all manner of creatures.
Some, like the elk, bear, and griffon, she could identify.
Others were mysteries, although the ranger guessed
that at least two small skulls were those of gnomes.
Inside, the lodge was lit by the fire pit, whose dull glow
made the hanging bones flicker and dance. The massed

gnolls that had filled the hall the night before were gone, no
doubt at the day's work. Krote pushed Martine across the
cool earthen floor until she stood once More before the
chieftain's platform.
Meticulously laid out on the far side of the fire in the
brief space between the rock-ringed pit and the wooden
dais was Martine's gear. Her long sword, leather backpack,
and a few sausages from Shadowdale were testimony to
what little she had been able to salvage from the glacier.
Ignoring the chieftain, who glared at her from his crude
throne, the ranger eagerly scanned the gear until she spotted
the ivory gleam of Jazrac's dagger. Right next to it
rested the dull black rock that was the seal's keystone. The
Harper's spirits leapt with both relief and dread. The sudden
panic that she might have lost the keystone was replaced
by the realization that it was now part of Hakk's booty.
"Wife, is this all your kaamak?" Hakk's lips curled in a
snarl as he spoke. There was no affection in his words.
"Kaamak?" It was a term the ranger had never heard.
"Kaarnak.t'' Hakk repeated loudly as he jabbed a sharp
finger at her goods before him.
Gear? Magic? Possessions? Martine thought desperately
as she tried to fathom the guolrs words. She warily shook
her head in incomprehension, trying not to provoke another
outburst.
Krote interceded, his voice rasping softly behind her. "Kaamak... wife's payment.., gifts to the mate."
"Dowry?" Martine blurted in Sembian, startled at the
suggestion the marriage had anything to do with her
wishes.
"Yes, dow-ry,' Krote responded with satisfaction, once More having difficulty with the foreign shapes of the Sem-bian
tongue.
Martine goggled at him, too amazed to attempt any reply.
The chieftain was acting as if she had agreed to this


	98
	The Harers


wedding, as if she weren't a prisoner! I hope he doesn't
expect me to have any goats, she thought.

"Is this your kaamak?" Hakk bellowed, now infuriated
with her impudence.

"Answer, female," Krote hissed. "Be respectful to your
mate."

'q/es, those are my things," she answered dazedly.

Hakk smiled with satisfaction and ignored her. He picked
up the long sword she'd won from a captain of the Pirate
Isles and jabbed it into the ground to test its blade. 'q'he
sword is good. I will keep it."

Martine bristled. Winning that sword had cost her an
ugly scar across her back. Perhaps noticing her reaction,
Krote gave her a cautionary jab to remain silent.

Flourishing the sword, Hakk bit into one of Jhaele's
sausages, only to immediately spit it into the fire with a
retching growl. "This meat is spoiled!" he pronounced,
kicking the rest of the links into the fire. The coals hissed
and spattered as the grease oozed from the casings.

"Those were good sausages, smoked and spiced, you flyspecked
idiot," Martine muttered under her breath, unable
to repress her anger. This time the jab from Krote was considerably
harden

"Krote, I give you the dagger," Hakk offered expansively
after examining Jazrac's knife. With an easy flip, the chieftain
tossed it across the fire to land point-first in the dirt.

"Elk-Slayer is generous," Word-Maker said. "I will speak
of your generosity to Gorellik."

While Krote was busy with formalities, the ranger eyed
the dagger eagerly without trying to show too much interest.
The dagger was her primary hope. If she could only
place it with her scrawled plea for help, then Jazrac might
learn of her plight through his crystal ball. True, he might
be scrying the dagger fight now, but if he didn't find a letter
from her, the wizard would probably give up.


	Soldiers of Ice
	99


"What is this?" Hakk demanded in brutal tones. In his
clenched fingers, he held the pitted keystone of the rift's
magical seal

"It's--it's nothing. Just a rock." Preoccupied with the
knife, Martine was caught off guard. She flinched inwardly
at her halting reply, which sounded unconvincing even to
her. She could only hope gnolls were no better at judging
her emotions than she was at judging theirs.

Toss it aside, she mentally urged the gnoll. Just forget
about it.

Hakk glared with curled lips at the simple rock, and for a
moment, Martine held hopes she was fight.
"Krote, why does the human come here to gather rocks?"
The shaman behind her sucked the air in between his
fangs, clearly without an answer. Finally, he said, "Maybe
she is like the little ones, the dwarves. They put much value
on stones dug out of the earth."

"Since the human came here to get this rock, what you
say must be true. I will keep it." With those words Hakk
tossed the stone among the furs of his dais.

Martine winced. Krote had clearly guessed wrong, but
too well nonetheless.

"It's just a--a souvenir," Martine stumbled over the term
and at last resorted to Sembian. "I mean, something to
remember things by, Chieftain Elk-Slayer. The rock is
worthless. I mean, do I look like a miner?" Stepping forward
with mock helplessness, the ranger hoped, perhaps
futilely, that she might persuade the chieftain by playing up
her own ignorance. In the dogman's eyes, after all, she was
only a human--and a female at that.

Hakk had let one ear loll as he cocked his head to listen.
Before the gnoll could say a word, however, Krote spoke in
suspicious tones.

"Brokka said the human had great magical powers, Hakk
.. that she shattered the tall ice."


100
	The Harers

Across the fire pit, the chieftain grunted understanding
as he eyed Martine sharply. "I keep this rock."
Crestfallen, Marfine realized she'd overplayed her hand
and underestimated the gnolls, Krote in particular. The
gaunt shaman didn't know why the Harper wanted the
stone, but he had correctly read her desire to keep it. Don't
show disappointment, she chided herself. Don't let on
they're right.
"My power has no need for stones, Word-Maker." Her
words were a softly spoken boast, but one which she voiced
with confidence, for it was the truth. All she really needed
was her sword, and then Krote and Hakk would discover
just how fierce an opponent she was.
Krote's hard stare told her the gnoll had heard and
understood her words. She noticed he kept one paw close
to the dagger at his belt. She smiled slightly, just enough to
show her pleasure at unnerving him.
'Wake my mate out, Word-Maker. She has no More kaamak. Take her back to your lodge and learn her secrets,"
Hakk grunted from across the fire pit where he had remained
oblivious to the exchange. Stifling a bored yawn, the chieftain
scratched at the fleas that infested his golden-furred hide and clambered lazily back onto his platform.
Prodding her in the back, Krote hustled Martine back
into the cold daylight. A pair of female gnolls butchering a
rabbit in the bloodstained snow eyed Martine eagerly, their
knives flashing too suggestively for her taste.
"What is the significance of the stone?" the shaman
demanded as he pushed the woman past the smoldering
remains of a fire.
"It's just a souvenir." Martine gamely hied to stick to her
story. The shaman wanted answers, and she wasn't about to
supply them. So long as that remained true, he would keep
her alive, Martine figured.
"That's a lie."

	Soldiers of Ice
	101

"It's my good-luck charm," she said with cheerful defiance.
"Another lie," the shaman shot back in a tone that
showed no glimmer of humor.
"True enough," she countered wearily. "If it had been
lucky, I wouldn't be here."
"What is the rock?" This time the question was More a
snarl, and Martine knew she'd better sound convincing.
The only problem was she was too tired and afraid to think
of something clever.
"I don't know," she lied again. "I was paid to deliver it."
Krote furrowed his bony brow as he considered her
claim. "Still another lie," he finally said accusingly. "The
Burnt Fur are the only people around here. You did not
come to trade with us. The rock and Brokka's story about
lights on the tall ice--these two are connected."
Martine didn't bother trying to deny his conclusion.
From the way the Word-Maker had countered every tale, it
was clear she was too shaken by exhaustion to lie convincingly.
In desperation, the ranger chose to remain silent and
let herself be led across the clearing.
Krote asked no More questions, and for a moment, Mar-tine
hoped that he had relented. Then, just as they reached
the small lodge that was her cell, the shaman stopped
abruptly. With a swirl move, he wrapped his rough fingers
around Martine's neck. She floundered in his strong grasp,
suddenly choking.
"Human woman," the gnoll snarled in methodically grim
words, "if you do not speak the truth by tonight, I will stake
you outside naked. Then you will talk--or freeze."
Twisting in his grasp, the ranger finally sucked in a
breath of frigid air. "You would heal me, then kill me?" she
challenged. "No, Krote. You want me alive. I'm no good to
you dead."
Krote dropped his hand with a laugh. "I like you, human.


	102
	The Harpers

You have much--umm--anger, strong feeling, for a female.
That is good. In our tribe, females must be ready to fight to
claim mates. The kits you bear Hakk will be strong and
clever:' Laughter mingled with wheezing chuckles accompanied
his claim. The tall shaman stooped to pull open the
lodge's door curtain.
Martine paled. Unschooled in gnoll ways, she still
couldn't miss the irony in Krote's thin voice. The thought of
bearing the spawn of a monster like Hakk shook her body
to the core.
Still chuckling, Krote shoved her through the doorway of
the lodge. Stumbling into the darkness, she let herself collapse
weakly on the furs. Faintly she could hear the birch
scroll, her letter to Jazrac, crackle beneath the layers of her
fur bed and remembered the knife Hakk had given to
Krote. Rolling over, she saw the gleam of the ivory handle
jutting from the edge of Krote's crossbelts.
Desperate plans raced through her mind. The thin shaman
was clearly not a fighter, but right now the ranger
doubted she had the strength to best a kitten. Guile was
her only chance, if she could just think clearly.
"Who are you?" Krote demanded, interrupting her
thoughts.
"I told you--Martine of Sembia."
The shaman thrust a stick into the fire's coals, just
enough to make the end smolder, and Martine sensed the
interrogation was about to begin in earnest.
'qhrhy are you here?" The gnoll jabbed at the coals.
The truth, to a point, seemed her best response. "I
crashed nearby."
Krote raised one ear, though whether in interest or skepticism,
Martine did not know. 'Tell Krote about it."
"A storm brought down my hippogriff." Once again she
had to resort to Sembian, not knowing the gnoll term for
hippogriff.

	Soldiers of ice
	103

'q'he storm on the tall ice?"
Martine guessed he meant the rift's geyser, which from
the base of the glacier must have looked like a roiling thunderhead.
She nodded.
Krote pulled the stick from the fire and blew on the
ember at its end until it glowed orange-red. "You are a spy
for the little ones, fight?"
"Little ones?" Martine slid back, trying to keep as much
distance between herself and the gnoll as possible.
Krote smiled, his black lips pulled back to show yellow,
cracked fangs and pinkish gums. "The little people in the
south valley. They sent you here to spy on us."
"No," she said, emphasizing it with a shake of her head. "I didn't even know you lived here!"
With a snort, the gnoll thrust the stick back into the fire,
making Martine wonder just how sincere his threat had
been. "My people have lived here since Arka, the chieftain
before Hakk Elk-Slayer. Now the little people steal our
hunting grounds."
The shaman's claim made no sense. Judging by what
she'd seen of the Vani warren, the gnomes had been there
a century or More, building and tending to their home. No
gnoll chieftain, she guessed, could have that kind of lifes-
pan.
"What do you mean, they stole your hunting grounds?
Surely they were there first.' The Harper part of her, the
part that always hungered for information, was speaking
now.
"It is our right because we need it," was the shaman's
sharp answer.
"Because you need it, the valley belongs to you?"
Krote's long tongue licked his lips. "It is fight of--rrachkkiah."
" Rrachk-kiah ?"
The gnoll groped for an explanation as he unexpectedly


	104
	The Harpers

warmed to her interest. It seemed as if he wanted to explain,
to justify the ways of his tribe. Perhaps she had triggered a
passion within him, part of what earned him the title WordMaker.
"What is seen is owned," the shaman continued. "The
gods gave my people everything in the world. Everything
we can see belongs to the gnolls. So the little ones steal our
hunting grounds."
"That's... quite a claim." Martine picked her words
carefully, trying not to let any sarcasm creep in, despite the
arrogant egotism of the gnoll's beliefs.
"It is right. Why else would the gods make the world?"
Word-Maker proclaimed.
A series of shouts from outside interrupted any need to
reply. Krote's ears twitched as he stepped to the door flap
and peered outside. The woman braced herself to spring at
him while he was distracted, but before she could act, the
shaman whipped out a knife. Involuntarily a savage growl
welled up in his throat.
The chorus of barking yelps from outside intensified.
The dog-man suddenly whirled, pointed the knife in her
direction, and barked, "Stay!" before disappearing through
the door flap. It wasn't the ranger but something outside
that had triggered Krote's reaction.
Martine sat dumbfounded for a moment, but only for a
moment Scrambling to her feet, she hastily gathered whatever she could find that might be of use in her escape--furs,
a pouch, a sharp stick, even a few trinkets from the
walls. Wrapping them into a tight bundle, she paused at the
lodge's flap to listen before venturing outside.
Whatever was happening, it was important, judging by
the noise. From the mingled chorus of barking shouts,
Martine imagined the entire tribe had turned out. The
words were unclear, but the excitement was obvious.
This is my chance, the Harper thought as she crouched

	Soldiers of Ice
	105

low by the entrance. With luck I can make it into the forest
unnoticed.
Pulling back the door flap slightly, Martine was greeted
with a view of an assembled throng, their backs facing her.
The massed gnolls, some robed, others bare-skinned in the
cold, were gathered in the center of the clearing, their
attention transfixed by something the Harper could not see.
The gathering piqued her curiosity, but not nearly as much
as the chance of escape. Grabbing her bundle, she slipped
through the opening and edged her way along the front of
the lodge, moving quietly in hope of avoiding attention. Her
breath steamed out in tense bursts, and each crunching
footstep made her wince even though there was little
chance of being heard over the racket made by the gnolls,
which sounded like battle cries and war alarms. Had Vilheim
returned with the gnomes? Or was it Jazrac? Martine
paused, hope rising that someone might be coming to rescue
her.
Even as she stood eagerly waiting, the fierce war cries of
the gnolls gave way to howls of panic, and the tightly knit
mass of bodies abruptly exploded as the gnolls turned and
bolted, those at the back thrust aside by others from the
front lines. Females scooped up their kits and ran for the
shelter of the lodges. Latecomers scrambled for weapons
stacked near the lodge doors. Through a brief gap in the
crowd, Martine saw Elk-Slayer, muscular and nearly naked,
berating his warriors to form a wavering arc of spears
against whatever approached.
Then Martine saw the intruder and understood the
cause of the gnolls' panic. It was her tormentor, the creature
from the rift, icy bone-white, moving with clicking stiffness
as it stalked into the center of the village. Its head
snapped from side to side, its icicled brow hiding eyes that
swept over the gnolls. The small, rasping mouth clicked
together in threatening snaps, while its long arms swung to


	106
	The Harpers

and to, thin claws cutting gouges in the hard snow.
Seeing the fiend, Martine paled and promptly forgot
about caution. Relying on the confusion the creature's
arrival was creating, she clutched her bundle tightly and
sprinted from the shelter of the lodge into the gap that separated
it from the gloom of the forest. A gnoll charged past,
forcing the ranger to veer madly, but the creature seemed
to pay her no mind.
I've made it! she started to think as the trees drew
nearer.
The second she entertained the thought, the woman
knew it was precipitous. Before she had completed another
two steps, a rough hand seized her. "Hah!" snarled a harsh
voice as clawed fingers gouged into her tender shoulder.
Her arm jerked in a spasm of pain and her bundle spilled
from her grasp. Kicking and struggling, she tried to break
free from the gnoll, but his grip did not loosen. With a
fierce twist, she was pulled about to face her captor.
"I thought you might try to escape," Krote grunted as he
held her fast, his amulets jingling as she squirmed about.
"Cyric take you!" Martine tried to kick him, a move the
gnoll easily avoided.
"Varka, bring the human," the shaman barked to a warrior
hurrying by with sword and shield in hand. Varka, a
short, mangy creature, grinned wolfishly, and with a sharp
poke of his sword, urged Martine into obedience. Realizing
her chance to escape was lost, she sullenly pretended surrender,
all the while still hoping for a chance to break free
once More.
"Female, what is that creature?" Krote rasped as they
hurried to where Hakk's warriors uneasily faced off against
the intruder. So far, neither the gnolls nor the fiend had
done More than glower at each other.
"I don't know. It's the same creature that captured me on
the glacier." Her near escape and failure had crumbled the

	Soldiers of Ice
	107

Harper's resistance.
Krote started to say something else, but his words were
silenced by a warm buzzing as the fiend spoke.
"Warm thingz,' the newcomer droned slowly as it surveyed
them all, talking as if they did not matter. "Many
warm thingz. Good. You will be my slavez. I am your master.''
To Martine's ears, the claim would have been preposterous
were it not for the monotonous confidence with which
the creature spoke. It was not a thing of this world, and
there was no sure way to say what it was capable of doing.
Beside her, Krote sucked in the cold air with a snarling
hiss.
An eerie silence fell upon the tribe. Martine had expected
outrage, or at least More of the wild tumult that had heralded
the fiend's arrival, but instead the gnolls seemed to
go dumb. The warriors in the half-circle around the fiend
wavered. Martine assumed it was cowardice until she realized
they were waiting. The eyes of the warriors, indeed of
all the crowd, turned to their chieftain, Hakk Elk-Slayer.
"What are you waiting for? Your tribe can kill it," the
Harper found herself urging the Word-Maker. Though still
a gnoll prisoner, she feared the fiend More.
"Quiet," Krote whispered. 'q'he creature challenges Elk-Slayer.
He must fight to remain chieftain."
"What? Against that thing? What kind of a challenge is
that?" Unable to contain her disbelief, Martine nodded
toward the elemental.
"Quiet! It is the way things are done."
It seemed to Martine that the fiend was as confused as
she was by the sudden silence of the gnolls, for it swayed
from side to side, glaring this way and that as it waited for
an attack. The droning buzz of its voice went higher, perhaps
in amusement, as it spoke again. "No fight? Good
slavez..."


I OH
	The Harers

'qhe Burnt Fur are not slaves," Hakk finally roared out.
Even before the first faint echo rebounded from the dense
woods, the chieftain sprang forward, using two hands to
whirl a gnarled club over his head.
Crack! The resounding crash of wood striking bone
broke the spell over the crowd. The elemental reeled from
the blow, pinkish-clear blood seeping from a crack in the
smooth carapace of its leg. The tribe roared in approval of
Hakk's assault, and the chieftain launched another blow
while the creature was still reeling. The gnoll ran straight at
the fiend, his club pointed toward its skeletal chest like a
battering ram driven against a city's gate.
Just before the wooden club drove home, the fiend
twisted sideways and let the chieftain charge past. Long,
icicle-like claws flashed, and suddenly the dirty white snow
was splattered with red. Hakk wobbled and then dropped to
his knees, his fingers clutching at his side in a futile attempt
to stanch the flow of blood. The gnoll's massive chest rose
and fell in desperate pants. He dropped his club and doggedly
lurched to his feet, sword in hand.
The fiend seemed to be in no hurry. Mockingly it
waggled its bloodstained claws, flicking little drops of blood
over the onlookers. The gnolls shifted and wavered with
uneasiness, but none made a move to intercede. Krote's
hand, firm on Martine's shoulder, restrained her from fleeing.
"I'll kill you," Hakk croaked as he advanced, More cautiously
now, having gained a new respect for his foe.
The naturally armored fiend responded with a trilling
buzz that Martine imagined was laughter. It was a morbid
and heartless humor that the fiend punctuated by clacking
snaps of its gleaming jaw. "Come, then, and kill me," it
intoned.
Hakk was not to be goaded so easily, and the two circled
round each other. The tribe formed a ring surrounding the

	Soldiers of !ce
	109

duelists, the warriors at the front with their spears and
swords held in readiness. Krote pushed Martine, whom he
still held firmly, into the forefront. There the shaman fingered
his charms and amulets, his lips moving silently.
Martine wondered if it was a prayer and, if so, what the shaman
was praying for.
All at once the fiend staggered as its wounded leg
wobbled beneath it. One clawed hand dropped to the snow
as it recovered its balance, and in that brief instant, Hakk
sprang forward with a wild, howling rush.
In a blur of movement, the fiend struck, and Marfine saw
instantly that its apparent weakness had been a trap. As the
chieftain's golden-furred body lunged beneath the fiend's
intentionally clumsy sweep, Hakk overconfidenfiy left his
side exposed. Even as Hakk's sword flashed upward for the
kill, the fiend's head lashed downward, striking faster than
Martine could imagine. Hakk's strangled shriek mingled
with a pulping crunch as the fiend's razodike teeth clamped
on the gnoll's neck. Elk-Slayer's thrust was never completed,
with the nerves that linked thought to action severed.
The pair plunged to the ground, and the air filled with
a buzzing roar as the fiend tore at the spasmodically flailing
gnoll like a terrier with a rat. Blood splattered the snow.
The gnolls recoiled from the gruesome scene, widening the
circle around the carnage.
The end came with painful slowness. Even though the
jerking convulsions had long since stopped, the creature
still huddled over the body, savagely gnawing at the gnoll's
neck. The tribe was held frozen in shocked surprise, the
first yips of fear radiating from the edges of the throng.
Martine could only gaze helplessly in disbelief, suddenly
terrified at how easy it would be to pick her out of the
crowd. Warily she tried to edge backward, to put bodies
between her and the fiend. The shaman noted her movement
and seemed to nod conspiratorially. In any case,


	110
	The Harpers



although he didn't let her slip free, the gnoll pulled her
back a step into the crowd.
As if on a signal, howls rose from the foremost gnolls.
The pain and fear behind their voices was unmistakable. At
the dueling ground's center, amid the crimson-soaked
snow, the fiend rose to its full height. Red streaked the
ivory armor of its body, and blood glistened from its quivering,
sharp chin. One bonelike arm reached over its head,
and clutched in those claws was the severed head of Hakk
Elk-Slayer, his dead eyes seeming to gaze out upon his
tribe.
"Warm thingz!" the creature shrilled to the stunned
gnolls, whirling about to face them all. "I am your leader
now. You are my slavez!"
The gnolls wavered, caught between fear and their own
traditions. Those closest to the shaman looked to him for
guidance, but the Word-Maker had no answer.
As they hesitated, the fiend hurled the still-warm head at
the assembled warriors and sprang in a bounding hop upon
the nearest gnoll. Seizing the terrified tribesman in its long
claws, the fiend shrilled, "I am your master! Vreesar is your
master!" Each claim was punctuated by a brutal shake.
"Y-Y-You... are.., chieftain," the gnoll stammered.
Gradually the chant was taken up by those nearby until it
grew into a fear-stricken chorus of confirmation.
Vreesar flung the quivering guoll aside with an easy toss
and triumphantly turned to survey its new subjects. All at
once it stopped and pushed its way through the rapidly
parting sea of gnolls.
Martine suddenly felt the burning gaze of the fiend's
eyes. Its foul voiced buzzed in her ears.
"Human, you are here! You must come to my new
throne!"

Seven

A biting wind deadened Martine's
limbs as she stood before the dais of the
great Vreesar, new chieftain of the Burnt
Fur. With its conquest, the fiend had
taken possession of Elk-Slayer's lodge
and quickly found the accomodations
not to its liking. Heaping a miscellany of
wood and baskets at the entrance, Vreesar sat poised on a
throne made from a cradleboard laid between two stools.
This crude dais was much More to the fiend's liking, since
it was safely away from the scorching fire pit at the far end
of the lodge. Elk-Slayer's furs and robes were banished,
eagerly snapped up by the tribe members determined to
gain something from the chaos. Instead of rich bearskins,
the platform was coated with a heap of caked, dirty snow
dug from the clearing. The door flap, formerly sealed with
care against the hostile outdoors, was now pulled wide
open to let the bitter breeze blow through.
No gnolls lounged half-naked in the steaming heat, as
they had the night before. Those tribe members in the


	112
	The Harpers

lodge huddled tightly together as far back from the entrance
as they could, trying to capture the precious warmth of the
smoldering fire pit-
It
was a warmth the ranger did not feel from where she
stood in the bare earth between Vreesar's throne and the
clustered gnolls. Since the occupation of the lodge, Vreesar
had kept her near its crude throne. No More than three
paces behind her, Krote squatted, waiting for the new chief-rain's
words.
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
	I 13

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.


	114
	The Harpers
	Soldiers of !ce
	115



'`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 Word-Maker 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
	The Harpers

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," eesar calculated, its icy brows tinkling
as they knitted. "And they helped the human?"
"Perhaps." Without better knowledge, the Word-Maker
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
	I 17

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,


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	The Harpers

that it thought nothing of it.
"Great chieftain, it will take our warriors much time to
attack the people of the snow," Word-Maker 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.

	Soldiers of Ice
	119

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. "Per-hapz
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."
"I don't have the key." That, at least, wasn't a lie.
"So there iz a key! Where iz it?"
Martine winced at her blunder. She had just removed


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	The Harpers

one uncertainty for the fiend. If she told Vreesar the truth
--which she could not--the creature would kill her. If she
resisted, it could just as easily kill her in a rage.
"I'll never tell you," she swore bitterly. She braced herself
for another onslaught.
"Oh, yez, you will, human," Vreesar droned soothingly. It
seemed as if the fiend had suddenly lost interest in her.
"Shaman, take my human away."
As she was taken from the lodge, the Harper couldn't
resist a wistful glance at the stone. The ranger stopped the
instant she noticed Krote watching, but by that time it was
too late. The shaman had already taken note. If he didn't
know now, the ranger was certain Krote would quickly figure
it out.
Outside, Word-Maker shoved her toward the small
lodge. Martine was so exhausted she barely noticed when
they arrived at her crude prison. Once inside, the woman
collapsed onto the furs, ready to surrender to sleep. Krote
had other ideas, though. With a firm touch, he pressed his
thick-padded hand against her side, seeking out the broken
rib.
"What are you doing?" Her words were groggy, confused.
"Healing you." The shaman waved a primitive icon over
her side. "You must not die when the thing questions you."
Now the Harper was truly confused. Was this an act of
kindness, or was it a cruel desire to prolong her suffering?
"Why?"
Without pausing, the gnoll explained. "You are from the
warm lands, where humans live, and know many things
about them. You must not die before teaching me these
things. Remain still." Krote didn't wait for her to respond,
but began chanting the words to his spell, the same one he
had used before on her wounded shoulder. Once again a
warmth pervaded her from his hands, flowing into her

	Soldiers of Ice
	121

body. Deep inside, her body twitched in response. Suddenly
intense pain shot through her ribs. She writhed in
agony, but the gnoll fiercely pressed her down. Martine bit
her lip, determined not to scream.
Almost as swiftly as it came upon her, the pain washed
away, leaving her feeling stronger and More vigorous than before. The exhaustion that had afflicted her had disappeared,
as if she'd had a full day or More of rest.
Krote carefully hung the icon back around his neck.
"Now teach me, human," he insisted as he sat crosslegged
on the opposite side of the hut.
'Teach you what?" Martine sat up, wary of the gnoll and
perplexed at the same time.
From a leather pouch, the gnoll dug out a roll of birch-bark.
'Feach me the symbols," he demanded as he tossed
the scroll over to her. "You made it. What does it mean?"
Martine recognized what it was as soon as Krote produced
it. It was the letter she'd written in desperation to
Jazrac. There could be no doubt now that it had gone
unread.
"What is it?" the Word-Maker demanded.
"It's called writing," Martine explained. In nearly any
other circumstances, Marline would have been incredulous
to discover someone completely ignorant of writing. Many
folks throughout the Realms couldn't read, but at least they
were aware of letters and words. The shaman apparently
didn't even comprehend what they were.
"It's like speaking on paper," she continued. Her explanation
couldn't compromise her mission, nor could she believe
that teaching the gnoll writing would threaten anyone,
either herself or the gnomes of Samek. But it could gain her
an ally in the tribe, an ally who might prove useful later. Furthermore,
she saw an opportunity that she might be able to
get a message off to Jazrac after all. All she needed to do
was trick Krote into using the bone-handled knife.


	122
	The Harers

Unrolling the brittle sheet of bark, she began the lesson.
Slowly and carefully she played the role of tutor, a part she
wasn't particularly suited for. It took More verbal skill and
patience than she had to explain the mysteries of writing.
Fortunately for her, the title Word-Maker was no misnomer
for Krote. She was impressed by the gnoll's quick
mind and prodigious memory. He could watch her make
the strokes of a letter with a piece of charcoal and repeat
them perfectly.
Martine decided to take a chance. Pushing a smooth split
log in front of the gnoll, she said, "Carve what I show you.
Then you can practice on your own."
Martine knew it was a gamble and tried not to show her
eagerness. Her heart leaped as Krote drew Jazrac's knife
and held it ready to carve.
"All right. Copy this," Martine instructed as she smoothed
out a piece of leather. Carefully she drew the symbols in a
neat row for Krote to copy. 'q'hese are all different letters
you can practice later. Just do them in this order when you

With a generous smile, she slid the leather to Krote. In
neat block letters, it said, "CAPTURED BY GNOLS. M."
"You must teach me More," the shaman insisted, not
ready to stop.
Martine shook her head. "You must practice--like a
young cub learning to shoot a bow. Then I will teach you More ." The whole success of her plan hinged on the shaman
carving the message for her. And while he was doing
that, she could plan her escape.
"I will practice," the shaman said with reluctance as he
rolled up the leather. "Remember, you must not die when
our new chieftain questions you." Martine was sure she
heard a note of distaste in the shaman's words when he
said "new chieftain."
"I have no intention of dying, Word-Maker," she assured

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	123

him as the gnoll left the hut
Martine flopped back onto the flea-infested furs as all the
tension drained out of her body. 'q'ymora be praised!" she
sighed. She'd done it. She'd tricked the Word-Maker into
sending her message. It hadn't been easy. Now she could
only hope that Jazrac looked into his crystal ball at the right
time and understood what he saw. Too much still hinged on
luck for her to feel secure.
I have to escape soon or I'll be dead, she thought frankly.


Soldiers of Ice
	125



Eight

Martine was grateful for the wakefulness
Krote's spell provided. It was the
first time her head had felt clear since
the one called Brokka had brought her
down from the glacier. She needed a
dear head if she was going to escape.
Carefully the ranger peered through
a crack in the door curtain and looked out onto the white
clearing beyond. Immediately alongside the entrance was
the thick-furred leg of a guard. The leg was at an odd angle,
and the ranger guessed the gnoll was bored and leaning on
his spear. She slid away from the entrance, trying not to
reveal that she'd been spying. The guard would be a problem,
though the fact that he was probably bored might
help.
The first thing is to get together a survival kit.., anything
that can help me stay alive once I get away, she
thought. Unless I can survive in the snow, there's no point
in even trying to escape. Whatever I can scrape together in
this lodge will have to do.

The Harper fell to searching the birch-bark hut as quietly
as she could. She set aside anything potentially useful,
whenever possible hiding it under the furs of her mattress.
There was precious little, but it was still better than nothing
at all. By the time she was done, her hoard consisted of several
sharp pieces of bone, a long fire-hardened stick that
she could sharpen to a point, a leather pouch stuffed with
tinder, a gourd dipper she could rig up as a firepot, and the
flea-infested but warm furs she was sitting on. Working
carefully so as not to bring the lodge down upon her, the
ranger undid some of the bindings that lashed the frame of
the hut together. The cords were made of strong sinew.
Stretched between her hands, it would make a crude but
effective garrote.
Martine meticulously rolled and tied the items into a
bundle, pleased with her luck. Her finds provided More
than she expected--crude weapons, fire, and shelter. What
remained were food and a better weapon, but as a prisoner,
the woman doubted she'd be able to get her hands on
these.
There was still the matter of the guard outside, and once
she was past him, the rest of the tribe. If she had a knife,
she reasoned, then she could cut her way out the back of
the lodge, but a few experiments showed the wall was too
firmly built for her to cut through with her crude bone
tools. If she was going to get out, it would have to be
through the front door.
With her sharp stick in hand and escape kit within reach,
there was nothing for Martine to do but huddle by the door
and wait. She waited as her fire, lacking More wood, died
away to a ruddy bed of coals that warmed the hut but provided
little light. She waited as the sun traveled across the
sky till it slowly gave way to the mountain shadows that preceded
night. She waited as the magical vigor faded from
her nerves and her stomach started to knot with hunger.


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	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	127



Finally she allowed herself to doze, trusting her senses to
wake her should any opportunity arise.
Perhaps her instincts failed her, or perhaps nothing happened,
for the next thing she knew, the thin light of morning
was seeping through the gap around the curtain. She
heard voices shouting outside. Her legs were knotted from
sitting all night, she discovered when she unwound herself
to peer through the crack.
Across the clearing, the main lodge was the heart of pandemonium.
Gnolls tumbled from the longhouse, shouldering
each other aside in a savage rush to escape from
something inside. Their shouts, barks, and howls quickly
alerted the rest of the village. From every hut, close and
distant, warriors snatched up spears and sprinted toward
the commotion. The guard outside her hut wavered, torn
between the conflicting courses of duty as guard and warrior.
The beast's hesitant steps toward the fray gave Mar-tine
hope, and she quietly tucked her bundle under her arm
in preparation to make a dash for freedom.
Before the guard could reach a decision, a furry figure
hurtled through the great lodge's doorway and crashed
against the backs of the slowest sprinters. Thundering after
it came Vreesar, barely able to squeeze through the narrow
doorway. Its chest was mottled with a ghastly pinkish stain,
livid on its silvery whiteness like a fresh scar.
"Where iz the whelp who burned me?" With long, cold
arms, Vreesar sifted through the terrified gnolls, seizing
those closest to it, only to cast them aside once it was satisfied
they were not its prey. Even at the distance between
the two lodges, Martine could see the fiend's ice-spined
brow tremble and twitch with fury. Abruptly it lunged forward
and caught something with a triumphant cry. "Ahhh!
You would try to kill me? Who told you to do thiz?"
The elemental hoisted aloft a squirming gnoll, not much
older than a kit, judging by its size. Vreesar's chilling claws

encircled the guoll's neck tightly, but the fiend took sadistic
care not to squeeze its prize so tightly that its struggling
ceased.
"You burned me. Now you will freeze. That iz your punish--"
"Lord of the Burnt Fur, it is our custom that a chieftain
does not kill warriors," Krote Word-Maker interrupted
boldly, almost shouting to be heard over the din. Standing
in the dark doorway of the main lodge, the shaman had
only just appeared on the scene. Like one accustomed to
enforcing the burden of tribal memory, the Word-Maker
spoke with the absolute certainty of tradition. His words
silenced the gathered warriors as they expectantly awaited
the outcome.
reesar peered back over its shoulder and stabbed the
shaman with an incensed glare. "what do I care for your
customz?" it crackled.
The gnoll snapped his fangs in surprise that anyone, even
a thing as alien as the elemental, should ask such a question.
'qhat is what makes us the Burnt Fur," he replied, his
tone one of horrified amazement. "Great chieftain, without
the laws, the right ways of doing things, we would be no More than--than the wolves of the forest. The old ways
made you chieftain. If custom is not followed, then you will
not be our chieftain."
"Fear makez me chief," Vreesar snarled evilly. The prisoner's
kicks grew weaker and weaker. W/hat do I care for
thiz weak tribe'z customz? You are my slavez. Thiz pathetic
creature tried to kill me, and az hiz master, I can kill him if I
choose."
Whether from bravery or foolishness, Krote stepped forward
to stand directly in front of the chieftain. "Only if there
is a duel. That is the correct way." He spoke in a soft voice
that the wind barely carried to Martine. "It was an accident.
The kit did not mean to spill his soup on you. Spare his life,


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	The Harpers

and the kit will die willingly for you in battle."
The fiend paused as if considering Krote's words, although
at her distance Martine could not read any expression into
the creature's face. The Word-Maker stepped back a pace,
trying to ease the tension of the scene.
"You are right, Word-Maker. The kit will die--but not
willingly." The elemental clenched its hand More tightly.
The young gnoll convulsed in a single twitching spasm as
its larynx and vertebrae were crushed with a series of
thick, meaty popping sounds that echoed over the silent
clearing. Marfine had heard that sound before, many years
ago in the port city of Westgate, when a mob had hanged a
pair of suspected thieves. Like those hanged men, the
gnoll's jerky struggles lasted longer than its life, the
muscles flailing long after the mind had ceased to control
them.
As if the dead body were no More than a soiled rag, Vreesar
let the corpse drop. "My slavez will not be clumsy," it
hummed. Of all the warriors, females, and kits gathered
before the longhouse, the elemental ignored them all save
one--Krote, who still stood directly facing the creature.
The Word-Maker was rigid with outrage.
Martine could read in the gnoll's flattened ears and
curled lips the warnings of a dog about to fight. So intent
had she been on the confrontation that it came as a surprise
when she suddenly noticed that she was alone. Her guard
had vanished, apparently joining the onlookers who circled the pair. The ranger needed no More prompting. Grabbing
up her bundle, she wriggled through the door and immediately
sprinted for the woods. Having already failed once
because she had been too cautious, she decided now to act
boldly and trust Tymora's wheel. By its spin, she'd either
make it or be captured once More.
"Word-Maker!" The elemental's shrill cry made the
Harper's heart drop, for in that moment, she was certain

	Soldiers of Ice
	129

her flight had been discovered. Panic forced her to increase
her speed.
I've got to reach the woods before them. I'll be safe there.
Martine knew her skills as a ranger would serve her well in
the forest. The forest would become an ally. She knew how
to travel without leaving a clear trail, how to conceal herself
in the shadowed spaces between the trees.
"Word-Maker!" Vreesar shrilled again, its buzz keening
like a furiously spun grindstone. "Do not defy me!"
Even as she sprinted across the last bit of open ground,
Martine breathed a sigh of relief, for behind her the drama
had not played out as she had feared. The onlookers would
still be watching, her guard still away from his post, and her
escape might yet go unnoticed.
There was a jumble of voices behind her, none of which
Martine could hear clearly, and then Vreesar's stinging
drone once More pierced the damon "I do not care for your
advice or your customz, Word-Maker. Get out of my sight
before I kill you, too. Hide in your hut, weak one. Do not
come into thiz hall again!"
The elemental's orders gave Martine very little time. If
Krote went to the hut, he was sure to discover her escape.
Nonetheless, at the very edge of the clearing, the Harper
deliberately veered from her course. The shelter of the
thickets beckoned to her, but the woman resisted plunging
through the unbroken snow. Just ahead was what she
sought, a well-used trail that wound through the woods.
Her plan, quickly formed, was to follow it until she was well
away from the village and then strike out on her own. With
luck, she'd hide her own escape route among the footprints
of her captors.
At the entrance to the pine forest, she paused to scan for
pursuers. Success hinged on secrecy, and if she had been
discovered, the ranger wanted to know now. There were no
gnolls in sight. She didn't wait for the cry of pursuit. Turn
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	The Harpers

.ng onto the path, she plunged into the welcome gloom of
the winter forest. The trail almost instantly twisted out of
sight of the camp, bending past tall pines, birch thickets,
and the bare canes of last summer's berry bushes.
The temperature was frigid, whipped colder by the
strong winds that swirled through the trees. She welcomed
the wind, though, for the fine powder it swept along with it
would quickly drift over the trail, making it harder to distinguish
her tracks from all the others. Without weapons,
food, or proper gear, Martine needed every advantage possible.
Even though the snow was fairly well packed, following
the trail was arduous without skis or snowshoes. It
didn't take long before the cold was forgotten. Sweat
worked into the thick weave of her clothes, where it froze,
making her legs and arms crackle with each step.
A half-mile along the trail, perhaps More, the ranger
heard the first sounds of alarm. A series of baying howls,
like jackals calling together the pack for a hunt, drifted
through the woods. In the silence of the forest, the voices
of the gnolls were unmistakable from the hoots of the owls
or even the occasional call of a lone wolf.
Maybe they won't find the trail right away, Martine
thought as she ran. No, wishful thinking like that gets
people killed, her warrior instincts reminded her. They'll
find my path soon enough. It's time to get off the trail.
With that in mind, Martine stayed on the path until it
skirted a granite upthrust, one of many that marked the
lower slopes of the surrounding mountains. The weathered
stones rose from the undulating snow in a series of spires,
tilted and tumbled to form irregular terraces. Few trees
grew around the base, leaving a windswept area where the
snow had thawed and frozen with each sunny day until the
snow was a hard crust of wind-rippled ice.
It was the perfect place, since she would leave no tracks
on the hard bare ice, so Martine abandoned the trail and

	Soldiers of Ice
	131

clambered over the rock, taking care to avoid the patches
of snow that clung to the cracked stone. Slipping through a
deft in the spires, she came out on the back side of the outcropping.
There she waited, crouched in the lee of the stone, screened from the wind-driven snow, listening to the
brutal squawks of the ravens answered by the titters of the
chickadees. Already her fingers were cold and her feet
numb inside her fur-wrapped boots, but her patience was at
last rewarded when she heard the barking voices of gnolls
nearby. The hunters were on the trail.
She set off into the deep snow, this time heading back
toward the gnoll village. Martine knew she didn't have to
leave the rocks. She knew she didn't have to go back. She
could have turned her footsteps south and made for the
pass to Samek. Still she slogged through the drifts that
coiled around the pine trunks, always taking care to stay in
the deep woods, well away from any trails.
Duty drove her back.
Jazrac's key was still in the village, against the wall in the
main lodge, and she had to go back and get it. It's my duty
as a Harper, she thought. That's what Jazrac or Khelben or
any of the others would tell me. I'll never be a true Harper if
I'm afraid to go back. I'll have failed, and they'll all know it. I
have to go back.
It's all part of a plan, she convinced herself. First I lure
the gnolls out of their village, then I slip behind them, get
the stone, and escape. They'll never find me, because I'll be
behind them. It's a brilliant plan--or is it? Martine didn't
know, couldn't know, until it either succeeded or failed.
Using the sun and a few landmarks she had noted, Mar-tine
backtracked slowly. The voices of the gnolls grew
louder until she was certain they were just off her left flank.
The huntress took shelter in a thicket until they passed and
the voices had faded farther up the trail.
When their barked commands were no More than dim


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	The Harpers

echoes, Martine angled back onto the trail. It was a risk.
There might be a straggler or even a second search party,
but she needed to make better speed. Breaking trail through
the deep snow was exhausting her, and that was a condition
she couldn't risk, especially without food. With exhaustion
would come uncontrollable shivering, then frostbite, collapse,
and a dreamlike death as the cold overcame her. As a
precaution, she found a stout branch. Swung with two
hands it would make a fair club--the crudest of weapons,
but a weapon and therefore useful.
As she trudged along the trail and read the signs of her
pursuers, Martine caught a flash of movement off to her
left. As quickly as she could focus her vision on the spot,
the shape vanished, leaving only the glimpse of a burly,
stoop-shouldered shadow. A gnoll? She couldn't be sure. It
could be a bear, or even a change in shadow as clouds
drifted across the sun. Hefting her cudgel, the ranger
slowly approached the spot where she had sighted it,
silently picking her way from shadow to shadow.
Ten feet and several moments later, a gnoll suddenly
stepped from behind a tree trunk, sword drawn but oblivious
to her presence. With a great roundhouse swing, Mar-tine
smashed her stick against the side of the creature's
head and was rewarded with the metallic twang of wood
cracking against a helm. Her cudgel split with the force of
her blow, and the jolt rang down through her arms. The
gnoll dropped like a felled ox.
Martine sprang astraddle the body, doubting that she'd
killed her foe. With numb hands, she fumbled in the snow
to recover the dropped sword. Stepping clear, she pressed
the blade to the gnoll's throat just as the creature began to
stir.
"What... what happened?" the gnoll groaned, and the
Harper instantly recognized the voice. By some capricious
whim of Lady Tymora, it was the Word-Maker who lay

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	133

sprawled before her. A trickle of blood soaked the fur that
stuck out from beneath his helm, but the wound didn't
appear to be serious.
"Lie on your back, arms up, hands together," Martine
ordered, all the while smiling in grim amusement at this
sudden reversal of their situations. The shaman groggily
complied, and she quickly bound his wrists with some of
the sinew she had salvaged from the hut. "Not one sound,"
she ordered next, sword still held at his throat.
Krote obeyed, clearheaded enough to recognize the peril
of his situation. She began searching him for other weapons.
"Why are you here?" the shaman asked in a whisper.
With the blade held close to his jugular, he took care not to
alarm his captor.
'q'he rock.., the one in my gear. I need it. Is it still in the
lodge?"
His answer was a choked laugh. Before she could demand
what was so funny, her hands patted a hard lump in one of
the shaman's pouches. Quickly she opened it and pulled
out the familiar reddish cinder that was Jazrac's stone. In
the same pouch, she discovered the wizard's bone-handled
knife.
"I knew you wanted it, so I took it," Krote explained, grinning.
"Am I right? Is the rock why you came back? It is the
thing Vreesar seeks, true? The way back to his home?"
"Get up," she ordered abruptly, ignoring his questions.
The discovery of the rock and the knife eliminated the
need for several steps in her plan, but now it left her with a
new problem. She couldn't leave the Word-Maker behind.
Already the shaman had correctly guessed too much. Vree.
sar would almost certainly learn the truth from the gnoll.
Nor could Martine bring herself to kill the shaman now
that she'd caught him. The practical soIution was too coldblooded
for her to stomach.
Like it or not, I've got myself a prisoner, she thought rue
	134
	The Harpers

"Move," the ranger snapped, furious with the situation,
herself, and her ever-present sense of right and wrong.
Once More she doubled back, this time turning in the
direction of Samek. Dragging along Krote as a prisoner
didn't improve her chances of reaching the gnomes safely.
She doubted he'd be of much value as a hostage, and there
was every chance the gnoll would betray her at the first
opportunity.
With the shaman in the lead, the pair followed the gnoll
trail once More, traveling the same direction as she had
before. It was a good plan. Certainly any tracker would be
confused, although there was considerable risk that they
might run into the returning gnolls. Knowing these things
did nothing to lessen her nerves, which were as jittery as a
rabbit's.
They reached the granite outcropping that marked the
place where she had begun to backtrack. Kneeling, Mar-tine
examined the trail she had not taken. It was with some
relief that she noted the tracks of the hunting party continued
on. They missed my backtrack, she thought, pleased
with herself even though she knew they might return at
any time.
Leaving the trail once More, the Harper guided her prisoner
over the ice and rocks, rousing the dark ravens from
their roosts. As before, she used the hard surfaces of granite
and ice to make their trail disappear, although this time
she did not backtrack toward the village but instead headed
south toward the dark saddleback ridge that was the pass
to Samek.
Descending from the rocky ledges, Martine plunged into
the darkest heart of the woods. At sword point, she forced
Krote to plow through drifts that sometimes reached well
beyond his knees. There was no hiding their trail now,
should her pursuers somehow find it. Speed was all-

	Soldiers flce
	135

important, and the race was against cold and exhaustion as
much as those who hunted for her.
The forest here was virgin pine, the kind cut elsewhere
for their long, straight logs. The Harper doubted that any
axe had ever touched most of this wood, for the trees were
incredibly tall and barren except for bursts of needled
boughs near the top. The drab green canopy was laden
with snow, casting the forest floor into a perpetual quasi-twilighL
Their journey wasn't easy. The snow ranged from shallow
to deep as it drifted around the tree trunks. Frequently
brambles conspired to block the way, and steep ravines
stood in their path at several points. Massive deadfalls,
where several trees had fallen in a single storm, created
impassable snarls that could only be bypassed. All around
these falls, uprooted pines leaned perilously on their neighbors.
The woods softly resounded to the creaking trunks
and the dismal hiss of the wind. Ravens spoke of their passage,
the birds' harsh voices ringing far through the mute
woods.
Although Martine was born to the outdoors and knew it
well, this forest was different from others she was familiar
with. The endless tracts of pine were not like the woods of
oak and elm in Sembia and the Dalelands. The forest here
was tall, muffled, and cold.
A feeling of dark watchfulness tingled at the back of Mar-tine's
neck, and she knew it was the spirit of the forest.
Others, townsfolk and farmers, never felt it. That sense was
knowledge only true woodsmen knew by the way the wind
rustled the leaves, the direction the water flowed, or even
how a rabbit left its tracks. This forest's spirit was ungenerous
and unforgiving, barely tolerant of intruders. Martine
didn't feel any warmth in these woods like those of her
homeland.
Exhausted, the Harper finally called a stop as she leaned,


	136
	The Harpers

perspiring in the chill, against the trunk of a tree. Krote
squatted, his jaw slack and tongue hanging as he panted
clouds of frost, almost as spent as she and glad for the rest.

"You do not need to threaten me with the sword. I will
not escape," the shaman finally growled as he brushed
snow from his dirty bindings.

Martine thought she heard an edge of bitter irritation in

his voice. '/-hy not?" she asked doubtfully.

"I cannot go back."

%Vhy not?" It seemed all she could manage to say.

Krote's lips curled in a snarl. "Vreesar banished me. If I
go back, I die."

"I heard him bar you from his lodge. That's not banishment.''
Martine poked her sword at the snowbank, carving
little holes near the gnoll.

"Lodge and tribe are one."

"How come he didn't kill you? He killed Hakk and that
other gnoll."

Krote waggled an ear at her words. "You saw that,
human? I live because even Vreesar fears the gods." Krote
jangled the charm that hung around his neck. "Kill me and
you anger Gorellik, the god of my people."

That was enough talk for Martine. She didn't like the
implied threat in the shaman's words, and so with a rough
shove of her foot, she got the gnoll back on his feet

For the next hour, the woman plodded in silence. It took
all her effort just to keep her attention on the trek, and she
had no desire to talk through her cold-burnt throat. The
path became even harder to follow as dusk fell, the thick
shadows hiding jarring bumps and holes. Her leg muscles
were beyond aching, numb with incessant pain. Sweat
weighted her clothes. Even with the growing cold of nightfall,
she drove them on by moonlight. Moonlight was
almost a euphemism, silver Selune not yet even half full and
barely penetrating through the black-needled boughs. Sil-


	Soldiers of Ice
	137


ver rivers ran through the trees, broken by black rapids of
bare rock and exposed moss.

Martine had no idea how many hours or days it had been
since starting when she finally called their march to a halt.
Krote, exhausted as well, stood still among the dimly lit
trees. "If we stop, we freeze," he warned grimly.

Freezing almost seemed appealing to Martine, but the
gnoll was right. They needed protection from the night
cold.

%Ve'll dig a shelter," she said, pointing to a large snowbank
at the base of a bluff. She began to scoop away handfuls
of snow. Krote did not resist or argue but mutely held
up his bound hands for her to cut them free.

In a short time, the two had tunneled out a chamber--a
tomb fit for an ice queen, Martine felt--barely big enough
for them to lie down in. "This is where we sleep," the
woman explained as she re-bound the gnoll's wrists. She
didn't have enough cord to tie his ankles, so she could only
rely on common sense and trust. "If you run away, you'll
freeze in the cold. If you kill me, you'll freeze here. Understand?"

The Word-Maker nodded. "And if you kill me, human,
you freeze. This night we need each other."

Martine nodded, her sore shoulders screaming at even
that slight turn of the head. With tinder and Jazrac's knife,
Martine kindled a tiny fire in the entrance that barely
warmed them.

Dinner consisted of moss and tender bark, the best the
ranger could gather in the snow. Normally she wouldn't
have bothered, but her captivity had left her starving. Krote
was not that desperate and so only watched her eat.

"Inside," Martine said after the unappetizing repast. As
the gnoll squeezed in through the entrance, Martine gave
one last look skyward. Selune's Tears, a waft of star motes
that hung off the crescent hook of the butterfat moon,


	138
	The Harpers

weaved through the sparse branches of the wind-blasted
pines along the cliff face. The sky was clear and bitter.
Night birds lurking in the icebound woods called to any listening
ear, speaking to each other of their might and wisdom.
Something, a breeze or a small beast, snuffled beyond
the rim of light. The night forest excited her; even here, it
was a world she understood and loved, More so than the
timid towns and villages she had sworn to defend as a
Harper.
A grunt from Krote broke the mood. Drawn back from
her reverie, the Harper numbly crawled inside, taking care
to keep her sword ready. Now came the time when she had
no choice but to trust the shaman. Trust out of necessity
did not come easy.
In the near darkness, the Word-Maker had twisted and
squirmed his rude bed closer to the ice-sheened wall, distancing
himself from Martine's space. Even so, the two,
woman and gnoll, were still pressed tight to each other.
Martine placed her drawn sword along the wall, just in
case. Only exhaustion would grant her any rest tonight.
As she lay in the darkness, the ground chill insinuated its
way through the layers of her leather parka, into its sweat-matted
fur lining, through torn and stained clothes, past
skin, until it reached muscle and bone. Martine could feel it
creep through her body. The cold wanted to kill her, to
stalk down the warmth within her and leech it into the
snow until she was left an ice-filled husk. In the near darkness,
these thoughts obsessed the woman. She had camped
in the woods as much as she had lived indoors, but never
could she remember a night so hostile.
"Gods, I'm freezing," she chattered softly.
"So am I,' her companion answered unexpectedly from
the darkness.
Tentatively the pair inched closer to each other. Neither
wanted to get close to the other, but they needed each

	Soldiers of Ice
	139

other's warmth. Finally their bodies huddled together. The
gnoll stank, and where his fur poked through, it scratched
her, but the contact kept the cold at bay. Finally the Harper
drifted into a dim semblance of sleep.
When the cave walls began to glow autumnal gold, Mar-tine
at first dismissed it as another waking dream. The light
persisted, until she finally realized it was no fantasy. Wriggling
through the narrow entrance, she gratefully drew in a
lungful of clear morning air. Accustomed to the den, she
had forgotten just how thick, rank, and humid the snow
cave was until she was outside of it.
It was incredibly bright outside, the kind of brightness
that comes when all the moisture has been frozen out of the
air, allowing the sun's rays to burn unhampered onto the
ice-sheeted ground, where the sunlight reflects back up
and for a brief moment crosses itself to intensify the glare.
On such mornings, it seems as though the whole world has
risen up from an ocean of light.
Retrieving her sword, the Harper tugged on the WordMaker's
boot until the gnoll finally woke. She had expected
the shaman to wake quick and alert, as matched the feral
reputation of gnolls, but Krote, it seemed, was a terrible
sluggard. Only after a fair amount of growling was she able
to get the gnoll outdoors.
"Why get up? It was warm in the cave," the shaman
grumbled as he suppressed a yawn.
"I want to cross the pass before noon. Once we're in
Samek, we should be able to find a farm or something."
Martine was already stowing her bundle for the journey.
"What will happen to me? The little people are not
friendly." As he spoke, Krote held his wrists up, asking to
be unbound. Catching the suspicious look in her eye, he
added with an angry snarl, 'qqrists hurt. I could have killed
you in the cave."
Martine drew the bone-handled knife and absentmind-


	140
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	141



edly stroked the blade as she considered the gnoll's
request. "Your oath, shaman. I cut you loose and you come
with me. No tricks."
"So you give me to the little people?" he snorted.
''You're my prisoner. The Vani won't hurt you."
''Your oath, human?"
"By the blood of my family."
'qhat is good. I give you my oath, human--but only until
we reach your valley."
"Only if you swear by Gorellik, your god." Martine bit
her lip.
Krote scowled. Martine was getting better at reading the
gnoll's expressions. "Gorellik sees all and knows Krote
gives his word. We will travel in peace, Martine of Sembia.'
"Praise to Mielikki," Martine added, beseeching in her
heart the blessing of the Lady of the Forest. It might mean
everything or it might mean nothing, but Martine instinctively
believed the Word-Maker's oath to be valuable. Now
that she had it, the Harper cut the bonds with some sense
of confidence.
The pair started the day's march without delay. To an untrained eye, it would have seemed as if they were traveling
through More of the same as yesterday--the same gray
pines, the same dazzling whiteness, the same rocks, the
same streams--but to Martine's practiced eye, there were
important differences. Gradually the pines no longer grew
as high and the brooks gurgled with less water, both clear
signs that they had begun the climb up the pass. The snow
was deeper, too. Krote waded on through drifts up to his
waist, drifts whose smooth tops came as high as the smaller
ranger's chest. Woodpecker drills echoed through the
woods while the squawks of the ravens grew less frequent.
Overhead, an eagle circled a nearby meadow, patiently waiting
for a marmot or a field mouse.
By midmorning, Martine's hope was revived. There was

no doubt they would clear the ridge today. At worst, it
would be one, perhaps two More days before they reached
the Vani warren. The prospect of rest and hot food renewed
her flagging energy.
The huntress was waiting, feet stomping impatiently, as
Krote crossed a fallen tree spanning a frozen stream. Just
when the gnoll was halfway across, six small shadows
stepped from the thickets that lined the far bank. Their
spears were ready, their bows drawn. Unarmed and exposed,
Krote froze on the log bridge as his muzzle flared and his
ears stiffened straight back, ready for a fight.
The six small shadows were short and stocky--Vani
gnomes. The grins of their successful ambush played
across their faces.
"Don't hurt him!" Marfine yelled as they sprang onto the
slick log. "He's my prisoner!"


Nine

"Hold! Don't harm him!" rang Vil's
bass voice from the woods.
Martine wavered with uncertain
relief. Am I saved? Can I stop struggling
and sleep? Her exhausted mind was too
befuddled to do More than vaguely
imagine the reality before her. She
fought back the sudden flood of exhaustion that came with
trying to comprehend.
Dumbly the Harper scanned her rescuers, staring at
them like mirages. She thought she identified Jouka
Tunkelo's belligerent scowl, although it was hard for her to
see clearly enough. Ice crusted around her eyes, and her
pupils burned from hours in the brilliant snow. The blurry
faces of the gnomes were little More than thick stockings, black bristling beards, and slitted wooden goggles that shut
out the glare of the snow.
"Four days... I told you, Martine." The thicket rustled and
cracked as Vii stepped through the center of the Vani line.
Seeing her, he stopped abruptly. "By Torm, what happened?"

	Soldiers of !ce
	143

"Avalanche... Vreesar... gnolls.., cold." The jerky
words were clear to her, her memories filling the gaps
between each. The sight of her rescuers drained her of the
instinctive fear that had kept her going for the last several
days. Suddenly, after days of ordeal, the woman was tired,
raw, wet, freezing, thirsty, hungry, and More things than
her numb mind could comprehend. "I'm... alive," she
croaked even as she wavered.
"Don't hurt Krote. I gave my word." As if her will had
kept her standing long enough to say that, the ranger's legs
gave out from under her and consciousness slid away into a
dream.
There was a faint feeling, deep in the core of Martine's
body, that she was flying--perhaps ascending to the planes
of her ancestors, she thought bemusedly. It ended abruptly
in a thump. The landing launched a dull wave of pain that
spread throughout her body, transforming the gray haze
into turbid and unrestful darkness.
It was warm, wet liquor, strong on caraway and heady
alcohol, that revived her. Vilheim Baltson, four days
unshaven, knelt over her, carefully forcing a thimbleful of
spirits through her lips. The curious faces of gnomes clustered
behind him, but Krote was nowhere in sight. She
tried to rise to find the gnoll, but the man's firm hand
pressed her down.
"Drink," he advised, tipping the small cup to her lips.
Martine sputtered and then let the warmth trickle down
her cold-scorched throat. Another thimbleful followed the
first. The alcoholic warmth numbed the pain she felt.
"Where's the Word-Maker?" she whispered.
"The gnoll? He's unharmed. Take my word for it. Don't
worry."
Martine didn't worry. She knew Vil was good for his
word.
"Vreesar's hunting for me." Martine surprised herself,


	144
	The Harers

remembering to warn them about her pursuers.
Vii nodded. "Then we should get going. Drink some More ." He pushed the cup into her trembling fingers and
then turned to the gnomes behind him. "Master Jouka, the
woman cannot ski. Can you build a drag for her? She says
there are More guolls coming."
Martine wanted to correct Vil's error, to tell him that
Vreesar wasn't a gnoll, but the words wouldn't form. Soon
the forest rang with the bite of axes against wood.
Once the drag was built, Vil helped Martine onto the
frame and bundled her in dry blankets, all the time fussing
over her wounds. I must be a sight, Martine decided, judging
from Vil's concern.
As she was settling into her bed, Krote was dragged into
her view. A burly, thick-browed gnome, Ojakangas by
name, pulled the shaman along by a rope that bound his
wrists. The Vani had given Krote a pair of snowshoes, but
other than that, they showed him none of the kindness she
had received.
"Move, dog-man," the guard rumbled, jerking the weary
gnoll onto the trail. The gnome acted without cruelty or
kindness, only a matter-of-fact coldheartedness. The WordMaker
staggered a bit as he followed, but held himself stiff.
His pride was fierce and far from broken.
'Treat him well, Vani,' Martine croaked fiercely as the
gnome and prisoner passed by. "He saved my life."
The gnome started to glare at the human disdainfully,
but the passion in her eyes put him off. Chastised, he
motioned the gnoll forward and the pair passed out of
sight
Shortly after that, Martine felt the drag lurch from the
ground, towed by Vil and a pair of gnomes. Bundled and
lashed in, she could only let herself be jounced along as the
party began the journey home.
At some other time, the trip would have been too rough

	Soldiers of Ice
	145

and uncomfortable to sleep, but now was not such a time.
The rhythmic swish of skis over snow, the chill in her
limbs, and the monotonous parade of green pine branches
overhead lulled the Harper to sleep. She had memories of
waking several times, though each was barely enough to lift
the veil that lay over her consciousness. There was little
notable about these brief moments of lucidity--the rattle of
a woodpecker as it drilled into a pine, the burn of painful
sunlight as they crossed a frozen meadow. There was a
brief moment of interest as they passed a Vani farmstead.
In her present state, Martine would never have even
noticed it had not a pair of their party taken their leave
here. The farm was a miniature warren, hidden in a hillock. Its only outward sign was a small door into the mound, hidden
within a clump of birches. After brief good-byes and a
round of drinks, the trek began once More.
Only a final jolting stop broke her dreamless haze after
that. Groggily she became aware of the barely familiar surroundings
of Vil's cabin--the hewn log walls, the scent of
woodsmoke, and the outline of a tree that arched over the cabin's roof. Bound into the drag, the Harper could only
wait impatiently as Vii undid the lacings. Krote was still
with them, bound but unhurt, and although the gnoll's
pride was certainly wounded, Martine doubted the gnoll
had expected any More.
"Vii, is there someplace he can be kept?" Martine wasn't
sure it was necessary to treat the shaman as a prisoner, but
she also wasn't quite ready to take the chance. Last night in
the snow cave had been a matter of survival; now the situation
was slightly different.
The former paladin scowled as he undid the last lacing,
thinking. "Someplace, yes, but not in my house. The Vani
will have to take him."
Now it was Martine's turn to scowl as she considered the
wisdom in handing her prisoner over to the gnomes. "How


	146
	The Harpers-

do you know he'll be safe?" she asked softly.
'q'hey're not beasts, woman," Vii rumbled. "if he doesn't
provoke them, the Vani won't harm him. You'll have to trust
them on this."
The Harper wasn't quite so sure about the gnomes, but
she knew she was in no condition to be responsible for a
prisoner. "All right, it'll have to do," she said with a nod
before turning to the others. "Master Ojakangas, will your
people take this prisoner and guard him? You can see that I
am in no shape to do so."
The broad gnome nodded. "This was expected," came
his taciturn reply.
"You said I would be treated well, human," Krote hissed,
furious at being turned over to his enemies. Ojakangas
jerked the rope around Krote's wrists, warning him to be
silent.
"I said you wouldn't be harmed. You're still my prisoner,
Word-Maker." The Harper was too fired to argue the point.
Krote would just have to accept whatever happened.
"Thank you, Master Ojakangas. Guard him well."
Prevented from killing their enemy, the gnomes, Jouka in
particular, set to the task of binding Krote with such relish
that Martine worried about their intentions. Still, there
seemed to be no effort to seriously mistreat the prisoner,
and she said nothing More as she watched the gnomes
leave.
Once the Vani were gone, Martine turned and went into
the cabin. Her body throbbed; her fingers and face burned
as the warmth of the cabin penetrated her frost-kissed skin.
Her feet felt leaden and numb, sure signs of encroaching
frostbite. Barely four steps inside the cabin, she collapsed
in front of the fire and ungracefully fumbled at her boots.
When they were both finally off, she thrust her feet as close
to the banked coals as she dared. Heels propped up, she
shed her improvised cape and pawed at the remains of her

	Soldiers Of lee'
	147

parka, peeling away the sweat-stiffened clothes.
'qhank gods we're back!" the ranger said as Vii stomped
through the door.
"Thank Torm indeed," Vil wearily agreed. He selected
finder for the coals and quickly had a small, welcome blaze
coaxed from the embers. When the fire was lit, he sat on
the sooty stone hearth, where he carefully eased off his
boots.
"Heat... I never thought I'd feel it again," Martine
moaned as she lay with icy feet almost in the fire. Tiny curls
of steam began to rise from her damp woolen socks. Already
her soles were starting to itch and burn as the frostbite was
slowly driven out of her toes. Even that pain couldn't keep
her awake, though.
An untold time later, the woman surfaced from oblivion
surrounded by the startling warmth of a thick comforter.
After the comforter, the glimmer of firelight and the gnawing
pain of hunger were the things she was most keenly
aware of.
I'm dreaming, she thought, staring at the scarred rafters
over the bed. It took several minutes to realize she was
once More lying in Vil's bed, buried deep in blankets and a
faded goose-down comforter. Her host sat at his rickety
table whittling curls from a block of wood. "Oh, gods," she
gasped as the dull ache of consciousness moved through
every muscle in her body. "How long have I been sleeping?''
"All night and the better part of a day," the big man said
as he set down his work.
Martine sank back into the featherbed.
"Hungry?"
''Yes!" she blurted. She was famished.
Vil fetched a big bowl of broth and set it carefully in her
lap, then remained hovering over her to see if she needed
some help eating. Although the spoon was unsteady in her


	148
	The Harpers

hand, Martine slowly and deliberately scooped up a few
drops of the broth and greedily slurped it down, determined
not to be fed like a child. The soup was fatty and
over-salted but rich nonetheless with the pervading taste of
smoked venison. Chunks of meat and fat and bits of ash
swirled through the murky liquid, and it all tasted wonderful.
Only later, after she'd bathed and changed, did Martine
finally start to feel human again. The gear she'd stored at
Vil's cabin provided clean clothes, and after a quick inspection
of her ragged parka, she decided the best course was
to burn it. The tears in the leather were impossible to
patch, and she saw black specks moving in the fur trim--fleas,
no doubt. The former paladin rummaged up a coat to
replace hers. It was More than a little large, but serviceable
with some alterations.
With a sheet of foolscap and her writing kit, the Harper
sat at the table. Finally, after so many days, she could compose
a proper letter to Jazrac. So much had happened and
there was so much to explain that the woman didn't know
where to begin--nor did she know just what she should say. The crash.., the elemental.., her capture by the
gnolls... For what was supposed to be a simple job, I certainly
made a hash of it, she thought ruefully.
Martine decided to use discretion.

fazrac;

Your seals worked fine, and I have the keystone. The
riff is closed.
I had a run-in with some gnolls, and I'm sad to
report that Astriphie is dead. If you received any of my
earlier messages, please don't worry, because now I am
safe. I'm in the valley of Samek. There's a woodsman
here who has taken me in. I will be back in Shadowdale

	Soldiers of Ice
	I I

as soon as the passes are clear.
Again, do not worry about me. I'm fine. Looking forward
to seeing you again. Tell Jhaele I miss her ale.

Martine

That should do it, the ranger thought as she gently bk
the ink dry. Taking the bone-handled knife, she set it upi
a corner of the page. She wasn't quite sure how long
leave the letter sitting out--at least a day, she guessed. '
it all right to leave this out on the table?" she asked h
host.
The big man shrugged. "That's fine. We won't be arom
anyway."
"What?"
Vii clapped a hand to his forehead. "Sorry. I forgot. TI
gnomes are celebrating the safe return of the search pm
tonight."
"And they invited us?" Martine asked dubiously. "5
were the cause of all their trouble, after all. Besides
thought they didn't like outsiders." She was still tired, aJ
the thought of several hours of socializing with the gnom
was already giving her the beginnings of a headache.
"I told you they were good neighbors," Vii said, grinnir
"Besides, they like parties. They use whatever excuse th
can to have one."
Martine looked at the rough outdoor gear she was we ing . "I didn't bring clothes for something like thaL"
"Everybody will understand, I'm sure," Vil counter(
"Besides, they brew a very tasty hard cider. You could prc
ably use a few drinks after your ordeal."
That, Martine had to admit, was a point she could not d
pure, and so, feeling bemused by the unexpected invitati
the woman finally consented to go.
Two hours later, Martine found herself in the entran


	150
	The Hzrpers

hall of the warren, the sounds of revelry all about her. The
whiny music of hardrangers, curious fiddles with extra
strings that droned like bagpipes, and a hurdygurdy
echoed from the smooth wooden walls. Gnomes laughed
and giggled as they hurried to the council chamber,
adapted as a dance hall. Their fat round faces seemed festive
enough, but to the Harper, it seemed their merriment
was forced.
The din reached its peak at the doorway to the council
hall, which was already jammed. White-bearded musicians
scraped and bowed from atop a rough table made from several
hogsheads and boards. Bungs hammered into the bar-reis
beneath them flowed freely with strong cider. Courting
couples danced a furious reel across the floor while the
uncommitted lasses giggled and whispered as they watched
the young swains from the shadows of the arches. The
quadricentenarians of the colony sat on the foremost
benches, nodding numbly to the drone of the hardrangers' strings, their liver-spotted fingers rippling to the runs of the
tune. Married men sat clustered around the taps, the air
over their heads thick with pipe smoke. Behind them, in
the higher seats, their squat wives looked out on the
dancers, dreaming of times when they once whirled on the
floor.
Only the martial figures lurking near the back walls
belied the cause of the celebration. Jouka was there, still
stiff and grim, even off duty. Gathered around him were a
few other members of the rescue party, young warriors
who savored the heroic image of their elders. Martine
noted that shy Turi had distanced himself fi.om his brother.
The quiet one sat in a corner, hands fidgeting with the hem
of his robe.
Before she could move any farther into the chamber, the
woman was whisked aside by a cluster of gnome maidens.
The little damsels cooed and fussed around her, the festive

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	151

spirit of the hall giving them the courage to overcome their
innate bashfulness. Martine found herself subjected to a
flurry of questions. Did all human women dress like her?
Did they dance? Did they all carry swords and curse like
farmhands? What were the men like? On and on it went, till
the ranger felt positively dizzy.
The Harper was relieved to see Vil, holding a broad-mouthed
mug in one hand, rising a good two feet above the
throng of smoking ani. Breaking through her inquisitors
to make her way to il's side, Martine ignored the glares of
the Vani men as she intruded into their clique.
"Ah, there you are, Martine," the man cheerfully commented.
"Drink?"
"Absolutely," Martine said with relief. "If I have to answer
any More questions, I won't have any secrets left."
il held up his mug and grinned. "I saw you trapped over
there."
The old men around them scowled at the Harper, though
they said nothing since she wasn't used to their ways.
Martine noticed their reactions. After a quick sip, she
raised her mug. "You Vani make a fine cider," she said.
Fhis is the best I've had anywhere." The words weren't far
from the truth, for the cider was crisply sweet, yet just sour
enough not to linger thickly in her mouth. Already she
could feel the strong kick it carried.
The gnomes near her nodded in polite acknowledgment.
Apparently placated by her compliment, they returned to
the serious business of socializing. Martine listened in
silence for several minutes, then gradually began to ask
brief questions of her own. Seeing that she had gained
acceptance among the circle of elders, Vil went out to circulate
among the feasters.
Martine's conversation was limited by the growing intensity
of the fiddlers' tunes. The musicians segned easily from
waltzes to polkas, with a liberal sprinkling of schottisches,


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The Harpers

hornpipes, reels, and furious jigs. With each round, the
pace quickened, till finally the floorboards trembled with
the thundering capers of the dancers. Mart/ne gave up trying
to shout over the din and savored her cider, letting the
warmth of the drink blank out the pains, concerns, and tensions
of the day. Spotting Vil nursing his tankard, the
Harper topped off her own mug from the free-flowing tap
and rejoined him, reeling only slightly as she strode across
the floon
"Want to dance?" she asked.
"What?" Vil's beard bounced as his jaw dropped in surprise.
"I said, do you want to dance?" Martine repeated, More
loudly this time.
"Me?"
"Of course you! The others are a little short, even for
me." Feeling the exuberance of the drink, the Harper
grinned and tugged the man to his feet.
m not much of a dancer, Vd protested lamely.
"Oh, come on.D on't be a spodsport.' I don't care if you're
one of those one-leggedfachans that haunt the forest. Drink
up," she ordered as she tossed back the last of her cider.
The fiddlers launched into a reel.
"I'll never keep up with this!"
She hauled him onto the floor, ignoring his pleas. The
gnome dancers cheerfully opened a space for the giant
couple. "Just watch them."
Before he could begin to absorb her advice, she seized
his hands and swirled them into the high-stepping reel.
Gamely Vii struggled to keep pace, his face an agony of
concentration as he watched her feet and tried to match the
whirling steps. As a consequence, he was always at least a
half a step late, and forever doing higgledy steps to regain
the rhythm.
They spun and crashed into the small couples around

Soldiers of lee
	153

them like a tavern skittle caroming from pin to pin.
Martine's obvious enjoyment and Vil's flustered apologies
only added to the entertainment of the other dancers.
The song ended, but for Martine, it had been too long
since she had released herself to such simple pleasures.
The fiddlers, perhaps sensing her mood, launched into a
rousing polka that swept the pair around the dance floor
once again. Despite himself, Vil was managing to gain
enough confidence in his simple steps to look up from her
feet and smile occasionally, although his head still counted
out the musicians' beat
With heels flashing, they circled the floor dizzily, Mar-tine
leading Vil through the capering steps. With its undersize
furnishings and people to match, the warren became a
child's dollhouse. They whirled past wizened toadstools
posing as solemn ancients, past dames dressed like dried
pippin dolls, past warriors lining the walls like martial pul>
pets, past courting lovers who teased each other like children.
For an instant, all Martine's cares evaporated with the
soaring music. The fiddle bows flew faster as she shed her
mantle of formal reserve.
When the polka came to a sudden halt, the Harper collapsed,
panting, against her partner. His chest rose and
fell strongly, slightly winded by their turns. She let herself
savor the sharp tang of his sweat and feel the rough
muscles of his chest.
Atop his barrel, the lead fiddler uncricked his neck, then
threw his long white beard over one shoulder and placed
the fiddle in the crook of his arm. While the other fiddlers
rested, the old gnome coaxed the first aching chords of a
mournful air from his instrument. Gradually minuscule
dancers--warrior husbands and their wives, hopeful lovers,
and aping children--crowded into the center of the hall.
Martine held Vil on the floor as the dance began, her head
still pressed close against him. Gently the dancers swayed


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	The Harpers

about the floor, the two humans at the center like a living
maypole at a spring festival. Unconsciously, Vil's arms
closed about her.
The fiddler's tune seemed to draw out the community's
concerns, the droning strings of the hardranger ominously
rumbling of some future fate. The drinkers on the benches
fell silent as the musician's bow sang with the voice of the
winter wind and the moonless night.
The music lingered in the air even after the last note
died, and everyone held his breath, savoring the memory
of the mournful tune. Finally the other dancers slowly
stopped, but still no one spoke for fear of breaking the
spell. Vil and Martine remained in their embrace, unaware
how closely they held each other. Only slowly did the life
return to the party. Then, with clear reluctance, Martine
slid out of Vil's clasp and allowed herself to be led off the
floon
"Dancing certainly brings up a thirst." Vil's words were strained as he picked a path to the hogsheads.
"The little fiddler was very good," Martine said with
equal awkwardness while trying to straighten out her
rumpled clothes.
'q'hat's Reko, their bard," the former paladin explained. "At three hundred and forty seven, he's had a lot of time to
practice."
For a moment, Martine was taken aback, until she
remembered that most gnomes lived well past three centuries
or even More. The thought suddenly made her wonder
how old the warren was. How long had the Vani laid
claim to this valley?
Her questions were never asked, for at that moment, a pudgy youth stormed into the hall. In his rush, the gnome
charged through the throng like a small boulder, startling
one benchful of drinkers so that they almost spilled to the
floor. The chatter in the hall suddenly ceased, though no

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	155

one moved, fearing what they might hear.
"Father's dead? the gnomish youth blurted out, his eyes
wide and voice breaking with tears. "Our farm was attacked
by the gnolls. Hudni... Father... everybody's dead?


Soldiers of Ice
	157



Ten

The revelers were struck silent. The
clogging stomp of the dancers lurched
to a halt, and the fading drones of the
fiddle strings echoed down the wooden
halls. Gossips hushed their prattle.
Mugs ceased to clink. Ancients strained
half-deaf ears to hear the next word,
uncertain of what had already been said.
"Brother Buff, what has happened?" Elder Sumalo asked
softly in his thin, wheezy voice. The old priest forced his
way through the stunned gnomes to reach the trembling
youth. Sumalo kept his voice calm and soothing to prevent
the boy's terror fi.om spreading panic among the revelers.
"It was the gnolls,' Buff blurted, his fat cheeks quivering
as he gasped for self-control. "Father and I were just finishing
the chores--we were going to come to the dance--and
I went inside, and then Father shouted that there were
gnolls coming, and then he screamed, and then they broke
down the front door, and I... I...' His words floundered
as the young gnome's voice broke, caught up in tears that

trickled into his thin beard.
Sumalo gripped the youth's shoulders, giving comfort in
strength. "And?"
"I got away through the escape hole.., but Father
didn't."
By this time, the menfolk of the Vani had clustered close
to hear the tale. Those of warrior age pressed closest and
listened most intently. Martine, pressed back by the swarming
small warriors, spotted Jouka, Turi, and Ojakangas in
the forefront.
Jouka turned the youth away from Sumalo to face him.
"Buri, how many of the dog-men were there?" Though
Jouka spoke softly, there was no softness in his voice. His
eyes were decisive and bright.
"I don't know."
"Think. Think carefully. We must know their numbers.
Think of the warren here! How many were there?"
'Wen... maybe More. I'm not sure! There was a great
white creature with them, though. It broke down the door."
The youth's rotund body quivered as if it were going to
melt in Jouka's hands.
"Vreesar!" Martine choked back the name, but the warriors
heard it anyway.
"Enough, Jouka,' Sumalo said firmly, rescuing the boy
fi.om the woodsman's grasp. "Buri, you've had a hard time.
Stay here with your cousins and sleep. Kara... Heikko...
will you take the boy in?" The priest steered the youth
toward a golden-bearded warrior and his stout wife. Their
faces lined with concern, the couple wrapped their arms
about the youth and led him away.
Satisfied the young gnome was cared for, Sumalo hurriedly
turned to the Harper, his stocky body stiff with displeasure.
'afou know something of this?"
Martine nodded.
"Jouka, Tuff... bring the others. We must have a council


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	The Ha?-ers

Soldiers of Ice
	159



now. Mistress Martine, you will attend." Elder Sumalo's
decision was quick and precise, and nobody, not even Mar-tine,
thought to question his authority as the white-bearded
old priest began to march to the council chamber. "Reko,
play something soothing," he advised the bard in passing.
The old fiddler nodded and set his bow to the strings. As
Martine left Vii in the dance hall, she heard the strains of a
gentle lullaby swell behind her.
The raucous dissonance of debate began even before the
knot of gnomes who preceded Martine had clambered onto
the tiers in the council hall. Worming through the spectators
jammed around the door, the human woman reached
the edge of the tiers at the council floor. All eyes were on
her, curious and wary, but the debaters never paused to
acknowledge her presence.
Over the buzz of excited voices, Sumalo finally made his
voice heard, pounding the floorboards with the speaker's
rod.
"Speak in the common tongue!" the priest bellowed
hoarsely to a knot of elders who spoke in a dialect so
ancient Martine could barely understand it. 'q'he outsider
must understand our words!" A grumbled sigh ran through
the Vani, but they complied with his command.
Elder Sumalo continued quickly before the pandemonium
could begin anew. 'q'he question before the council is
what to do now about the gnolls outside. This human, Mistress
Martine, has recently been their prisoner. I ask her
now to tell us what she saw."
His iron charms jingled as the priest waddled forward to
present Martine with the speaker's rod. Respectful of their
traditions, she kissed the smooth wood before beginning
her tale.
The hall was packed tight with gnomes, with the white-beards
in the lowest tiers, while the farmers and woodsmen
filled the upper benches. Martine faced them, acutely

nervous to be speaking before them.
Where do I begin? she thought, her mind reeling. Should I tell them about the rift? It was a Harper mission, and after
all, Harpers and their jobs were supposed to be secret. It
was a time-honored principle that the less said, the better.
The ranger decided to avoid any mention of the details of
her assignment. The recounting began with the events of
her capture. Martine's audience craned forward, engrossed
in the details. The Harper did her best to assess the number
and skill of the gnolls. She stressed the actions of the
Word-Maker, pointing out that Krote's absence deprived
the tribe of their medicine man.
Heads waggled when she reminded them of the prisoner.
Voices thick with accents murmured darkly, but none rose
to interrupt her. Sumalo listened impassively, his head nodding,
while Jouka fidgeted and fingered his sword nervously.
Turf, his ear cocked to catch every word, leaned
forward attentively on his wooden bench.
The calm broke into storm when she described the
arrival of Vreesar. Leaping to his feet, Jouka Tunkelo seized
on her revelation. "A fiend--a thing of the elements?
Where did this come fi.om, human? What have you failed to
tell us?" A chorus of murmuring, even from the white-bearded
front tiers, supported his question.
Martine was on the spot. In situations like this, the
ranger knew she had little skill to concoct a convincing lie.
Holding the speaker's rod aloft in a vain attempt to maintain
silence, she explained, "He came fi.om a rift in the glacier."
"A rift? What does this mean?" queried a gap-toothed
ancient in the front row.
Martine could feel the veil of secrecy slipping fi.om her
grasp. "It's a hole between the worlds--between this word
and the realm of ice.'
The explanation triggered debate as to whether the council
had heard her correctly. The discussions flew in heated


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	The Harers

whispers as the gnomes huddled in small knots, each trying
to have his say without raising his voice too loud. Only
Sumalo in the center chair nodded with understanding.
'
	"Realm of ice? How do you know this?" Jouka demanded.
Martine hoped a little More of the truth would satisfy the
gnomes' curiosity. "Because that's what I was told. I was
sent to close it."
"Sent?" The word rolled through her audience as they
seized on its import.
"Mistress Martine, you said you were sent. Who sent
you?" Now even Sumalo, quiet up to now, joined the questioning.
The priest's leathery old face was wrinkled with
concern.
Martine resigned herself to tell the whole truth. "The
Harpers sent me. I'm a Harper."
In the few previous times when she had revealed her
affiliation, people had reacted in one of two ways. The most
common was one of subdued awe. Harpers were the stuff
of legends, most of which painted the agents as mysterious
and powerful. Martine suspected the bards of the Harpers,
of which there were quite a few, spread such stories intentionally,
since a good reputation was an effective tool. The
other reaction, not as common, was fear--the fear of the villain.
Those same tales made dear the fate of Harper foes.
The gnomes were neither awed nor afraid. Instead, the
room became completely silent. The old gnomes cocked
their heads quizzically, wondering if they had missed something
important. Some of the younger gnomes nodded their
heads dumbly in a pretense of worldliness.
"And what are Harpers, Mistress Martine?' Sumalo
asked for the benefit of the entire council.
Now it was Martine's turn to be dumbfounded. It had
never occurred to her that the Vani didn't know about the
Harpers. In her world, everybody had at least some inkling
of the Harpers and their code. A peasant might have a false

	Soldiers of lee
	161

impression, but at least he had heard of them. These
gnomes hadn't a clue.
Martine wondered how to explain without making it
sound sinister or arrogant. She had little time to ponder her
answer. Taking a deep breath, she gave it her best try.
"We--I mean, the Harpers--have been around for several
hundred years--"
"I have been around for several hundred years, and you
do not look like you've been here as long as I," interrupted
one of the oldest of the group before her. Those around
him chortled and snickered while the old gnome thumped
his cane at his own joke.
Martine flushed. "I mean the group has been around that
long, not me. We try to keep peace."
"You were sent here to rule us?" big-nosed Ojakangas
asked, his voice filled with confusion.
"No... no, that's not it at all." The ranger threw up her
hands as a gesture of her good intentions.
Wou were sent to deal with the gnolls? Is that why you've
come?" Jouka asked before she could continue.
"No, you misunderstand," Martine said hurriedly as she
turned to face Jouka. "As I explained, I was sent here to
close the rift. I didn't even know about the gnolls. The
gnolls aren't a threat to peace in the land."
Once More Jouka stood from his seat, his face grim
behind his black beard. 'Whe gnolls attack us. Is that not a
threat to peace?"
"Your peace, yes, hut...' The ranger fidgeted, feeling
miserably awkward before the council.
"Because your lands are not threatened, you mean. human," Jouka said sarcastically.
Oh, gods, this isn't going right, Martine moaned inwardly.
Valiantly she tried once again to explain.
"It's not your lands or my lands. It's just that they're, well,
gnolls. Even if they were attacking the Dalelands, it wouldn'l


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	The Harpers


be a Harper concern. People have to stand on their own.
Harpers can't do everything for everyone. There aren't that
many of us." Mm'tine felt exposed in the center of the floor,
painfully conscious of her hands as she twisted the speaker's
rod. There was a reason she had chosen to be a ranger,
born to the woods, and not an outgoing bard like many
other Harpers.

Jouka wouldn't relent. "So now that you have stirred up
the gnolls, Harper, it's not your problem," he accused, his
face almost sliding into a sneer. "We did not ask you come
here, Harper. The Vani do not want to be pawns in your
intrigues. We choose to live here to be far from big folk like
you."

A chorus of approval ran through the chamber. Jouka's
words had tapped a vein of outrage that ran through the
younger Vani. Seizing the moment, he turned to face his fellows.

'qhe Harper says it is our problem! Very well, then I say
we must fight the gnolls. We must drive them out of our valley!''
the woodsman insisted. His eager audience, their
unwrinkled faces gleaming with eagerness to prove themselves
in battle, began to clap rhythmically in agreement.

The primitive swell threatened to overwhelm any possible
debate. Finally Sumalo was forced to clamber from his
high seat and reclaim the speaker's rod from Martine.

"Silence! Silence, everyone!" Sumalo banged his ash rod
on the wooden floor, his iron charms bouncing with each
beat. Thump-jingle, thump-jingle. The beat repeated several
times until the unruly younger gnomes in the upper tiers
finally calmed down. "I hold the speaker's wand, and we are
still in the council chamber," the priest chastised, his
wrinkled face soured by the outburst.

"Vani, think of your wives, children, loved ones!" Sumalo
boomed, his voice strong now. Rod in hand, he stalked a
circuit round the council floor, his eyes fixed on the


Soldiers of Ice 163


raucous upper tier. "War is not an easy thing. It is not like
hunting a deer or even fighting a badger when it breaks
into the warren. There are many gnolls, and they, too, are
ready to fight. They will not run away simply because we
kill a few."

The elder paused, stroking his white beard while scanning
the council chamber. He set the speaker's rod before
him like a staff, forestalling any interruptions. Finally he
began again. "Our warren is strong and the winter is our
friend. We should not give up our best strength. We can
wait here. These dog-men will be weak and frozen before
the spring comes. Let them freeze while we stay warm."
Older voices echoed their approval.

The logic was sound, Martine knew. The warren was the
Vani's best asset, an underground fortress the gnolls would
find hard to break. Studying the faces of the council, however,
it didn't look as if the priest's argument was carrying.
Jouka's call for glory and action was irresistible to many.
Compared to it, Sumalo's counsel of patience and cunning
seemed weak and cowardly.

The debate continued, and Martine resisted every urge
to leap forward with her advice even when the most outlandish
claims were made. It was clear to her that the Vani
were not a warrior people. Many of them, particularly the
younger ones, had no concept of what a full-scale war
against the gnolls would be like. Comparing the two camps,
Vani and Burnt Fur, the ranger could tell the gnomes were
outmatched in savagery, let alone sheer numbers. However,
having already been dismissed by Jouka's faction,
Martine knew her words would carry little weight.

At last the speaker's rod passed to Jouka. With its authority
in his hands, the council fell silent, waiting to hear what
he would say. Seated, with his head bowed, the young warrior
spoke in a calm, slightly nasal voice. He framed his
words with surprising coolness, not delivering the tirade


	164
	The Harers

Martine expected. "Elder Sumalo, you have spoken with
the conviction of your age. You have said such a war would
be dangerous, and I am sure it will be. But it is More dangerous
to do nothing. The dog-men have killed one of our
people. It is our right to seek revenge. I say no More
debate. It is time to vote."
Once again the council chamber echoed to the clapping
of Jouka's faction. This time, though, Jouka held the rod
and would not relinquish it, so there was no silencing the
outburst.
At last the old gnome reluctantly nodded, stung by the
chorus of support Jouka received from the back of the hall.
"Show the human out," he instructed Turi. Slowly and
stiffly, Elder Sumalo returned to his seal
"As you wish, elder," the rotund gnome replied as he
slipped off the bench with a downcast look. "Bad business,
this is," he mumbled while hiking up his robes and heading
for the door.
Martine was almost relieved to be escorted out of the
chamber, feeling as helpless as she did during the debate.
She didn't need to stay to know how the vote would turn
out. Jouka's supporters were fired with the passion of war.
Their voices would overwhelm the wiser arguments of
those who knew better.
In the hall where the dance had been held, Martine
found Vii at the center of a swarm of gnome children, still
here while their mothers waited for the menfolk to end
their business. With strong hands, the former paladin playfully
scooped up a young gnome and hoisted him to the
ceiling, an immense height for one so small. The child's
squeals of delight momentarily dispelled the pall of fear
that hung over the hall as others clamored for a turn.
Besieged, il greeted Martine's return with a grin of relief.
"How about a hand with these children, Martine? Make
yourself useful."

	Soldiers of Ice
	165

"I've been trying to, blast it!" the ranger blurted in frustration.
"But it looks like your friend Jouka--"
"Quiet!" the man warned softly as he hoisted another
squealing child high overhead. "Not here."
Looking about, Martine realized how frightened the
gnome women looked. She had forgotten that they were
wives and mothers, not warriors like her. Suddenly she felt
like a mercenary who had been so long at war that she had
forgotten the ways of a normal home.
Feeling as self-conscious as she had felt before the council,
the huntress found a gnome-sized stool and perched
upon it awkwardly. "How about a story, children?" A few
came closer, but most hovered back, shy of this newcomer.
Martine motioned for the women to bring their children
closer.
She had just reached the point in her story where the
heroine, not altogether unlike Martine, was facing off
against the captain of a pirate ship when a flurry at the
council doors heralded the end of the meeting. The women
gathered their children against their starched skirts and
waited breathlessly to hear the council's decision.
The council filed out of the chamber in solemn order.
Elder Sumalo was first, followed by the older members of
the assembly. After them came the younger gnomes. Mar-tine
noticed very little mingling between the cautious
whitebeards and the quick-tempered younger members of
the council.
Reko's fiddle music stopped, and the few remaining
dancers cleared the floor as the priest entered the hall.
Sumalo's face was set like stone; his color was pale, and his
shoulders sagged. Finally he stood in the center of the hall
and motioned the crowd to silence.
Thump, thump, thump. The priest banged his iron
speaker's rod for attention. The pounding was hardly necessary,
but it punctuated the solemnity of the moment.


	166
	The Harers


Soldiers of Ice
	167


"Brother Vani, as leader of your council and voice of the
Great Crafter, hear the decision of the council. By the laws
of the last high king, there will be war."

A collective gasp escaped from the throats of the women
in the room. Mothers clung tightly to their children. A few
crooned lullabies to soothe their infants, who sensed something
was wrong in spite of their tender years. Wives
sought out their husbands, and when they met, they spoke
not a word. The younger women paled as they thought of
their swains. Martine could see fear for their loved ones in
their eyes. Old Reko brushed back his beard and struck up
a mournful tune.

Martine leaned over and whispered to Vii, "I think I'd
best see Krote." She didn't feel welcome enough to intrude
on the ani at the moment. The families needed time
together, and she would only be in the way. She was aware,
too, of neglecting the Word-Maker ever since her arrival.
Against all logic, she felt she owed a good deal to Krote.

"Good idea," Vii agreed. "I'll go with you." The pair rose
and, after quickly stopping to bow to Sumalo, took their
leave.

Outside the council room, the halls were chilly, since all
the warren's heat was kept sealed in closed chambers.

Why should I care about a gnoll? Martine asked herself
as they made their way down a long hallway. She hadn't
told Vii her concern about leaving Krote in the care of the
Vani. A few of the young gnomes on the council had looked
hot-tempered enough to decide on a lynching. With passions
running high in the warren, it wouldn't take much to
sway other gnomes into a dangerous mob.

If that happens, she thought, I don't know what I could
do to stop it. All the same, I have to be there.

Vii guided her through passages, down staircases, and
around turns, gradually leading her into the colder regions
of the warren. In these distant corners were the animal


pens, root cellars, and storerooms, tucked far away from
the brightly lit halls of the central warren.

At last they reached the sties. The tunnels here were old
and unplanked, with ceilings of dirt supported by thick
beams. The air had the stagnant smell of a stable, though a
chill breeze provided some ventilation. The hallway echoed
with the clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of a
goat. A single magical taper, jammed into the earthen wall,
gleamed steadily. The pens and their occupants cast unnaturally
stark shadows, which fell away in a circle from the
single pool of light.

"Word-Maker?" Martine called.

A guttural snarl came from the darkness. Removing the
wooden taper, the Harper illuminated a small pen of bare
earth covered with straw. Thick wooden planks made the
bars of the cage, dividing her view into vertical slats of
darkness.

'ord-Maker?" she called again.

"I am here, woman." Martine heard a rustle in the darkness
in the depths of the cage, and then a black shape
crawled forward into the thin orange light of the magical
taper. Krote emerged from the gloom, stooped nearly
double since the ceiling was too low for him to stand. The
gnoll flashed his long canines upon seeing the Harper, but
Martine couldn't guess if this was a show of rage or relief.

'You promised me safety, human," the shaman snarled.
He was bare-chested, his crossed belts and arm wrappings
gone. The gnomes had taken his charms, necklaces, and all
the signs of his god to prevent the shaman from calling
upon Gorellik. The only symbols of the shaman's office that

remained were the thick-scarred tatoos around his eye.
'fou're alive."

'q'his is an animal pen!"

"Word-Maker, I didn't promise you comfort. I don't
remember you worrying about me back in your village."


	I 68
	The Harpers

Krote settled into a squat. "I healed you and saved you from Hakk's hunger."
Martine jabbed the light stick into the ground. "By marrying
me to him!"
Her outburst caused Vii to perk up his head. Until now,
he'd been listening with only mild interest, unconcerned
with the complaints of a gnoll. "Married?" he asked in the
trade tongue..
"I did this so Elk-Slayer would not kill the female."
Martine couldn't see the grin on Vil's face, but she
clearly heard him speak. "By Torm, Madam Elk-Slayer--ooo
.fl'
A quick elbow to his ribs put an end to his playful mood.
'qhat will be enough from you!" she cautioned.
%Vhy you come here?" Krote asked.
'To close the rift. You know that," the Harper answered
as she shifted her weight and tried to guess what the shaman's
point was.
Krote shook his mangy head. "No, human. Why you stay
here? You guarding me?"
"I came to see i/you were all right. I owe you that much."
"Owe me? Why?"
It was obvious to Martine. "Because you saved my--"
"I know what I did," the shaman growled in perplexity.
"How do you owe?"
"Kindness for kindness," Martine answered, equally perplexed
that the shaman didn't understand this simple concept.
'you--"
Further explanation was cut off by a clamor that echoed
down the hall. "I'll go see what's going on," Vil volunteered.
As Martine laid a hand on his arm, the former paladin
added, "Don't worry. I'll try talk them out of anything rash,
if that's what they're up to." He hurried down the hall,
stooping under the low beams as he went.
"What is happening, human? Have the little ones come

	Soldiers of Ice
	169

"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.'


	170
	The Harpers

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
	171

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."


	172
	The Harers


"]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


	174
	The Harpers

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.

	Soldiers of lee
	175

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 Mar-tine,
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


	176
	The Harpers

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?"

	Soldiers of !ce
	177

Martine tried to swallow, then offered meekly, "I closed
the rift and I've got your keystone."
"Well, that's good to hear, though I already knew about
the rift. Both Elminster and I detected the change in the
balance of things up here. What I want to know is the rest."
Jazrac stared at her, waiting for her answer.
Martine suddenly remembered a prayer to Lady Tymora
she'd learned when she was young. Unfortunately, the
memory had come too late for her to use it.
"Astriphie died on the glacier," Martine murmured. Her
voice cracked as she thought of the hippogriff lying broken
and gutted on the ice.
"Details, Martine, always details. Now, how did the beast
die?"
Oh, gods, what do I tell him? That I pushed Astriphie too
close to the geyser? Or should I leave that part out?
"Astriphie got caught in a windstorm at the rift and was
blown out of the sky. The hippogriff died when we landed. I
thought it was important to get as close to the rift as possible
in order to get done quickly." Martine found herself
wringing her hands, feeling like an apprentice reciting her
lessons.
"Hmmm" was Jazrac's only comment. "Then what happened?''
The woman avoided the wizard's unwavering gaze, looking
instead at the wood grain in the bare walls. "Then I
closed the rift, like you showed me. And then something
caught me." Martine hurried through the last part, vainly
hoping Vii would overlook iix
"Something?" the senior Harper asked pointedly.
"It was a thing of ice and cold. It called itself Vreesar,"
Martine explained. 'q'here was another creature with it. A
mephit, I think. I killed it."
"Hmmm." This time the pause was longer and More profound.
"Some type of elemental, no doubt," the wizard mur-


	178
	The Harpers

mured to himself. "And did you kill this creature as well or
send it back where it came fi.om as you were instructed?"
"I couldn't end it back, Jazrac. The rift was already
closed." Feeling frustrated at the impossibility of the question
and the need to defend her actions, the woman carefully
undid the top strings of her blouse and pulled it open
to reveal her shoulder. Livid unhealed scars were etched
lightninglike across her skin. 'q'hat's what the little one did
to me. I'd crashed, I was half frozen, and I had broken a
couple of ribs. I couldn't fight it. It's only by the luck of
Tymora that I'm still alive. At least I dosed your rift for you.
fiad," she added as she closed her blouse and furiously dug
through her pouch, "I brought back your damned stone!
Isn't that enough?" Biting back her words so she didn't
completely lose her temper, she slapped the stone onto a
bare patch of the bed.
Jazrac shook his head. "I'm sorry, Martine," he offered,
though he didn't sound particularly sorry. "I'm sorry, my
dear, if this is unpleasant for you, but if you want to be a
true Harper, then you must realize that the bare minimum
is not enough. This creature--Vreesar, was it?--should
have been dealt with. You should have called for help."
"I didn't have the chance," she protested. "I was captured
by the gnolls." In her nervous state, she started to pace the
small room like a caged cat.
'`you were able to get me a message, young woman," the
wizard reminded her. "You could have added one word:
'Help.'"
"'Captured by gnolls' wasn't clear enough? It was all I
could think of at the time."
Jazrac grabbed her by the arm as she paced by. "You're
supposed to be a Harper. I can't go running every time you
have a little problem. You're supposed to be able to take
care of yourself."
''You just said I should have called for help." The wizard's

	Soldiers of ice
	179

inconsistencies were maddening.
'q'o deal with this Vreesar, not the gnolls. You did escape,
after all. So what happened? And please remember the
details."
"I got away from Vreesar, but I was hurt and freezing.
When I came across the gnolls, I decided the best thing to
do was surrender." She found herself twisting her fingers
again.
"Wise choice."
"I managed to convince them not to kill me," the woman
continued, though she decided to leave out the business of
her marriage.
Jazrac twiddled his beard. "So you tricked one into writing
that message .... "
"I'heir shaman--Krote Word-Maker. He's my prisoner
now."
"A gnoll shaman prisoner.., very interesting." The wizard
tapped the side of his sharp nose thoughtfully. "So how
did you escape?"
Martine felt her shoulders tense. The creature--Vreesar--came
off the glacier and kind of took over the tribe." "Kind off.."
Martine took a deep breath. "He killed the chief and took
his place. It's a gnoll law. But then he wanted me to reopen
the gate for him. I knew I couldn't, so I escaped as soon as I
could."
The wizard scowled so that his fine goatee waggled
sharply at her. "So now he leads these gnolls? I assumed
you used good judgment and could recognize true dangers
fi.om inconvenience," he said with cutting coolness. 'qhis is
bad. Your second letter didn't say a thing about the elemental,
did it?"
Martine turned away. "No, it didn't," she admitted.
'hy not, Martine?"
Now was the painful part, she knew. "I was afraid to," she


	I 80
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	181



whispered as she turned back to face him. "I really wanted
to do well, for everything to work out. I didn't want you to
think anything had gone wrong. Besides, it's only one creature,
and he can't get back because you've got the keystone."
"It's never that simple, Martine,' Jazrac snapped. "We
can't leave things like this."
"Why not? Aren't you the one who always told me that
the Harpers can't get involved in everything?" The ranger
flipped her black bangs from her eyes. "This is just the sort
of situation you used to tell me about. Vreesar doesn't
threaten the safety of the Dales, or even the Heartlands. It's
a local problem, and we don't get involved in local problems-at
least that's what you used to tell me."
Jazrac stood up tall with his arms crossed so that he ow-ered
over her. "It's not a local matter anymore, Martine.
You don't understand," he said flatly. "You're involved,
which means the Harpers are involved. We didn't let this
Vreesar into our world, but because of you, the creature's a
threat to the safety of everyone who lives here. These
gnomes, for example. True, you closed the riff, but what
good is that if the results still destroy everyone in the
vicinity?"
"Not much, I guess," the ranger answered sheepishly.
"you shouldn't have tried to hide things." Jazrac's chest
rolled with a sigh. "Simply put, this has jeopardized your
career. Yes, you've handled the mission, but not well. Not
only that, I vouched for you before the others, and now
you're making me look like a fool." He thrust a long finger
in her direction irritably. "Now we have no choice. We've
got to straighten out this mess and, gods forbid, hope there
isn't any More trouble."
Feeling miserable and humiliated, Martine sank onto the
bedding in the middle of the floor. 'Where is--more trouble,
I mean," she moaned, holding her face in her hands. "The

gnolls have attacked, and now the Vani are going to war."
"Wonderful!" Jazrac exclaimed, his voice filled with sarcasm.
"Well, then, my dear, we'd better get busy." Assuming
there was no More to discuss, the wizard began sorting
through his unpacked possessions. "I'd like to talk with this
shaman. Can that be arranged?"
Without looking up, Martine nodded numbly. "Some-
one--Vil or Turi maybe--can show you the way."
"Vil, is iff" Jazrac murmured.
"He's not my lover, if that's what you're thinking," Mar-tine
said indignantly, her back stiffening. "Vil saved my life
and has let me stay with him since."
"Indeed."
"Jazrac, don't be such a prig." The woman was too angry
to be polite.
"You're right. I'm being rude," Jazrac said. %Vhat kind of
man is he?"
Martine considered the question before offering an opinion.
"Trustworthy... decent... He says he was a paladin
of Torm."
"Was? What happened?"
"Something about his god abandoning him. It was during
the Time of Troubles."
"Hmmm... yes, that would make sense." Jazrac fastidiously
straightened his doublet as he went to the door.
''Well, grab one of those chairs," he instructed, pointing to
the furniture heaped on the bed. "If we're all going stay in
one room, we'd better clear off that bed."
Martine set to work numbly. By the time Vil returned,
the tables and chairs were neatly placed against the wall of
the hallway outside the room. The linens and quilts were
divided into thirds. Two beds were laid out on the floor,
while the small gnome bed was made up for the third. Vil
took these new accommodations in stride.
For what little remained of the night, the trio slept, the


	182
	The Harvers


Soldiers of Ice
	183


two men sleeping on the floor while Martine curled up on
the bed. It wasn't gallantry that gave her the mattress; both
men were far too tall to squeeze between the cramped
head- and footboards. Even for Martine, it was hardly restful.
Although she was only five feet tall, that was still nearly
two feet taller than the average gnome. It was only by curling
up like a kitten that she was able fit on the bed.

By morning, the ranger had cramps from her neck to the
base of her spine. Stretching, she heard the bones in her
back pop and crack with every move, but she was grateful
to stand upright. She watched enviously as Jazrac laced up
his clean linen shirt, trimmed with Chessentian lacework.
The smell of town-laundered clothes was unmistakable
after weeks of having to wash her own clothes in cold
streams or not at all.

Catching her eye, the wizard nodded toward a pile of fabric
near his bag. "I thought you might want those," he said
with deceptive casualness.

Curious, Martine went to investigate. "Jazrac, how could
you know?" she exclaimed. First she held up a quilted
smock, then a pair of woolen breeches, then linen blouses,
and finally a long, thick gown. "Why, these are my own
clothes! Where did you--" She stopped suddenly and her
eyes narrowed. "You have been spying on me, haven't you?
Somehow, with that crystal ball of yours, you've been
watching me."

Jazrac only laughed while Vil looked at the two of them
in sleepy confusion.

"How much spying does it take to guess you'd need
clothes?" the wizard asked innocently. "I just asked Jhaele if
you'd left anything at the inn that I could bring you."

"Oh," the woman said, her face reddening. "Would both
of you please turn around so I can change?" As they faced
the door, Martine took her time selecting an outfit, After so
long, clean, proper-fitting clothes were almost a novelty;


she was resolved to savor dressing in them.

"All done," Martine finally called. When he saw her, Vil
cocked his head in surprise. "Is that--uh--functional for
fighting?" he queried, clearly suspect of her choice but at
the same time taken aback by her appearance. After so
many days wearing the same stained jerkins, Martine had
deliberately chosen a tightly tailored smock that hugged
her figure yet kept her warm.

"I'll be fine, Vil. You're just not used to women's clothes."
She smiled at the former paladin's reaction, secretly flattered.
"Thank you for being concerned, though." Impulsively
she swooped over and gave him a quick kiss on the
cheek, flustering the man. "Now we'd better introduce
Jazrac to our hosts."

Finding their hosts didn't take very long. Just outside the
door, Marfine saw two pairs of eyes that looked up with her
appearance. Round Turi and his leaner brother Jouka sat in
the hallway on the two chairs Martine had removed from
the room the night before. Turi's glossy black braids swung
loosely as he stared at them. Feet clomped as the pair stood
to greet them.

"Masters Jouka and Turi," Vilheim said as he ducked
through the door and entered the hall. "I want you to meet
Jazrac of--"

"Mage of Saerloon," the wizard offered as he emerged
from the room. The two gnomes blinked with surprise at
seeing yet'another human in their midst.

"I apologize for appearing unannounced, but the hour
was late when I arrived last night," Jazrac said in a rich
gnomish accent, showing his familiarity with the small race.
He bowed deeply to the gnomes, his lace sleeve nearly
sweeping the floor. "I ask for your tolerance and hospitality
and hope that I can repay you with any service at my
power."

 Jouka and Turi gaped openly at the wizard until the


	184
	The Harers

woodsman finally stammered, "Master Vii, will you-uh--give
assurance for this person?"
Vii sucked his cheek as he considered the request, not
particularly eager to stake his word on someone unknown
to him.
"I will be the model of behavior," Jazrac assured them.
With no small reluctance, Vilheim nodded. The gnomes
seemed satisfied.
"I understand there is a gnoll prisoner being held here,"
Jazrac said, not one to be timid. "I would appreciate it if I
could see him. Can someone show me the way?"
Behind the wizard, Martine could only marvel at how
quickly the wizard made himself at home. "I know the way,
Jazrac," she offered, but the wizard shook his head.
"It would be best if you reflected on your actions up to
now, my dear," the wizard whispered. "I think one of the
things you need is More time for contemplation." With that,
the wizard prevailed upon Turi to act as his guide.
The pudgy gnome, a crafter of magical illusions by trade,
was intrigued by the opportunity to talk with the human
wizard and the pair of them disappeared down the hall,
engrossed in conversation.
"I invite you, Master Vilheim, to meet with the council
regarding matters that concern you as well as us," Jouka
gruffly announced once he had regained his composure.
"You have a home in our valley, so it is right that you join
us." It was clear from Jouka's invitation that it extended
only to Vii. The warrior could hardly refuse, and soon he
and the gnomes also left, leaving Martine alone. Upset, she
returned to the room.
Clannnggg.t
A steel helm ricocheted off the bedpost and skittered
across the floor, propelled by the sharp kick of a hard-shod
foot.
"Damn that man!" The oath followed hard on the rattling

	Soldiers of Ice
	185

clank of the still-spinning helmet. "The nerve--the utter
gall!" Martine launched into a string of invectives, dredging
up the choicest insults she had learned in her years along
the coasts of the Inner Sea. It was fortunate the wizard
wasn't present to hear her curse his ancestry, his wit, and
especially his prowess.
It was so like him, Martine knew. If there was anything
that bothered her most among Jazrac's many irritating
qualities--his condescension, his smugness, his superior-ity--it
was Jazrac's consummate ability to thrust himself to
the forefront in every situation. He was egotistical, overbearing,
even childish, but most of all Jazrac had the talent
to transform even the most mundane action to a mystery
that captivated others even as it infuriated her.
"Wizards!" she fumed, as if that explained everything
that bothered her about Jazrac's behavior.
As she sat in imposed contemplation, Martine doubted
she was learning whatever lesson it was that Jazrac wanted
her to learn. Instead, all she could think about was how
close she had come, years ago, to being her mentor's lover.
She had been considerably younger then, and Jazrac had
seemed urbane and dashing. It seemed as if he had traveled
to every exotic place she had longed to see and had
tasted, touched, and seen things the young ranger could
only imagine. She had been thoroughly infatuated with
him. The thought appalled her now.
Still, Martine had to acknowledge a certain basic decency
in the man. Naive as she had been, the wizard had always
been gentlemanly toward her. He had never taken advantage
of her and had always told her honestly what he
thought was best for her career. Although his manner was
infuriating, the wizard had always cared about her.
The longer she sat, the stranger the turns her contemplation
took. Her anger at Jazrac became anger at herself. She
had let him down, even though she had completed the mis
	186
	The Harer$

sion. The wizard had a right to be angry with her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a distant blaring noise
that sounded dully through the halls. It was a curious noise,
one of those sounds that Martine was certain was familiar,
yet she couldn't place it. She ignored it until it happened
again, proving it wasn't just a freak occurrence. She went
out into the hall to investigate.
The blaring note sounded again, tapering off like a wailing
child. It sounded like a huntsman calling his hounds,
like a huntsman's...
"Horn!" Martine blurted suddenly. "Someone's outside
sounding a horn." Grabbing her gear from the room, she
sprinted down the wooden hall, trying to remember the
way to the main chamber. Just as she was beginning to
think she was lost, the ranger rounded a corner and almost
tripped over Jouka, rushing in her direction. Instinctively
the two sprang back, both reaching for their blades, before
realizing exactly what was happening. Hurrying behind the
gnome came Vil, towering over the rest of the gnomes of
the council.
The fierce look fled from Jouka's bearded face as he recognized
the human. 'Whe south doors, everyone! Quickly!"
Without waiting for a reply, Jouka sprinted past Martine
and down the hall.
The Harper seized on the chance to follow before anyone
could object to her presence. She knew she wasn't supposed
to be part of this council assembly, but she assumed
his words just now negated that restriction.
Led by Jouka, Martine, and Vil, the gnomes hurried
through corridors lit by cold flames and passed through
doors so low that even Martine, hardly tall by human standards,
had to duck her head. Other gnomes they encountered,
startled by this strange entourage, shouted questions
as they passed. Martine couldn't make out the hurried
replies. Elder Sumalo soon fell far back, his legs showing

	Soldiers of !ce
	187

his age. As they ran, More Vani men joined them, spears
and short swords in hand.
At last they poured into the great foyer at the south
entrance to the warren. The passage was built without
regard for humans, and Martine found it impossible to
stand upright. The low ceiling made her feel uncomfortable.
She noted that Vil was forced to crouch on the floor.
Sumalo, with Turi in his wake, pushed his way through
the throng to join Jouka at the front of the group. Looking
back, Martine saw the colorful flash of Jazrac's doublet.
"Jazrac!" she shouted, trying to let the wizard know she
was here.
Front the inside, the exit was an elegant work of simplicity,
consisting of closely fitted panels of polished pine, once
blond though now golden-brown with age. Looking at the
cracks in the doorposts and the worn floorboards, Martine
judged they were in one of the oldest sections of the warren.
By now, a half-dozen gnomes had formed a rough line in
response to Jouka's shouted commands. Their weapons
were a mismatched assortment of whatever had been at
hand. Martine noticed swords, spears, and axes, and one
gnome even flourished a meat cleaver as he chattered
eagerly in an accent so thick the Harper couldn't follow it.
Jouka's sharp commands formed them into a rough rank
that blocked the door. Curious children who had followed
the group were herded back behind the line in case there
was some danger.
While the gnomes were getting organized, Martine slid
to the front to take the opportunity to scan the surface.
Kneeling, she slid open the small peephole in the door. Dazzling
light burst through the square opening and splayed
across the worn floor, reflecting off the golden pine to
brighten the entire chamber. A freezing draft accompanied
the sunbeam, as if to mock its warmth.


	188
	The Harpers

"Human, get away from there!" Jouka snapped. Mindful
she was only a guest, but still curious, Martine started to
close the shutter but kept her eye glued to the peephole.
Squinting, she strained against the sun-dazzled snow to
make out anything clearly. A frosty morning haze hung
over the berry canes at the meadow's edge.

Martine could hear Jouka's grumbling grow louder with
every passing second, and she was about to give up when
she spotted a movement among the canes. "Jouka, look
there," she whispered eagerly as she stepped aside. "By
that uprooted pine."

The gnome pressed his eye to the slot. "I don't seeyou
mean the big white thing?"

The ranger nodded. "Vreesar.'

The rasping horn blew again, sounding louder through
the opening. Standing next to the distant elemental was a
gnoll blowing a curved horn. The winter wind whipped the
gnoll's ragged clothes.

"It followed you here!" Jouka accused Martine as Elder
Sumalo stepped forward to have a look.

"Not me," Martine said with a shake of her head. "I've
never used this entrance. Buff, perhaps."

Jouka grunted, unwilling to divert the blame. "You
brought them to this valley," he insisted.

The Harper couldn't deny that. The accusation reminded
her of Jazrac's words last night. In solving one problem for
the Harpers, she'd created another, and it was just as much
her duty to solve this one.

"We should hear what Vreesar has to say," the woman
said when Jouka gave no orders to open the gate.

The dour little man snorted. 'q'here is nothing to say. I
say we kill it when it comes doser."

Martine's first reaction to the gnome's suggestion was
that it would solve the problem, and in the instant when
words come before thought, she almost agreed aloud. How-


	Soldiers of lee
	189


ever, second thoughts followed, and she recoiled at what
she had almost done.

"No, Jouka. The woman speaks wisely. We must hear the
creature out," Elder Sumalo said disapprovingly. "Heikko,
open the door."

The golden-bearded warrior nodded and shot back the
massive bolt in its track. Martine, Jouka, and Sumalo fell
back among the ranks of gnomes as the gate swung inward,
releasing a shower of icy chunks from the bank overhead.
The hardened snow shattered on the wooden floor and lay
there to crackle underfoot. Warmth fled the hallway, fluttering
the long beards of the little warriors braced for attack.

Across the snowfield, the elemental stood hunched and
motionless at the edge of the woods. Behind him, in clusters
of two or three, Martine saw in the haze the phantoms
of Burnt Fur warriors among the brambles and trees. Like
the elemental, they did not move.

"People of the dirt!" the elemental croaked in its peculiar
buzzing accent. "I am Vreesar, prince of ice and master of
the Burnt Fur. Who speakz for the little dirt people?"

Without hesitation, Elder Sumalo stepped from the line
of militia advanced to the doorway. "I am Elder Sumalo. I
speak for the Vani." The old gnome's normally thin voice
penetrated the distance across the clearing with authority.

The elemental's icicled brow flared in the sunlight, and it
cocked its head to survey the small figure that faced him.
"Su-ma-lo," the creature said with difficulty, shaping the
soft syllables with its harsh lips. "Su-ma-lo," it repeated,
striding across the snow. "Come out and we will talk."

"Watch for any sign of treachery," the priest said softly to
Jouka. The warrior nodded, then motioned several spear-men
to the edge of the door where they had a dear view.

The old priest waded through the drifted path to the center
of the small field between the warren and the woods,
where the elemental already stood. Barely had they met


	190
	The Harpers

when the elemental pointed toward the entrance. "The
female comez, too," it shrilled. Martine realized its icy finger
was pointed at her. Jouka eyed her darkly, suspicious of
the link between the woman and the fiend.
Unbuckling her sword, Martine joined Sumalo on the
frozen meadow. Away from the shelter of the doors, the
wind blasted her cheeks and cut through the light clothing
she wore.
"Speaker of the Vani, listen to me," Vreesar was saying as
Martine approached. "Give me the woman and the stone
she haz stolen, and I will leave you in peace. She waz
Hakk'z mate, and now she iz mine. She stole the stone from
Hakk.'
Sumalo stared up at the towering elemental. 'qhere are
far More stones in the earth than Vani. I do not know which
one you mean."
"The woman knowz! Ask her," Vreesar hissed, voice
crackling with frost. The creature squatted down till its
angular face was level with the old priest's.
The tired veins on Sumalo's neck traced blue-black lines
as the priest tensed. His eyes narrowed, the gnome turned
to the Harper. 'fhat does he mean, Martine of Sembia?"
"It was a rock I found on the glacier," the Harper lied. "I
don't have it now. Last I saw it was in the chieftain's lodge."
Suddenly she was thankful for the cold, for her shivering
disguised her trembles of fear.
"Liez! I know it iz the key! That iz why you stole it,
human!" The elemental almost reached for her, then
restrained itself, perhaps deterred by the line of spear
points behind her.
Martine trembled. Damn! The creature knows! I was too
obvious. I can't let it get the stone. "I don't have it," she
repeated fiercely.
Vreesar changed his tactics. "My slavez say, 'People of
the dirt hate the Burnt Fur. You must lead uz in war against

	Soldiers of !ce
	191

them.' But I, Vreesar, do not want war. You do not want war.
I give you thiz chance to make peace, Su-ma-lo. Do not be
tricked by thiz human. She haz the stone. Give them both
to me." The creature's icy face crackled in expectation.
'q'he woman is our guest. I will not break the laws of the
warren."
"She liez!" Vreesar's razor edges glinted in the sunlight.
"She haz stolen the stone. She must be punished!"
"Your law is not our law, creature," Sumalo snapped back,
his anger rising with each threat. "We did not start this war.
You invaded our valley."
The elemental drew itself up. "We see no totemz, no
claim stakez," Vreesar said with a sneer.
"Our homes are our claims," Sumalo replied. "You murdered
Elder Hudni! The crimes are yours, not the Vani's."
The fiend buzzed in a mockery of laughter, its needled
mouth cracking in a perversion of a smile. "When all of you
are dead, I will bring my brotherz to amuse themselvez
here. No More talk! I kill some of your people. Then we talk
again."
The elemental turned and strode back toward the woods
and the waiting gnolls. At the edge of the forest, it stopped
and looked back. "People of the dirt, remember who
started thiz war!" With that, the wind embraced the pale
creature in a cloak of driven snow, swirling him out of sight.
"Shut the doors," Sumalo rasped as they entered the warren.
The puffs of his breath hung like cold charms in the
air. Martine held out one arm to help the old gnome along,
but he paid her no attention. When they reached the foyer,
the others quickly labored to close the broad wooden gates.
The doors met with a loud thump, and the bar raffled into
place.
Sumalo pointed at the gnomes nearest the door. "Stay here
and guard. Three others each guard the cliffside and the east
entrances. Vani, arm yourselves and prepare for war!"


Twelve

The rumble of heavy feet sounded
through the thick, earth-banked wails of
the warren as the Vani hurried to carry
out their priest's commands. Farmers
and hunters alike sprang to their new
duties.
"Harper, wait," Sumalo called, using
the same tone of command he used with the gnomes. Mar-fine,
Vil, and Jazrac slowed until the priest, with Jouka close
behind, joined them.
"What was that all about, Harper? What is this stone the
creature wants?" The normaily understanding priest looked
at her sternly, rather like her father the blacksmith had
when he caught her playing with the swords he made.
Feeling she was caught in yet another web, the huntress explained. "It's the key to the rift--the one I closed. If that
creature got possession of it, it could break the seal and
reopen the gap it camethrough."
"And do you have the stone?"
With Jazrac there, Martine could hardly avoid the truth.

192

	Soldiers of !ce
	193

If she were to deny existence of the stone, the wizard would
surely contradict her. '`yes. I lied to Vreesar."
Sumalo's face clenched with anger. "You have the stone it
wants? Didn't you hear the creature? It will kill the Vani for
your stone, yet you refuse to give it up? You have no fight to
condemn us, human. Give me this stone, and I will put an
end to this thing."
"No... she can't do that," Jazrac said as he stepped forward
to support his fellow Harper. He adjusted his cape and
planted himself firmly at her side. "If this creature opens
the rift, do you think he will go home and leave you alone?
No. Instead, More will come, and then what will you do?
Can you defeat ten, twenty, a hundred of his kind?"
"So you say we must fight?"
''You already chose that last night," Martine snapped.
Sumalo's face reddened and he chose to ignore the
illogic of his arguments. "We chose, not you. You are not
Vani. You do not have the fight to choose for us!"
"Elder Sumalo," Martine snapped back, her patience
almost at an end. ''You heard the creature talk of its brothers.
If it gets the stone, that will be the death of the Vani. As
long as we have the stone, the creature fights alone."
"Not alone--with the gnolls," Jouka growled.
The woman wheeled on the other gnome. "You're a
hunter, Master Jouka. Which way are your odds better?
Against one bear or three?"
The gnome swore under his breath. "One," he said reluctantly.
Vii spoke up for the first time. 'The Harpers are right."
His voice was even and calm, in marked contrast to the
growing passions on both sides. 'q'hey have acted badly,
but they are fight. Now is not the time to argue among ourselves.
We must act as one or we will all lose."
Standing as straight as the low hall ceiling allowed him
to, Vii stepped between the two groups. "Jouka,' the former


	194
	The Harers

paladin said in a way that neither cajoled nor dictated, "we
must act now--together. What do you recommend?"
"Organize a raid," Jouka said, glowering. "Attack them
first, before they attack us." Beside him, Sumalo nodded in
agreement.
"But your strength is your warren," protested Jazrac.
"The Vani do not hide in their homes!"
'qrqhat do you say, Elder Sumalo?" Vil interrupted before
passions once More got out of hand.
"I agree with Jourka. We must attack!"
"Martine?"
"I also agree. Let's hit them before they attack us and put
a quick end to it."
'When I think we're in agreement," Vil said, placing his
hands on Jouka's and Martine's shoulders. "We will help
you in this, Master Jouka, if you will have us."
"Meet us at the east gate, then,' Jouka said, his voice
somewhat surly. "We'll pick up their trail from there."
With the course of action decided, the two groups split.
Sumalo and Jouka went to organize their people while the
three humans headed for their room. All the way there,
Jazrac argued against the wisdom of the raid and his part in
it. He wasn't prepared, he didn't have the right spells, they
needed More information, he didn't have fighting gear...
the litany went on and on until Martine was sure Jazrac was
looking for some excuse to back out.
At their room, the wizard, who had nothing to prepare,
waited outside while the other two made ready for battle.
Working quickly, the pair struggled into what armor each
had brought from Vil's cabin. Martine wore a resilient tunic
of chain mail, intricately woven by elves under the light of
the full moon--or so the merchant who had sold it to her
claimed. Whatever the circumstances of its creation, the
suit had served her well for many years, helped by careful
patching and a fine sheen of oil. As she pulled it on, the

	Soldiers of lee
	195

metal felt bone cold even through the clothing she wore
beneath it. Her open helm fit tightly over her fur cap, so she
finally opted to set the helmet aside. She missed the light
touch of her sword, the one she'd christened Sea Dog, but
the weapon she'd borrowed from Vil was solid enough. She
still had her bow and quiver, which she slung over her
shoulder. "Ready?" she asked finally.
"You can help me with this clasp." Vii grunted. The warrior
was almost finished buckling on his battered old
breastplate, the final piece of his armor, an unmatched collection
of leather, chain, and metal plates. It was an old suit
and well matched to the wearer, the armor shaping itself to
his body over the years. The big man moved easily in it,
and without the sometimes annoying squeaks and creaks of
poorly made plate mail. Sword and hanger in arm, he nodded
he was ready to go.
In the hall, Jazrac waited. Borrowing one of the old
quilts, he had bundled it around himself till his face barely
peeked through a small gap at the top. "I still think we need More information," the wizard complained even as they
started down the hall.
Just as the three neared the east gate, a fantastic figure,
encrusted from head to toe in a suit of iron and jutting
spikes, ambled around the corner and almost walked into
Martine. The Harper could barely recognize the grim
Jouka beneath the bizarre armor. The gnome's black beard
was bound with ribbons and tucked around his neck so it
didn't snag on the spikes bristling across his breastplate.
His armor consisted of three pieces of black iron, jointed at
his chest to follow the curvature of his muscles. Shaped
iron covered his arms, thighs, and calves.
That alone would have made the armor More than serviceable
for war, but Jouka's plates were studded with thick,
rusting iron spikes that almost looked as if they had been
driven through from the underside so that the sharp points


	196
	The Harpers

Soldiers of !ce
	197



wavered dangerously with every movement of the wearer.
The suit was complete--nail-studded gauntlets, tack-covered
arms, even a metal helm, a full-skull mask of hammered
iron, gingerly tucked under one arm. The helm
sported features of smooth anonymity, with barely the trace
of a mouth, nose, and chin. The whole thing was marked by
the needle-sharp points that projected to an even length
about the skull, like some strange cultist's mask.
"What is that?" The question, full of disbelief, exploded
unconsciously fi.om Martine's lips.
"This, human, is my badger-fighting suit," Jouka said
proudly, almost thumping a thorny fist against his spiky
chest.
"A what?" She knelt to have a better look.
"My badger-fighting suit," came the fierce reply. "Sometimes
badgers dig into the warren and we have to kill
them."
"In that?"
"It is an old Vani tradition, Martine," Vii answered, coming
up behind the pair. "The Vani corner the badger or
wolverine, usually by penning it inside a room. Then one of
the warriors goes in and tries to kill it. By custom, the lucky
fighter is armed with just a knife and that outfit." The man
nodded toward Jouka's armor.
"Lucky?"
"It is a great honor to kill a badger," Jouka huffed. "I.have
killed two badgers already."
"It's how their men become true warriors," Vii pointed
out.
"But why the suit?" Martine asked as she gingerly
touched one of the spikes.
"Badgers do not like the spikes, human. It gives the
fighter a fair chance."
"A chance? Against a badger?"
Jouka glared up at her as if she had questioned his

manhood. "Have you ever fought a badger, woman? Do
notw"
"The Vani call him tukkavaaskivo---'little mean one,'" Vii
cut in quickly. 'The animals are not be trifled with. I've seen
a wolverine take on a bear twenty or More times its size and
win," the man added.
The gnome nodded sagely. "A bear will run where a badger
turns and fights. The Vani fight like badgers, too." Having
arrived at the east gate, he cut the conversation short.
In the chill hall, an assemblage of gnomes were gathered
into rough-and-ready companies. The militia broke ranks
the minute Jouka and the others entered the hall and
besieged the spiky gnome with questions, demands, and
suggestions. In the cramped chamber, Vil and Jazrac towered
over the clustered gnomes packed around them. The
little warriors bristled with an assortment of weapons,
mostly stubby spears. Short swords, their hilt grips well
worn with use, hung in the undecorated scabbards of many
others. There was a suggestion of armor under the shapeless
layers of their dirty white parkas. Armets, pot helms,
skullcaps, and other wondrously incongruous headdresses
bobbed among them. The air reeked of gnome sweat, oil,
 and stale beer, the latter no doubt consumed to fortify More
than a few before they set out.
With all the voices raised at once, Martine did her best to
listen, but the tumult was a blend of shouting so thickly
accented that the Harper gave up all hope of understand-
hag.
At last Jouka, who would serve as commander of the
raid, restored order. Organized back into their companies,
the gnomes stood tensely expectant while Jouka huddled
with his chosen captains.
"I didn't think the gnomes had this many warriors," Mar-tine
said to Vil. There were about forty of the Vani packed
into the little hall.


	198
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	199



"They don't," Vii said softly. "You can't count most of
these fellows as warriors. Most of them are farmers. A few
are hunters who know the valley well, but fighters like
Jouka are precious few."
The aforesaid gnome, in the middle of his captains, nodded
toward the humans. 'q'he humans are welcome, too.
Master Vil you know. The woman can use a sword as well."
There was a murmur of surprise from some of the More traditional
farmers. "The thin one is a wizard.., or so he
claims."
Martine felt that Jouka's introductions were somewhat
strained, as if he were unwilling to admit their skills. However,
the gnome added finally, "They know how to fight,
brothers, and every sword will help us. They will travel
with me. That way they cannot get lost." A weak chuckle
rose at their expense from the gnomes.
"Elder Sumalo is no longer as young as he once was,"
Jouka continued, "so we will have no priest. If your brothers
are hurt, you will have to bring them back to the warren
for healing. Sumalo will be ready for you. My brother, Tuff,
and the human wizard are our only magi."
"Is Turi a good mage?" Martine whispered to Vil.
The warrior shrugged. "Good enough, if you need illusions-tricks
of light and shadow, phantoms--those sorts
of things. Better get yourself ready to go," Vil added with
the barest nod to Jazrac. "Does he need skis?" Jouka was
already herding his chattering fellows outside as Vii took
his skis from the pegs.
"Not at all," Jazrac cheerily replied, overhearing the
question.
Stamping their ski-clad feet to drive out the cold, the
gnomes waited impatienfiy outside for the humans. In the
morning chill, their frosty breath caught in their beards
and mustaches, coating them with a snow-whitened glaze.
The waiting gnomes said little, their gazes fixed grimly on

the woods. Their old eyes held no fear, only determination
for the mission before them.
Jouka gave the signal to move out. The outer doors
parted. "We go!" barked Jouka, barely waiting for the
humans. Expert skiers, the Vani set a brisk pace, each following
in the track of the gnome before him. Martine was
surprised how quickly the short-legged folk could shoot
across the snow as she and Vii labored to keep pace. Only
Jazrac traveled without the long boards, instead drifting
over the surface of the snow, held magically aloft, floating
alongside Martine and Vii.
"I thought such magic could be used only for brief periods,"
the former paladin rumbled. "We're likely to be traveling
all day."
The wizard ignored Vil's evident irritation. 'What's true of
spells, yes, but a ring of flying is much More useful." To
demonstrate, the wizard made a pass by the skiing warrior,
rising slowly until his feet were level with the man's helmeted
head.
Singularly unimpressed, Vil growled, "I've seen flying
wizards before. Archers call them flying pincushions."
Martine chuckled, for wizards tended to be pretty useless
as fighters. It was their spells and not their fighting
prowess that made them powerful.
Appropriately chastised, Jazrac resumed skimming over
the snow, stirring up a thin cloud of ice crystals as he went.
As she pulled alongside her skiing companion, Martine
couldn't help but notice a sardonic smile on Vil's lips.
After half an hour of nonstop travel, Jouka whispered
back the command to halt. Her throat rasped raw by the
fierce cold, Martine was thankful for the slightest break in
their march. She wanted to spit, but her mouth was parched
by the arid winter air. Her sides burned and her legs felt
ready to buckle, reminding her of just how little experience
she had had on skis. Knowing the gnome hadn't halted the


	200
	The Harpers

Soldiers of !ce
	201



column just for her benefit, Martine somehow resisted collapsing
into an exhausted heap. Instead, she slowly drew
her sword for battle, her fingers muffling the scrape where
the scabbard's metal lip rubbed the blade. The sword's
edge nipped her finger, a sharp sting that she ignored as
several drops of blood rolled down her finger and plopped,
overlapping, on the snow. The white crystals melted and
then spread into a pink areola at her feet.
Jouka carefully issued orders to form a search line. The
instructions that followed were simple; the gnome knew he
couldn't expect anything too complicated from his militia.
They were to fan out in a line. If they saw anything, they
should freeze and stay hidden, then signal those to their
left and right, who would pass the signal down the line.
Most of all--as the gnome said it, he looked pointedly at
the three humans--no one was to act on his own. No individuals
were to rush to the attack, but rather wait until the
command was given. To be certain they understood, Jouka
had his warriors repeat the instructions. Only when he was
completely satisfied that all the farmhands and carpenters
understood did Jouka begin posting the gnomes to their
positions.
"Do you know where the gnolls are?" Martine asked
Jouka privately once everyone had received his instructions.
She wondered if the gnome was privy to some information,
perhaps brought in by a scout or outlying farmer.
Jouka shook his head from side to side, then pointed
toward the northwest. "No reports, but Hudni's place lies
off that way. There's sheltered ground and fresh water
between us and the farm. That's where I'd camp if I were
the gnolls. Wel search there first."
The search line formed a long irregular arc along the
edge of the woods. Martine kept Jazrac to her left, and
Jouka took up position on her right, forming the center of
the line. Vii was somewhere farther to the right, lost to her

sight by the paper-white trunks of birch trees. Beyond him
was Turi. Martine guessed Jouka was being careful, keeping
his ablest fighters close at hand. That way he could
quickly change directions when the enemy was spotted.
The gnome waved his ski poles to both sides, a signal
Martine dutifully passed down the line. Tentatively, as if
expecting a gnoll behind every tree, the scouting line
entered the woods like beaters on a king's hunt.
After breaking through the thicket-lined edge of the
woods, no easy feat on skis, the Harper cast about for her
flankers. Jazrac was abreast of her, about ten feet off the
ground, gliding easily over the last of the bramble wall she
had just labored through. A More experienced skier, Jouka
was already well ahead of her. "Damn!" Martine hissed
under her breath as she floundered awkwardly on her skis,
determined not to be shown up.
Now the trip became considerably More difficult than
before. There was no clean track broken by the others for
her to follow. The search did not move along any easy paths
like game trails, so her route was constantly impeded by
thickets and deadfalls that forced her into slow detours. To
make it worse, sometime in the last day or two a brief thaw
had transformed what had been soft powder into a glazed
sheet of ice that slid under her skis like a greased pig. One
ski or the other kept unexpectedly shooting forward, only
to have it break through the crust and disappear completely
into the powder beneath. It wasn't long before she
had worked herself into a lathered sweat.
Eventually the thickets thinned and the forest floor
became More open as the raiders plunged deeper into the
ancient forest. Regaining her position, Martine continued
to scan the woods ahead for signs of their enemy.
They continued unimpeded for several hours, the searchers
moving with deadly slowness. Occasionally the interlaced
pine boughs gave way to leafless aspens, and Martine could


	202
	The Harpers

see the sun hanging well above the tallest peak of the
mountain wall, making ice and bare rock glint brillianfiy.
Streamers of windswept snow fiumed off the jagged slopes
and made the distant sky sparkle like a magical star shower.
Such glimpses were brief, for as soon as the openings
appeared, the forest closed back in around them.
On another day, the wild beauty of the winter woods
would have undoubtedly thrilled the ranger. There was no
such enjoyment today, however. Martine's concentration
was too fixed on the dark spaces that lurked between the
creaking trees. Bird calls, rabbit tracks, wind-fallen trees,
and the bloodstains of a lynx's kill all acquired and then lost
ominous meanings. The eerie silence of the other searchers
unnerved her.
A whispered signal brought the line to a halt. While
everyone else waited, Jouka silently disappeared down the
line to investigate. Martine was impressed by the gnome's
stealth.
It quickly became difficult to remain still. Curiosity and
intense cold both made her want to keep moving.
At last the small figure returned. The gnome skied past
his own position to confer with her. "We found tracks
angling to the northwest. Signal the message down the
line." No More explanation was needed.
From there on, the skiers moved with even greater
stealth. Although the valley was certainly well known to the
gnomes, they were now in essence entering an unknown
region prowled by hidden terrors. While everyone that
morning had been placid, if grim, they were now tense.
Jouka skied with sword and poles in hand, a technique Mar-tine
was not ready to master.
It wasn't until the sun had started on its long descent
toward the western treetops that the searchers ground to a
stop. A terse word rippled down the line. "We've found
them, woman. Come," Jouka glided over to say. With that,

	Soldiers of !ce
	203

he plunged deeper into the woods. The Harper signaled to
the wizard behind her. She waited only long enough for
Jazrac to confirm her hand signs before breaking position
to follow Jouka's trail.
The pace now became extraordinarily slow as the ranger
scanned every inch for signs of the enemy. Matching her
advance were the shadows of the others, flickering among
the pines, the thickets, and the hummocks of snow. These
farmers were better than she thought, moving as if they
were stalking nervous squirrels for the dinner pot.
Gradually the raiders converged on a point where Jouka
lay, belly down, in the snow at the base of a large drift.
Beyond his position, the stalking was over and the strike
would be at hand. Jouka softly issued a string of commands,
sometimes drawing the More detailed instructions
in the snow. The tired warriors, tight-lipped and tense, listened
and then stealthily moved down the drift, each drawing
his weapon and wending into the woods to his assigned
post. Jouka laid a hand on Martine, signaling her and Vii to
stay close.
"What should I do?" Jazrac whispered at her side.
"Don't you know?" Martine hissed back, astonished by
the question. She had assumed that the wizard, older than she and skilled in magic, was naturally experienced at this sort of thing. The look of uncertainty in his eyes said other-

"I abhor fighting," he explained. "I never was any good in
battles. Research and study are my strengths."
Martine bit back a curse, especially since Jazrac was her
superior, but she certainly wished he'd said something
before. "Stay back and be ready then," she snapped, unable
to keep a hint of scorn out of her voice. The wizard stiffened
but, perhaps knowing his place, accepted her command.
With Jouka's warriors in position, Martine expected the


	204
	The Haroers

commander to immediately plunge over the drift and into
battle. Instead, Jouka waited and listened for any sounds of
their foe. After several minutes with no indication his
advancing warriors had been discovered, he undid his skis,
jammed them uptight into the snow, and then slithered up
the bank. Vil and Marfine quickly followed suit.
At the top of the drift, the trio took position behind the
cover of a thin stand of young birch that broke through the
snow. They lay afiank several other gnomes hunkered
down in the snow. Snarling voices came from beyond the
ridge.
The gnome reached up and cut away a small gap in the
drift for the trio to peer through. "There they are," he whispered.
'The brutes."
Nestled in a bowl of drifts was the gnoll camp. Small dark
leather tents dotted the ground. In a quick count, the
Harper estimated there were about twenty of them. Along
the base of a large drift opposite were the tunneled openings
to snow caves like the one she and Krote had shared.
About fifteen gnolls, bundled in furs and rags, were in the
camp, most of them squatted around the large bonfire at
the center of the clearing. With the habit born of combat,
Martine noted three guards, none particularly attentive,
widely spaced around the camp's edges. They seemed More concerned about their freezing feet and fingers than
the dark woods beyond the drifts.
Carefully the trio slid back just below the top of the drift.
"Did you see any sign of Vreesar?" the ranger softly quizzed
the other two, wondering if she'd missed the creature. Both
gnoll and man shook their heads. The creature's absence
was both a disappointment and a relief. Marfine had hoped
they would catch the elemental here and end it all, but at
the same time, with the fiend gone, their chances were
much better.
"What's the plan?" Vil asked.

	Soldiers of Ice
	205

"We outnumber them," Jouka pointed out. "On my signal,
we rush them from all sides. Kill everyone and destroy the
camp. Those who are not in camp now can freeze or starve."
"Not much of a plan," Martine commented.
"We are not an army. It must be simple."
"He's tight, Martine," Vil concurred.
Martine peeked back over the ridge. "We should hold
some of our forces back, just in case Vreesar shows up."
The gnome shook his head, the spikes of his armor
wavering as he did so. "No. We can't weaken the attack, and
the others would not be enough against the creature anyway.
If the monster appears, we and your wizard will fight it."
The Harper didn't like the looseness of the idea but, upon
consideration, knew that Jouka was right. Even the entire
raiding party might not be enough against the elemental.
She drew her sword to show she was ready.
Jouka looked down both sides of the line, signaling his
warriors to prepare themselves. As the silent signal passed
from gnome to gnome, their leader fitted his spiked helm in
place. His fierce eyes raged from behind the bizarre
smoothness of the black mask.
With a loud battle cry, the gnome heaved to his feet and
charged the unsuspecting gnolls, plowing through the waist-deep snow with dreadful abandon. His fellow gnomes
caught up the signal and hurled themselves upon the foe,
leaping and bounding through the drifts as best as their
short legs could carry them. Some twirled swords over
their heads, while others hammered their blades against
wooden shields. The air was filled with a horrible din, the
convoluted call of bloodlust accompanied by the deadly
hum and clash of steel.
The unsuspecting gnolls froze in confusion near the fire
pit, their savage eyes staring with shock. One recovered
quickly, disengaging itself from its stunned fellows to


	206
	The Harers

acramble frantically for a bare-bladed sword stuck into the
snow. The others sat staring, unable to move for a crucial
instant as the gnomes descended upon them.
Almost as surprised as the gnolls, Marfine sprang to her
feet only moments after Jouka led the charge, but even with
her longer legs, she couldn't keep pace with the enraged
gnome. Then suddenly Martine was brought low when her
feet hit a patch of hidden ice and dropped her solidly to the
ground.
The nearest guard stood transfixed with astonishment.
When it finally realized the situation, all it could do was
futilely fling a fistful of snow before attempting to run.
Bounding down the slope with extraordinary speed, Jouka
whirled his sword over his head and caught the fleeing
gnoll across the neck with the full force of his swing. The
meaty thunk of blade slicing through muscle and bone rose
above the bloodthirsty din of his fellow raiders. Fresh blood
streamed in an executioner's arc as the blow cleanly severed
the gnoll's neck, its mange-marked head plopping
softly into the snow. The gnoll's decapitated body staggered
two lifeless steps forward, the arms jabbing at the air in
spasmodic twitches. Then, although its legs moved no More , momentum flung the body forward, spraying warm
blood across the pristine winter ground.
A second gnoll, a battle-scarred veteran distinguished by
a lopped-off ear, wasn't going to fall so easily. With canny
verve, it dove upon the nearest charging gnome and
clamped its fangs into the Vani's sword arm. The warrior
shrieked, his blade slipping from his grasp, and the gnoll
callously hurled him aside and scrambled after the weapon.
Momentarily beyond the reach of its enemies, the gnoll
tensed to fight, the rags it wore flapping wildly about it.
Yet even as the gnoll baffled to gain a fighting stance, the
Vani were slashing through its fellows. Barely breaking
stride, Jouka shrilled out a series of orders that his fellow

	Soldiers of Ice
	207

gnomes were quick to implement. The ring quickly closed
about the gnolls trapped beside the fire pit, cut off from
their weapons. When they drove forward, the gnomes
ahead gave ground while their brothers rushed up from
behind to catch the stragglers unprepared. One by one the
gnolls fell to the overwhelming numbers of the Vani, until
only a small knot remained, surrounded by the dead and
the blindly thrashing wounded.
With the main force pinned, Martine and Vil found themselves facing the veteran. It was quick and canny, whirling
constantly to face off against first one, then the other. The
creature's face was contorted, its black lips pulled back in a
tight, skeletal rictus. Martine could hear its breath come in
rasping gasps, and its legs wobbled from exhaustion, but
the primal glare in the gnoll's eyes showed its determination
not to give up. The dance between hunter and prey, the
roles shifting constantly between gnoll and human, slowly
continued toward its inevitable conclusion.
Huffing from the effort of breaking through the snow, Vil
growled, "I must be getting old. I can't keep this up anymore."
Nonetheless, he lunged again, the point of his blade
tearing into the gnoll's side. The creature swept its sword
about in a hapless effort to parry, and in that instant, Mar-tine
slashed at the opening the creature left in its guard.
Her blade hit the beast in the inidsection. With fury driven
by pain, the gnoll parried Vil's second thrust with a vicious
clang of metal and whirled to face the Harper, driving her
back with a mad series of slashes. As she stumbled out of
reach, the creature staggered to a stop. Woman and beast
stood staring at each other, both too intent on their foe to
feel fear.
It was the gnoll who ended the standoff. With a wild leap,
it hurled itself toward Martine. The gnoll's ululating cry
rang through the woods as the wind shook the branches in
sympathy. The long sword slashed out viciously.


	208
	The Harpers

In a single, graceful move, Martine dropped flat, thrusting
upward at the same time. Her sword tip caught the
charging gnoll just above its sternum and sliced downward.
Warm blood sprayed her face as the gnoll toppled past her
to die, titching, on the ground.
Martine didn't waste any time but was already moving to
rejoin the main battle. Five gnolls remained, glaring at their
enemies who thronged around them on all sides.
At the forefront of the gnomes, Jonka picked up an axe
from the litter of a trampled tent and, with a snap of his
wrist, hurled it spinning into the gnolls' midst. Immediately
behind it, he plunged into their ranks, bloody sword in
hand. The closest gnoll threw its furry arms up. It could
have been no More than a cub, barely trained in combat
and hopelessly outmatched. Jouka's single darting lunge
was enough to plunge his blade past the futilely warding
arms and into the gnoll's gut, The creature staggered to its
lmees with a look of terrified astonishment across its drawn
muzzle. Savagely Jouka slashed the blade free, ripping the
wound open to complete the job, his eyes already alighting
on another gnoll.
Their leader's onslaught released the other Vani warriors
from their hesitation. With a communal rush, the band
hurled itself upon the gnolls in a flood of savagery. Hopelessly
overwhelmed, the creatures staggered and reeled
under the Vani charge, futilely trying to lash out even as
they fell with a howl of agonized terror. A chorus of blades
flashed, first silver, then bloodstained, as the gnomes
hacked blindly at their enemies even after the beasts were
long dead.
Martine turned away, sickened by the sight. Up to now,
the Vani had seemed a fierce but nevertheless compassionate
people. Now, crazed by bloodlust, they acted with
unbridled savagery. Echoes of Krote asking who was better,
gnoll or Vani, flooded her thoughts. The words made

	Soldiers of lee
	209

the shaman seem like a remarkably accurate seen
"Look out!" Vil's hand shoved Martine forcefully to one
side. There was a loud thunk from roughly where she had
stood. The shaft of a spear vibrated in the snow beside hen
Her battle instincts springing to life, Martine maneuvered
as quickly as she could manage in the broken drift.
"Kill them! Kill the little people!" a buzzing voice shrilled
from behind them.
Wheeling about, Martine looked up in horror at the
snowy ridge. There, towering over them all, flanked by More gnolls, was Vreesar, glinting cruel and silver in the
afternoon light. Jazrac, who had been waiting on the ridge,
was nowhere in sight.
'Whe trap haz worked, my slavez! Kill them.., all but the
female! She must live to give me the stone!"


Thirteen

paladin cursed.

"Over there.., More of them? Vii
shifted Martine's attention to the west
side of the bowl. The Harper was distracted
as another spear arced over
their heads to tunnel into the drift
betfind them. "Damn their mangy hides!
It looks like a war party? the former

A baying rose from the woods in the direction where Vii
pointed. Surging from the trees was a lanky line of fur-clad,
snowshoe-shod gnolls, wreathed in a swirl of white show. Yipping and howling, the beasts charged in ragged waves,
some breaking stride to let fly steel spears. As the six-foot
shafts hissed through the cold air, a screech of anguish
proved one had hit its mark. Suddenly the air was filled
with spears that flew like lightning on the tightly packed
gnomes. One scream became a chorus as a full score of the
Vani fell under the iron-tipped bolts.
"Jouka, fall back now!" Vil bellowed, his hands cupped
around his mouth. Already the gnomes were aware of the

210

Soldiers of !ce
	211

danger and had begun to retreat in confusion. Fear and
panic became their enemies now as much as the gnolls
themselves.
"This way! Stay in order and don't panic!" Martine found
herself calling to the fleeing gnomes. The trap was not completely
sprung, she saw. A gap in the line of gnolls lay open
to the east. Some luck held with them, for the gnolls held their position on the ridge, either in confusion or because
they were content to merely drive the gnomes away. With
Vreesar screeching in rage at his own warriors, it wasn't an
opportunity that was likely to last.
"You, you, and you--into the bush and keep watch in all
directions so they don't flank us," the Harper snapped,
grabbing the three nearest gnomes and pushing them
'toward the gap. Their skis abandoned, the little men floundered
through the snow. 'q'he rest of you, fall back through
there."
Vil added his voice to her commands, and under the
direction of the two humans, the Vani tumbled madly for
the woods. It was barely in time, for the elemental finally
compelled the gnolls forward.
"Jouka!" Vil bellowed again. The Vani leader still stood in
the center of the camp, trying to drag a wounded gnome
with him. Seeing that sense was not going to overcome passion,
Vil hurtled back through the camp and grabbed the
gnome by the collar and shoved him toward the others.
With a manic heave, the man threw the injured gnome over
his shoulder and sprinted after Jouka.
A gray-haired gnoll lunged forward from the rest of his
pack, closing on the burdened former paladin, but by then
Martine had already unslung her bow. A feathered shaft
shot through her fingers and pierced the beast's shoulder.
Squealing in pain, it toppled to the ground, giving Vil the
time he needed to reach safety. Several gnolls, sprinting forward,
hurled their spears. One glanced off the man's plate


Soldiers
of Ice
	213

	212	The
Harl)ers



armor, but he continued to run. Martine quickly released a
volley of ill-aimed shots that, while they caused little harm,
slowed the gnoll advance.
Clearing the last drift with wild leaps, Jouka and Vil
rejoined the others. Without hesitation, Jouka barked out a
quick series of orders.
"You know the way," Martine shouted to the gnomish
commander. 'q/ou lead. Vil and I will guard the rear."
Amazingly enough, Jouka did not argue, but let himself
be caught up in the arms of Ojakangas, who had managed
to recover his skis. Vil declined the set offered him, and
Martine did the same. Of those gnomes who had escaped,
less than half still had skis. Those that did doubled up, awk~
wardly balancing another gnome on the boards with them.
Vil passed the wounded gnome off to one of them. "Where
was your wizard during the fighting?" Jouka demanded
angrily as they set out.
Martine said nothing as she floundered through the
waist-deep snow, trying to match the speed of the gnomes.
Over her rasping breath, the Harper strained to hear
sounds of pursuit. She heard the mingled cries of the
gnolls, some like wolves on the scent, others barking and
quarreling as the creatures fell to looting the dead. Over it
all, Martine distinctly heard the shrill voice of Vreesar. The
pursuit was on, with only herself and Vil to act as the rear
guard.
Martine took position behind a pair of tree trunks that
formed a , a good shelter for her archery. With arrows
staked in the snow around her, she waited while Vil stayed
close by, his sword at the ready.
The first three gnolls that broke the crest of the ridge
received two arrows each. Five of the six were hits, Mar-tine
noted, and two of her targets squealed and flopped into
the snow. The third gnoll did neither, for the shafts had
transfixed him to the trunk of a tree. There he hung,

making gurgling noises while his arms swung feebly like a
broken puppet.
"On your left!" Vii hissed in her ear.
Another shaft hissed from between her fingers, speeding
toward a shadow that darted across a sunlit patch. Martine
didn't see the arrow hit, but a yowl from the woods confirmed
the accuracy of her aim.
"Any More?" she demanded, relying on Vil as her spotter.
"Nothing yet," he whispered.
The pair waited, trying not to start at every shadow.
They could hear the gnolls barking crude insults at the
gnomes, though no More of the dogmen showed their faces.
"What do you suppose they're planning to do?" the
ranger asked.
"They're scared. They'll shout insults for a while, and
then they'll rush us."
Martine nodded. 'hat's what I was thinking."
'v-hat do you suggest?"
"Good time to move," she offered.
"Right," the man said. "Give me some of those arrows."
Without wondering why, she grabbed a handful from her
quiver and passed them to the former paladin. "Cover me."
Vil said. The warrior struggled to his feet and set out
toward a fallen log in a doubled-over run. He disappeared
behind the log in a frantic, ungraceful dive.
Panic started to rise in Martine, an unreasoning fear that she had been abandoned. When the man didn't reappear
immediately, she shifted about nervously and hissed, 'ril!"
Nothing. The shouts of the gnolls were growing fiercer.
'Vii!" she repeated, a little louder.
Vil's black-haired head popped up over the log. "Quiet!
Throw me the bow. I'll cover you."
Unnocking her arrow, the Harper threw the bow like a
spear. The throw came up short, and a for a fearful instant,


	214
	The Harpers

Soldiers of ice
	215



she thought it would end up stranded between the two of
them, but the curve of the bow acted like a sleigh's skid,
and it slid across the snow till it was just within Vil's grasp.
Suddenly the woods rang with Vreesar's buzzing rage,
echoed by a chorus of howls from the gnolls.
Martine waited for the man's signal, and when it came,
she launched herself into a blind sprint. "Quick--this way!"
Vii ordered, shoving her farther into the woods almost as
soon as she hurtled over the log. Blindly obedient, she
sprinted on to fling herself down beside a frozen stream.
"Ready!" she panted.
The bow came sailing across the gap. Catching it before
it crashed into the brush on the far side, the ranger moved
down the bank a bit till she was behind their original position.
She saw moving shapes, and without waiting to find
out just what they were, she fired off a series of quick
shots. A chorus of yelps and confused shouts came from
the general direction of the movement. Then the shadows
scattered once More into the woods.
Working from cover to cover, the pair finally managed to
put some distance between themselves and their pursuers.
There was no doubt the gnolls were still on the trail--the
sound of their savage voices was evidence enough of that--but
the creatures no longer could risk open movement,
thanks to the stinging warnings from Vii and Martine.
Both humans were breathing hard and soaked with
sweat, while their coats were sticky with pine resin from
clinging to the cover of the tree trunks. However, neither
was conscious of fatigue, being far too occupied with the
chase.
It was Martine's turn to leapfrog. She darted across a
half-shaded clearing, moving from shadow to shadow in an
effort to remain unseen. Her efforts almost came to naught
when a tall figure moved out from the shadow of a tree trunk directly ahead of her. It was a gnoll, his attention

focused just slightly off to her side. Martine froze in the
shadow of a rock ledge like a rabbit caught in the open.
The creature moved slowly, its canine head hung low as
its body hunched over with the unmistakable poise of a hunter. In one paw, it held a cleavefiike sword; in the other,
a small shield poised half at the ready.
Outflanked! The ranger instantly reassessed the situation,
and indeed a quick scan of what she could see nearby
told the Harper the beast was not alone. Dim, hulking
shapes crept through the snow-draped woods to either
side, barely visible yet close enough to respond to an alarm.
Easing farther back into the shadow of the rock, she signaled
Vil to stay down. They couldn't risk a missed shot or
a howl of pain that might alert the other gnolls. The dog-man
before her would have to be taken out by hand. Mar-tine
silently drew her sword and waited for the stalker.
The woman breathed only slightly faster than the gnoll
stalked, waiting for him to close the gap between them. Not
only did she watch him, but she also kept a wary eye on his
brothers. When at last he had moved close enough to be
jumped in a single sprint, the Harper raised her sword, only
to hold back from the final lunge that would close the gap.
She wasn't concerned about losing her advantage over him,
only whether she could drop him before an alarm was
raised. She had to wait until the moment was right, a
moment when the beast could die unnoticed by his companions.
The opportunity came when the gnoll passed on one side
of a drift formed from a fence of tall, dried grass. With the
drift on one side and a rock outcropping on the other, there
was no better opportunity. Holding her breath, Martine
waited until the gnoll had angled past her and then sprinted
the last few steps between them to spring on the gnoll's
back. With a single motion, she rammed the sword into its
lower back, thrusting the blade under the ribs and up


	216
	The Harpers

toward the creature's heart, while at the same time seizing
the front of its helm. Her fingers closed on the metal, and
she savagely wrenched the armor downward. Stooped for~
ward for the hunt, the stalker crashed headlong into the
snow even as its snout was jammed into its chest. The pair
plunged through the frozen crust, where the gnoll's howl of alarm was muffled in the thick powder. Martine threw her
weight onto the beast's back, jamming its face into the
snow while she thrust again and again with her sword. The
creature kicked and squirmed, choking on mouthfuls of
snow when it tried to scream, but she clung on, pressing
herself close till she breathed the gnoll's animal stench.
At last the creature writhed no More, though the Harper
gave one last stab to be certain. Remaining in a crouched
position, she watched for signs of any rescuers, flicking her
head from side to side like a cornered mountain lion, but
nothing appeared. The drift had screened her from sight of
the others. Creeping forward, she reached the point where
the snow3' mound tapered down. There she could see the
stalkers fade in and out of sight, still intent on their goal
ahead. She had broken the line without their knowing. By
hand signals, she let Vil know what she had done and then,
ignoring the cold, wriggled on her belly through the gap.
Vii followed suit, taking care not to be seen.
The pair burrowed like field mice for several minutes fill
they were sure there were no stragglers who might discover
them. With a gasp of relief, the Harper sat up, the
dying light of day shining on her as if she had surfaced
from some deep, dark world.
Momentarily free of their hunters, the pair made the
most of the opportunity, running through the snow as fast
as they could. They crashed down slopes, bounding half
out of control, and skidded across frozen patches between
the trees.
"Where'd Jouka go?" Martine panted as they finally

	Soldiers of !ce
	217

slowed their pace along the banks of a stream.
Vii bent double, his shoulders heaving. "Probably...
made for.., the river," he gasped between huge breaths.
"The going should be easier there."
"Which way?" Martine asked, staggering so she didn't
fall. She kept her arms wrapped round her sides so they
wouldn't burst from the pain.
"That xvay." Vil didn't point but set off in a stumbling jog.
Sucking in a lungful of raw air, Marfine followed after him.
Vil's guess proved right, and it didn't take long for the
two groups to join up at the frozen grass hummocks that
marked the edge of the river meadows.
Marfine noted that no More than twelve gnomes were
with Jouka... twelve out of forty who had started the day.
There were probably a few stragglers in the woods, but
there was no doubt that many of the Vani had fallen at the
gnoll camp. Twelve gnomes, tired and dispirited, stood
among the hummocks with the same dejected blankness
beggars develop when they have lost all hope.
"Is Turi with you? Or that wizard?" were Jouka's first
questions, the first asked eagerly, the second dark with the edge of threat
Both humans shook their heads. 'Fo his credit, the
gnome took the news well, displaying none of the anger or
fear he must certainly have felt. The other news was
quickly shared, and word of the gnolls' pursuit gave new
life to the weary band of Vani. They laid into their skis in a
desperate race for the warren.
At every brief break, the gnomes strained their ears as
they listened for sounds of pursuit. Their efforts were not
unrewarded. From the wooded ridge along the river came
the barking exchanges of gnoll trackers as they picked up
the trail. The intention of the marauders was clear to all in
the group. That knowledge gave further strength to the
little homesteaders, a strength Marfine could not match.


	2 I 8
	The Harers

Soldiers of !ce
	219



The Harper toiled to keep up, ignoring the fire in her
sides as she slogged along in the flat-pressed tracks of their
skis. Her fingers and toes were numb from cold, a cold that
was steadily sapping her drive. Only Vil's strong arm,
which sometimes pulled her up the steep grades, at other
times guided her across half-frozen streams, enabled her to
keep up with the pack.
By dusk, the race was in its final lap as the survivors
neared the east gate. The snarling howls that rang through
the eerily still woods told them the gnolls, fired by the lust
of the hunt, were close at hand. Shrill barks were punctuated
by the thick chop of metal against wood and the clang
of beaten shields. Through the woods, the Harper caught
glimpses of dark moving figures, awkwardly loping through
the drifts. At staggered intervals, the creatures turned their
muzzles up to bay at the fading sun.
The panting group finally crashed through the last of the
brush, all pretense of caution and silence forgotten, and
plunged toward the hillside that held the gate. Human and
gnome floundered across the familiar ground, each drawing
reserves from deep inside. At the front of the exhausted
and dispirited party, Jouka hailed those inside with a gasping
cry, his voice rattling with breathlessness.
The Vani ahead of Martine shrieked in pain and abrupfiy
sank to the snow. A feathered shaft jutted from his shoulder.
Martine heard the hiss of another arrow passing close
by her ear. A quick glance back revealed a tall, ragged bowman,
its wolfish ears perked up with excitement, clumsily
hocking another arrow with its mittened hands.
"Archers!" the woman squawked in hoarse warning.'It
was hardly necessary; another arrow dug into the snow
close beside the bobbing line of retreating gnomes.
Ahead, the door cracked open cautiously as the gnomes
inside peered out fearfully, alarmed by the cries and howls
descending on them. Jouka's barked commands urged

them to greater speed, his voice harsh and coarse.
Martine thrust a hand under the arm of the fallen gnome.
"Help me, Vil!" The big man grabbed the other arm, and
the pair heaved the gnome upright. The bearded warrior
choked off a scream as the protruding arrow twisted in his
shoulder. The two humans dragged the gnome across the
last few yards. Vil's shield arm, held high as a screen to
protect them from the gnoll archer, jumped when a deadly
shaft pierced its wooden face and jutted out the back side.
The door gaped just wide enough for the trio to tumble
through, slipping as they hit the polished wooden floor.
Craning her head around, Martine saw a line of perhaps
twenty gnolls already spread along the edge of the woods.
The sudden thunk of arrows against the wooden gates testified
to the presence of More than one archer.
Martine tugged her ice-encrusted nfittens free with her
teeth while a throng of Vani threw their shoulders against
the doors. The sight of the gate shuddering shut and their
chances slipping away caused the gnolls to charge with savage
abandon. The doors met just as the first of the huge
beasts thudded against the heavy wood. A frustrated chorus
of animal howls rose from beyond the gate, and then
the pressure grew, while inside the Vani grunted and
heaved against the surge.
Slowly the Vani gave ground to the greater strength of
the gnolls outside.
"Look out!" Vil shouted as metal scraped against wood
and a sword thrust through the gap. The former paladin
sprang to the portal and hurled his mass against the parting
gates. "Martine--the bar! Help them!" he shouted,
rolling his head in the direction of a trio of old Vani who
were struggling to raise a heavy wooden crossbeam over
their heads and slam it home to lock the gate. The Harper
sized up the situation quickly and bent to the task. With a
heave, she got a shoulder under the bar. Small Vani hands


	220
	The Harpers

groped behind her, scraping the beam over her injured
shoulder till it felt like gravelly fire. With a loud bang, the
bolt dropped into the metal brackets.
The door shook and shuddered at the gnolls' assaults but
held firm. Everyone inside seemed to wilt with relief.
Beside Martine, Vil sagged back against the gate in his wet
clothes, his beard streaming with melting ice and perspiration.
Her own her black hair was soaked with sweat. Her
hands shook when she tried to steady them, and her breath
came in uneven pants. At her back, the gates continued to
shake as the gnolls futilely tried to batter them down.
Throughout the hall, the Vani, numb with relief, made
their way through the tangle of discarded skis and swords
to collapse in the quiet, dark corners of the hall. Sumato
hunched over the injured, his hands bloody from healing
the worst of the wounded. A pair of spinsters in black
dresses dictated the work of a team of womenfolk, who
scurried after Sumalo with buckets of steaming water and
linen bandages. Hot water and blood slopped across the
shining floor, running in pink streams through the cracks
between the boards.
Wil," Martine said urgently, "we can't afford to rest yet."
Refusing to surrender to exhaustion, the Harper got her
wobbly legs under her and strode among the spent gnomes,
shaking them to action "Get up! Come on, don't just lie
there! You're not safe yet. Pick up your weapons." Grumbling,
the gnomes rose and tottered about, gathering their
gear. Vil heaved to his feet and put those who were able to
the task of bracing the door. Runners went in search of
beams, hammers, and pegs to reinforce it.
"Where's your damned wizard friend, woman?" Jouka
shouted as he pulled at Martine's sleeve. "He killed my
brother!"
Infuriated by the gnome's tone, Martine wrenched herself
free from his grasp, almost impaling her arm on the

	Soldiers of !ce
	221

gnome's spiked breastplate. "Let go of me! I haven't seen

Jazrac, and he didn't kill your brother?

"Fiend's fires he didn't," Jouka swore, his prominent
	
	'
	' " ' ' Of
nose flaming red, his eyes wtld with passon. Tun s n

back yet. Nobody even saw him make it to the woods. Your

friend should have warned us Vreesar was coming. He was
in the rear." . ,,
"I haven't seen him, you--you stupid little mdget! the
Harper exploded. The fear and exhaustion of the day
stoked her irritation with the gnome into fury until she had
to lash out.
"Martine, Jouka! Now is not the time for this? Vii thundered
as he pushed himself between the two. "Master
Jouka, direct your people. They'll listen to you better than
they will to me." Separated from the Harper by the former
paladin, the gnome growled angrily and bustled off.
"As for you, Martine, back off," Vil said, grabbing her
shoulders and steering her toward the inner doors. She
quivered fiercely against his grasp. "rl'uri's still out there.
Jouka cares a lot for him."
"Damn him!" the woman spat out, still not completely
under control. "I mean, damn it all. He's right. Where was Jazrac when we needed him?" The question hung without
an answer.
"You need rest," Vil said. "Things seem under control
here. Go get some sleep. I'll alert you if anything happens."
"I'll stay here."
"Go!" This time Vil's words were not a suggestion. "Staying
here will only provoke Jouka. Give him time to cool
down. Get out of his sight."
"What about Jazrac?"
' ' k
"If you mean looking for him, forget it. We can I us losing
anyone else. He's on his own, just like Tuff." Vil didn't
wait for her to agree but walked the woman a short way
down the hall, heading in the direction of their room.


	222
	The Harpers

Eventually Martine found herself standing alone outside
the small guest room. Although it wasn't her choice, sleep
was a good idea right now. Opening the door, she ducked
her head and stepped over the threshold. Inside, the magical
tapers had been covered and only the faintest light
leaked through the hoods.
"Hello, Martine,' said Jazrac, his melancholy voice whispering
softly from the gloom.
Martine slammed the door in shock. "Jazrac, where in
Cyric's hells have you been? What are you doing here?"
Martine clenched the door handle, furious to see the wizard
huddled on the bed before her.
Jazrac looked at her. His once imperious gaze was lost in
the gray hollows of his eyes. The regally manicured goatee
and perfect coiffure were in disarray; bits of pine needles
clung to his graying hair and beard. Streaks of sweat and
pine resin covered his face. With clothes stained and only
half-laced, Jazrac looked More like a drunkard than the
proud Harper she knew.
"Does anybody know you're here?" the woman hissed,
her back against the door.
"No. I used a spell to get in," the mage mumbled.
Martine slowly crossed the room, still moving like a
huntress. "Jouka wants your hide. I'm not sure I blame
him," she said. "What happened out there? The gnolls came
right up behind us---right where you were supposed to be."
With a pained expression, the wizard leaned back and
looked at the ceiling, avoiding Martine's unforgiving gaze.
"I... panicked."
"What do you mean, you panicked?" she shouted in disbelief.
There had to be a better reason, she knew. Jazrac
was a powerful Harper, a wizard. He didn't panic.
"I mean I panicked, that's all! I ran!" Jazrac bellowed
back, unleashing all his self-loathing on Martine. %Vhen I
saw them coming, I couldn't do anything! I was afl.aid...

	Soldiers of ice
	22'

afraid of Vreesar and dying and all that, so I forgot every
thing and ran. Do you understand now? Is that clear enougl
for you? Didn't anybody ever run in your worldJor di
they all die gloriously?"
"You ran? How could you? You're a Harper--"
"I didn't want to die!"
"--and Harpers don't run?
'q'hey just never tell anyone!"
Jazrac's last statement stunned Martine into silence. Th,
pair glared at each other across the room. Each shivere,
with passion, struggling to control the rage within.
Finally Jazrac spoke, his voice a pleading whisper. "Mar
fine, I could have been here in a day with my spells. Wh]
do you think I sent you here?"
She shook her head furiously, as if to deny him an,.
understanding.
"I'm not a warrior," the man continued with a touch o:
sorrow in his voice. "I'm not even a war wizard. I've spen
my years reading scrolls and making magical artifacts, lik(
the stones you used. I don't fight. So when somethin
needs doing, I make whatever device is called for and then
send someone like you to take the risk."
"You... you do that, and then you have the nerve ti- come
up here and lecture me about what a true Harpe
should do?" Impulsively Martine stepped forward ant
slapped Jazrac hard across the face. Even as she did it, sh{
cringed in horror at the realization of what she'd done. "Oh gods," she breathed. Lingering respect mingled with th
knowledge the wizard could still break her career.
A little of the imperious fire returned to the wizard as he
sat up straight on the edge of the bed. "And I was right, too
You know it." His pride faded as the energy to hold it draine(
from him. He was no longer Jazrac, her mentor, or Jazrac
the Harper, but just Jazrac, drained and flawed. Inside, Mar
fine's anger cooled along with her old fearful respect.


	224
	The Harers

Soldiers of Ice
	225



"As I said before, Jouka wants your hide." The ranger's
voice was no longer angry but cold and flat "A lot of
gnomes died in that ambush."
"I know. I just don't know what to do."
In silence, each sought an answer. Finally Martine held
out her hand. "Do you still have the stone? Give it to me."
His eyes furrowed in puzzled suspicion, Jazrac hesitated.
Then, pulling a leather sack from under the bed, he produced
the keystone and laid it in her hand. The rock
appeared no different from before. It was still pitted and
veined with its own internal fires.
The woman went to the door. "Stay here till I come for
you."
Outside, the ranger hurried down the hails, hoping she
could remember the way. At last she arrived in the cold,
dirt-floored section that contained the animal pens. As she
knelt beside a cage, she noticed Hakk's doll, still lying in
the dirt where'd she thrown it. Carefully she brushed it off
and pushed it back through the bars.
"Word-Maker?"
"I hear you, human," echoed the shaman's hollow voice
from the other side.
"Do your people want war with the Vani?' she asked.
"Ask the new chieftain of the Burnt Fur,' Krote replied
bitterly.
'q'he pit fiends take Vreesar! I mean your tribe.., would
they make peace?"
"The pack has no quarrel with the little people." Martine
heard a scuffling in the straw, and then the dog-man slid
into the light
"If I give you the chance, can you convince your people--your
pack--to make peace?" Martine squatted down to
look Krote in the eyes.
'WVhat do you want, female?" the gnoll growled.
"Will you?"

"The price is my freedom," the shaman insisted.
"Only if they agree," Martine countered. Wrell?''
Krote licked his chops. "I will try. They may not listen to me."
"Good enough. Now slide to the back again." Despite the
gnoll's promise, the Harper didn't trust him completely. As
Krote crouched at the pen's far wall, Martine cut the ropes
that bound the door shut. Once the door opened, she signaled
him out and then followed the stooped gnoll through
the halls.
The pair retraced her path through the windowless corridors
to the room where Jazrac waited. Krote bared his
fangs at the gnomish women they passed along the way,
taking delight in the way they shrank in terror against the
passage walls.
"Jazrac, I need you," Martine called from outside the
door. "Now," she added when the wizard did not respond
immediately.
The door clattered open and the Harper wizard came out,
tidying his disheveled clothing in a weak attempt to regain
some smattering of his dignity. He paused, hands hovering
over his doublet, when he saw Krote. "What's he doing
here?"
"I've got an idea," was all Martine said. She was still
angry with the wizard, uncomfortable even talking to him.
Most of all, though, she couldn't abide the thought that he
might criticize what she intended to do. "You said Harpers
should fix things. Well, I'm going to fix something." She
motioned Krote and Jazrac down the hall.
"Where are we going?" Jazrac asked as he fell in beside
her.
"To the council chamber. I'm guessing that's where
Sumalo and the others are--making plans."
When they approached the council hall, the somber tone
of voices inside confirmed Martine's guess. On entering


	226
	The Harpers

the outer chamber, where the dance had been held, the
three passed through a silent crowd. Wives of council
members and some older gnomish children were clustered
near the council doors, trying to catch every word of what
was said inside. Around them orbited the smaller children,
who didn't really understand what had happened but
sensed its importance from the reaction of their elders.
Now the Harper herself could hear the grim litany that
echoed from inside.
"Buri?'
"He's hurt but he made it back."
"And Heikko?"
"I think he fell at the gnolls' camp."
'q'hat makes seventeen."
"Ojakangas?"
"He's helping to guard the south gate."
Martine pushed into the edge of the crowd blocking the
door, with Krote and Jazrac following. ^ ripple of alarm
spread through the crowd, and the gnomes parted like
water before them. The women eyed Krote with fear, but
their expressions changed to hostile scowls when they saw
Jazrac. Stories of his role in the massacre were no doubt
among the whispers that they passed from ear to ear.
The commotion at the door alerted those inside of their
arrival. The hall, always before well filled with elders, was
half empty, particularly the upper tiers. Those who were
present sat near Sumalo's chair, where the priest was carefully
making notes on a birchbark scroll. All work stopped
the instant Martine guided Krote into the hall.
'What are they doing here?" Jouka demanded of Sumalo,
as if the priest had something to do with Martine's arrival.
The priest set his quill aside. "Harpers, you were not
summoned here," he said sternly, "and you are not welcome.
It's because of you and your plots that I must add
these names to the record of the dead." The whitebeards

	Soldiers of !ce
	227

around the priest loudly grumbled their agreement.
"It's because of him!" Jouka cried accusingly, spying
Jazrac. The gnome hopped down from the bench and stood
with hands on hips. "Where were you during the baffle, wizard?
Where was your magic? My brother and friends died
because of--"
"Elder Sumalo, I ask permission to speak," Martine
asked, trying to prevent the meeting from becoming a
shouting match.
"--because of you, you craven---"
"Elder Sumalo, please!" Martine persisted.
Thump.t The speaker's rod banged on the hollow bench.
"Jouka Tunkelo! Hold for a moment!" The force of Sumalo's
words silenced the gnome, though he remained rooted to
the spot, glaring at Jazrac.
"Martine of Sembia, what do you have to say to us?"
Martine prodded Krote, and the gnoll moved stiffly to
one side. The shaman's lips curled with a slight trace of a
fanged smile as he listened to the squabbling among his
enemies.
"I have a plan to stop the fighting and get Vreesar out of
the valley," the woman began as she stepped into the center
of the hall.
"What is it, human?" Jouka sneered. "Are you and the
brave wizard there going to kill this fiend yourselves?"
Martine turned stiffly to face the belligerent gnome. "No  .. I'm going to give him this." From her pocket, she pulled
out Jazrac's stone and held it up for the gnomes to see.
'his is the stone Vreesar wanted."
"Martine, you can't!" Jazrac blurted in alarm as he
stepped forward to try and reclaim the stone.
The ranger snatched her hand back. "I can and will,
Jazrac. Harpers have a duty to solve problems, not let
others do it for them."
"But that thing will reopen the gate! What happens to


The Harjers

these people then?"
Sumalo and the others shifted uneasily when they heard
this news.
"I said I have a plan. Jazrac, do you have a spell that can
get you back to Shadowdale quickly?" Martine pressed.
She could see that the council was wavering, and she
needed to make her point quickly.
"I can teleport with this," the wizard said, meaningfully
tapping the ring on his finger.
The woman breathed an inward sigh of relief, for her
idea hinged on the wizard's magical abilities. "Then my
plan is this," she pronounced, turning back to the council.
"Vreesar wants the stone. Once the creature gets it, it'll
head back to the glacier. The elemental isn't interested in
you Vani or your warren. I'll give him the stone and then
he'll leave."
Jouka snorted. "What about the gnolls?"
"And the rift?" Jazrac added.
Martine had her answer ready. "That's why I brought
Word-Maker with me. He says he'll get the gnolls to make
peace"
"I will try, human," Krote growled, "in exchange for my
freedom."
Martine winced at the gnoll's correction. Her plan was
risky enough; she didn't need to have the shaman make it
sound any worse.
Elder Sumalo stirred on his chair, his iron charms clinking.
"As the wizard said, this creature called Vreesar will
reopen this gate, and then there will be even More of
them."
Martine hesitated, The time had come when she finally
had to give up her pride. Pointing to the wizard, she explained,
'q'hat's where he comes in. Jazrac uses his ring to get More
help from the Harpers because the job's too big for me. We
take the chance that reinforcements come in time."

	Soldiers of Ice
	229

"Him? The coward?" Jouka scoffed. He turned his back
and clambered back onto his bench in disgust.
"Yes, him." Martine had no choice but to leap to Jazrac's
defense. "He simply goes home and gets help. You won't
have to rely on him to fight. And he doesn't even have to
come back." Martine knew the words must have stung
Jazrac, but when she looked at him, his face showed no
sign of any reaction.
The elders stroked their white beards thoughtfully.
"And if Vreesar kills you and takes this--this thing?"
Jouka demanded, still seeking fault with her plan.
The ranger was ready for this question, too. "I plan to
hide it before we meet. That way he can't just kill me and
get the stone."
Sumalo turned to Jouka and said, "If the woman is killed,
her plan can still go forward. She is not needed after that-'
Martine had not considered that. Thinking about it now
was hardly comforting She noticed that Jouka was smiling
grimly.
Now it was Jouka's turn to stroke at his beard as he
leaned back on his bench and considered. The others on
the council waited expectantly for him to announce his
decision. Clearly, as one of the Vani's few warriors, Jouka's
word carried great weight.
Finally the gnome leaned forward, placing his small
hands on his small knees. "Since the woman wants to take
the risk, I say we let her. Let the Harpers fix their problems.
We risk nothing."
Except a hundred More creatures like Vreesar if we fail,
Martine thought grimly.


Fourteen

Back in their tiny quarters after several More hours of planning with the
gnomes, Martine finished going over
the particulars with Jrac. The woman
was overflowing with details--the likeliest
places to find the gnolls, where to
hide the stone, even what gate she'd use
to leave. Vii listened with interest, saying nothing all the
while she outlined the plan. He sat on the edge of the bed,
still in his armor, his hair stiff with dried sweat. Streaks of
brown-red blood soiled his tabard.
"Could I see it?" the ex-paladin asked, pointing to the
stone.
Martine shrugged and passed it to him.
"This is what he wants, eh?"
She nodded.
Vil held it up to the light, turning it like a jeweler looking
for a flaw in a diamond. "It seems awfully small to have cost
so many lives." He carefully handed it back to the Harper.
"But then it always does."

230

	Soldiers of ice
	23

%Vith that stone, Vreesar and its kind could overrun tl
north," Jazrac said ominously.
"I'm coming along with you," the warrior announced. }
rose and buckled on his hanger as if the matter was alreal
decided.
"No," Martine protested. "This is my plan, Vil. I car
have you taking such a risk."
"But you need me." His voice was filled with se!
confidence.
Martine did a slow burn. She'd already admitted S
would need help to defeat Vreesar, but it wasn't as if S
couldn't handle the meeting. "I can handle myself, tha
you, Vilheim Baltson."
"I know you can, but you shouldn't be alone. You'll me
someone to watch the gnoll while you talk, just in case
tries something." Vil adjusted the straps on his helm.
'q'he man makes sense, Martine," Jazrac observed, ev
though Martine couldn't help considering the wizarc
counsel suspect in such matters.
"You're going to insist on this, aren't you?" Sensing the
was no winning, the ranger rose awkwardly from the no,
the weight of her armor making the move difficult
Vil nodded in the affirmative as he tipped his chin ba,
to finish buckling the helmet's straps. "Call it my old p
adin self. You need help and I'm duty bound to give it." T
words sounded a little choked as he fussed with the stra[
"Are you sure you're not still a paladin?" she asked w
mock suspicion.
Vil rocked the helmet on his head, testing the soundm
of the buckles. "I can't help it if I still think like one."
"All right. It's your choice. But I'm not responsible:
you," Martine relented as she strung her bow.
"Don't worry. I can take care of myself."
Inwardly, Martine was relieved at the chance to have I
company. None of the Vani could be spared to come aim


	232
	The Har]ers

so it would be just she and Vii.
Armored and outfitted, the pair took their leave of the
wizard. Jazrac remained behind in the room, too mortified
to face the gnomes alone. "Jazrac, don't leave before I get
back," Martine said as they started through the door.
"I know--just to make sure everything has gone as
planned," the wizard concluded wearily as he closed the
door.
It felt uncomfortable giving the mage orders like a child,
but Martine was keenly aware that this was her responsibility.
Uncomfortable or not, she couldn't allow any mistakes.
Bound and guarded, Krote was waiting for them in the
hall. The gnomes had produced his ragged arm wrappings
from somewhere. Seeing how filthy they were, Martine was
amazed the gnomes hadn't burned them. Even the studded
crossed belts had been returned.
"Untie him," the woman ordered as one of the guards
handed over the shaman's charms.
"You can do that outside," the gnome replied.
It wasn't important, so Martine let it drop. The gnomes
led the way. The warren's hallways were empty and quiet,
somehow missing the normal bustle of everyday life.
A great yawn swept over the ranger.
"When did you last sleep?" Vil asked.
"I don't really know. Is it day or night?" Cut off from the
cycles of light and dark inside the windowless burrow, the
ranger had lost all track of time. Was it quiet because it was
nighttime? Did the gnomes even care?
"It's almost dawn," their guide offered. The gnome led
them to a section of the warren Martine had never seen
before. How big is this den? she wondered. She'd heard of
immense underground complexes in the wild regions of
the Heartlands, but those were almost always inhabited by
fell orcs and the like. Could it be that the gnomes were
even greater tunnelers than she ever suspected?

	Soldiers of Ice
	233

Their arrival at a small doorway at the end of a long passage
ended these considerations. There was a small alcove
carved at the very end, and here two gnomes guarded the
portal. The pair sprang to their feet guiltily, shoving the
draughts board out of sight and clenching their stubby
spears tightly. They eyed the party nervously.
'Whe cliffside entrance," explained the guide with a nod
toward the small door. The gate couldn't have been More
than four feet high and half as wide and was constructed of
heavy beams bound by iron. A set of double bars lay firmly
in heavy brackets at the top and bottom. Everything at this
end of the hall was black and polished smooth by the touch
of the years.
Their skis hung beside the door on pegs. The gnome
quickly passed them to Martine and Vil. There were no
skis for the gnoll, but the Harper had already arranged for a
pair of snowshoes. The hall was too cramped for them to
don their gear, so Martine motioned for the door to be
opened while Vil's lips moved in a silent prayer.
He's still a paladin at heart, Martine realized suddenly.
The three gnomes set their shoulders to the top bar, and
the scarred black beam grated as it slid aside. Next they
dragged the lower beam from its brackets. When they
worked the iron latch, the gate swung inward with a leaden thunk to open onto a small square of predawn light held in a
frame of thick snow, a short tunnel-like passage to the surface.
"It must not be used much," Martine noted as she peered
at the patch of light at the end. The gnomes noted her
words, but offered no comment
"It's a bolt hole.., an escape route. We'll strap on our
skis outside," Vil said.
Bent almost double, the three of them half-walked, half-crawled
up the four steps and onto the surface. Cliffside
was aptly named, for the gate deposited them on a small


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	The Harers

ledge of a bluff overlooking the river. In the predawn
gloom, Martine could see that the slope dropped away
quickly and was thick with young birches that had gained a
purchase on its steep sides. Below and beyond the dim
light, she heard the creak and groan of river ice, while
behind them, the gate thudded shut, followed by the
rumble of the bars as they were slid back in place.
Drawing her bone-handled knife, Martine cut the shaman's
bonds. The gnoll eagerly flexed his wrists and
rubbed them to get circulation back into his hands. With
his superior night vision, the gnoll flicked his yellow eyes
over the woods while his black nose crinkled, searching for
scents the humans could never discern.
"Wear these," the ranger ordered, thrusting the snowshoes
into Krote's hands. Vii held his sword ready while
Martine strapped her skis on; then she did the same for
him. Ice crackled softly under their feet as the party broke
a path along the trail. The skis hissed through the powder,
grinding on the hard chunks of ice that roiled up like waves
on a frozen sea.
The trail wound along the river bluff, hairpinning several
times before it finally reached level ground well away from
the warren.
Upon reaching the flat, Martine signaled the silent group
to a stop. "Wait here," she whispered as if there were gnolls
all about. "I've got to hide the stone." She slid away into the
frost-filled gloom of the forest.
"Take off your snowshoes and sit," the former paladin
ordered, motioning to the gnoll with his sword. As the shaman
obeyed, Vil settled down for a long wait.
The pair spent what seemed like an hour in silence, listening
to the hunting calls of the owls along the river, the
last before their coming daytime silence. Once they heard a
barking cough that alerted them both, but then the yellow
gleam of eyes showed it to be a lynx irritated with their

	Soldiers of !ce
	235

presence. The gnoll growled and bared his teeth at the
wildcat to sen'd it scampering into the woods. It was as close to talking as the man and gnoll got.
The slide of skis heralded Martine's return. She said
nothing about where she had been, believing it best that
only she knew the stone's hiding place. Vil was happy to get
moving again and work out the chill that had seeped into
his body. The dawn sun was breaking over the eastern
mountains, but its rays only created bright glare and long
shadows without providing any warmth.
"So where do we find Vreesar?" Vil asked as they skirted
the snow-choked borders of a frozen pond, an extension of
the Iow-banked river. A mountain fog, moisture freezing in
the air, hung in the trees along the shore's edge.
"We'll try their camp first," Martine answered. "I don't
think they've had time to move any closer to the warren.
The gnomes didn't see any signs of major activity--nc
smoke from campfires or anything. My best guess is thai
they're still at the camp we raided."
Krote spoke up. 'q'hey will not stay there."
'tfhy not?" Martine demanded.
"Many died there. The ground is paavak--a place for evil
spirits. Even Vreesar cannot get my people to stay."
Martine trusted the shaman's words because they mad
sense. Places of death, especially battlegrounds, were
always dangerous, and not only because the dead migh
walk again. There was always the risk of being possesse{
by a vengeful spirit still haunting such areas. "All right
Then we'll assume Vreesar's somewhere between his of,
camp and the warren. With all those gnolls, the camp can
be hard to find."
Keeping alert for any tracks, Martine plunged into th
woods, following a path that would form a loop around th
warren's east side. Sooner than she expected, they foun.
the broken snow of a trail made by a number of creature,


	236
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	237



all More or less following the same direction.
"Definitely gnolls," the ranger whispered after a brief
inspection of the tracks. "About twenty of them. See the
snow in the prints? They can't be More than a few hours
old."
"How about the elemental?" Vil asked.
Martine shook her head. "Not among these. Let's go."
The woman didn't like standing still. The gnolls could be
anywhere. They might have looped back, or they could be
stopped just over the next ridge. There was a thrill to the
uncertainty of stalking that made her want to keep moving,
especially when the prey was as cunning and dangerous as
the gnolls were.
"Be ready, shaman," she added. "In case we find them."
The gnoll growled. Martine wasn't sure what that signified.
Word-Maker had assured her that he could get them a
parley. She would rather have used a white flag, assuming
such things were universal, but the gnolls, according to the
shaman, didn't understand the meaning of that gesture.
Thus she found herself forced to rely on the shaman More
than she liked. It made her all the happier to have Vil along,
in case Krote decided to betray her trust.
The trail split around some tree trunks and branched off,
with several lone tracks trailing off into the woods, but the
main trail kept a steady course, angling toward a ridge that
overlooked the east gate. The ridge was formed by a mountain
spur that forced the river into a wide loop and formed
the small bluff upon which the warren sat. The high end of
the ridge, to the east, crested in a series of granite outcroppings
that thrust through the snow like the exposed vertebrae
of the mountain's spine. A gnoll perched atop the
rocks would have a clear view of the east and south gates of
the Vani warren. Making a sensible guess, Martine figured
the camp was somewhere just below the crest.
From ahead, there came a raven's mournful protest.

After that, it became completely silent. There were no
sounds of forest animals foraging for their breakfasts, no
bird calls of any type. Without speaking, Martine signaled
caution. Vii drew his sword and held it close to the gnoll's
back, making sure the shaman saw his move. The Harper
kept her weapons sheathed. She wanted to parley and
could not afford any misunderstanding that might lead to
battle.
Stealthily the ranger led them on, using all her woodland
skill to avoid any noise. She winced with every crackle of
Krote's snowshoes. Soon they heard harsh voices through
the trees, and then they saw their goal.
It was a new camp, as Martine had hoped. Though the
ground was trampled with the tribe's coming and going,
only a few rude tents had been put up. The gnolls huddled
in small groups, bundled in their furs, their weapons thrust
in the snow beside them. A few were making an anemic
effort to chop wood, but no fires smoked. It must have been
a cold and hard night for the gnolls, she thought. They
looked exhausted, which probably explained the lack of
guards around the camp's perimeter.
Martine beckoned Krote forward. "Remember, we've
come to talk, not fight. You'll die first if you betray us," she
whispered. The guoll's ears twitched, the only sign that he
heard.
Stepping from the background of the trees, Krote raised
his hands high. Several faces glanced his way, and those
that saw him spread the alarm, creating a flurry that swept
through the camp.
"Brothers of the Burnt Fur!" Krote shouted, his voice
harsh against the coldness of the morning.
Growled barks rippled through the small packs of warriors.
"Brothers of the Burnt Fur, I bring the humans with me.
They come to speak with the chieftain of the Burnt Fur. I


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	The Harpers

call the chieftain of the Burnt Fur to come forth and speak
for his tribe." Krote crossed his arms, looking as regal and
proud as his thin, haggard body allowed.
The gnolls swayed with indecision. Some took several
steps forward, only to falter hesitantly as the rest of the
pack hung back. Their eyes scanned the wood on all sides,
looking for a trap. Swords and spears were cautiously
drawn from the snow. It was obvious they did not welcome
the shaman, but no tribesman acted with enough boldness
to tip the balance one way or the other. They were confused,
since the two humans were not enough for an attack,
but there was no sign of an ambush. Yet the concept of talking
was foreign to them.
"Varka," Krote demanded of a small gnoll near the center
of the camp, "is your chieftain here? Where is the one
called Vreesar?"
Eyes blazing, Varka pointed toward the far end of the
camp. Krote noticed something stir near the farthest tent.
Movement defined the camouflaged shape of the elemental,
reclined against a mound of snow. "I am here, traitor," it
droned in a leaden buzz. "You are not welcome."
"I bring humans to talk," Krote shouted across the camp.
"Humanz... More than one? I see the female. Who iz the
other?" The elemental pushed itself up from the snow and
slowly came forward in its stiff-legged walk. The gnolls
drew aside and then followed their chieftain, bolder and More belligerent behind the fiend.
"He does not matter," Krote said.
Martine stepped ahead of the shaman. "I come to end
this fighting, Vreesan' The wind swept away the quaver in
her voice.
"End fighting? Why?" The creature cocked its head, as if
curious. "It iz fun. I will kill you all, and then I will get my
brotherz."
The Harper took a deep breath. "No, you won't. You

	Soldiers of !ce
	239

won't have the stone."
Vreesar moved closer. Behind Martine, Vil slipped out of
his skis, getting ready for whatever might happen next.
'WV'hen you are dead, I will take the stone. It iz simple."
"If you kill me, you'll never get it. I've hidden it."
Vreesar stopped at her words, its iciclelike facial ridges
flexing in thought. Then its pinched face seemed to brighten.
"I will make you tell me where it iz."
Martine had expected this. She hoped her voice sounded
as firm as her conviction. "It won't work."
Once again the elemental's face flexed as it considered
her words. Its claws tapped together like frozen chimes.
"Why did you come?" it purred.
Martine's shoulders softened as every contracted muscle
in her body relaxed. "To make a deal--peace in exchange
for the stone."
"Peace?"
"Leave the Vani alone and I'll tell you where the stone is."
"Why?"
This question was also expected, and it was crucial. The
elemental had to believe and accept her answer. Martine
had already thought out several replies, but now it seemed
that only the truth would do.
"Because I don't want them to die. This is not their fight,
and I shouldn't gotten them involved."
"You did not choose anything, human. I fight them
because I want to," Vreesar said with a sneer.
"Then there's nothing to talk about. We'll fight you, and
you'll never get the stone, creature." The Harper turned to
go. She signaled for Vil and Krote to follow. The gnoll
looked at her dumbly, but Vil nodded and also turned to
leave.
"Wait, human," Vreesar barked before the pair had gone
two steps. "Perhapz we can reach an agreement."
Still facing away, Martine smiled. Her bluff had worked.


	240
	The Harers


"Like what?"

"My slavez will not attack the little people." With its alien
drone of a voice, Martine had no way to gauge the depth of
the elemental's sincerity.

"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 Word-Maker. "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
	241


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
	The Harers

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
	243

heads of our enemies." Krote's voice echoed with fierce
pride.
"We? You're our prisoner now, Word-Maker," 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


	Soldiers of Ice
	245


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.


	246
	The Harpers

"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.

	Soldiers of Ice
	247

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
	The Harers

Soldiers of !ce
	249



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
Word-Maker, 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
struggled to her feet against the wind. Vii lingered a few
moments while he murmured a quick prayer. She didn't
wait and plunged ahead.
With every tree that loomed out of the snowy haze, with
every hummock and deadfall, Martine expected to be confronted
by a snarling rush of gnoll warriors. There was no
way to tell if the enemy was near or far or even present at
all, although the Harper was sure by now that Vreesar had
not sent the humans back on the shortest trail.
It was luck, a fortunate turn on Tymora's wheel, that
guided them through the howling storm. They met no
gnolls, even though both Vii and Martine seemed to see
the beasts in everything. Suddenly the trees vanished and
the tracks became More definite--well-cut grooves in the

hardened crust. The three only had to follow these a little
way before they came to the heavy doors of the east gate.
Their pounding on the wooden gate could barely be heard
over the wail of the storm.
The peephole shot open, framing a pair of weary, bloodshot
eyes. 'qYe're back!" Martine shouted. "Let us in!"
The heavy bolts rattled on the other side, and the gate
parted cautiously. The Harper pushed the cracked doors
open and hurried inside. Vil herded Krote in and got himself
through the door as quickly as possible.
Two small guards, old Tikkanen and another, stood tense
and hesitant as the trio entered. "Get those doors shut!" the
Harper snapped. 'q'here are gnolls outside."
The old gatekeeper's rheumy eyes widened. "Impossible!''
he blustered. "Luski would have come back to warn
US."
"Shut the doors, damn it!" the ranger demanded as she
kicked off her skis. The fierceness of her command set
them in motion. 'This one you called Luski--did you send
him outside?"
"Not me. The council posted him as a scout."
Martine cursed as she stamped her feet to warm them.
Vil already had his skis off. He forced the gnoll onto a small
bench to remove the beast's snowshoes. He looked up from
his work. 'rour scout's dead, Tikkanen."
That news motivated the gnomes. The gate was quickly
swung closed and shot with bolts and bars. "Elder Sumalo
must be told," Tikkanen said excitedly once the work was
done. Leaving his companion peering through the peephole
at the storm, the ancient gnome waddled down the hall as
fast as his short legs could take him, scurrying away to
warn the others.
"Vii," Martine said wearily as she sank onto one of the
small benches, "can you take Krote back to his cell?"
The warrior nodded and roused the shaman, who rose


	250
	The Harpers

resentfully. "Meet you back here?"
Eyes closed, she nodded, then listened as the former paladin
trundled their prisoner away. Her mind was already
drifting.
Twenty minutes and a short catnap later, the foyer of the
east gate was crowded with gnomes. Jouka stood at the
forefront in his spined armor. The survivors of the previous
raid milled nervously about. Sumalo stayed to the rear, his
charms tinkling with tuneless rythym.
"Are you sure about the gnolls, humans?" Jouka demanded
again as he stepped away from the window slot. "I see nothing
but the storm out there."
"And the storm doesn't seem odd to you?" the Harper
asked.
"It is winter. Storms come up quickly here."
"No, Jouka," Vil interceded. 'Whis storm's not natural."
"And what about Luski?" Martine added.
"Brother Jouka," the guard at the door shouted excitedly,
"there's something moving out there!"
Crrrack!
The gate exploded in a sudden crescendo of noise. A
screaming rain of sharp wooden projectiles rode the shock
wave of the blast, splintered from the shattered doors with
all the fury of a hurricane wind. The jagged wood ripped
clothes and flesh alike, tangled in Martine's hair, and tore
at her skin. The blow slammed the slight woman against
the side wall, bruising her good shoulder.
Rising to her feet, the Harper drew her sword and took
quick stock of the situation. A shrieking gnome stumbled
past, half his ruddy face gouged by the wood. Other screams
filled the air. At the back of the hall, the ranger could barely
see Jouka amid the upheaval, thrown to the rear by the
force of the blast. Vil was sprawled onto a bench opposite
her, startled but apparently all right. The gnomes between
them reeled in confusion.

	Soldiers of Ice
	251

The gate itself hung half shattered in the doorway, splintered
boards held up by the heavy wooden bar that lay
askew in the portal, partially blocking the opening. Cold air
whisfied through the gaps, one of which was large enough
to see through clearly. Beyond, in the eerie golden light of
the storm, stood the elemental, its slick body gleaming with
the same whitish gold that bathed the ground. There was a
look of intense satisfaction on its bestial face as it raised its
hands before it. Silver white energy flashed between its fingertips,
rapidly spinning into a hardened ball of glowing
ice. The creature threw back its wedgelike head with a cry
of triumph, a sanguinary howl taken up by the gnolls Mar-tine
now saw clustered behind him. It echoed and reechoed
through the chamber.
Deliberately the elemental turned his attention to the
gate once More, raising the sphere that hovered between
his hands.
"Get down, everybody!" Martine bellowed in the loudest
voice she could, while at the same instant translating words
to action. The Harper had barely flattened herself on the
floor before the second explosion rocketed from the elemental's
hands. The ice ball smashed into the partially shattered
gate like a stone from a catapult and exploded in a
hail of icy, needlelike shards. This second blast felt harder
than the first, since the broken gate afforded little protection.
The hall shook, and fresh screams rang out as the
razorlike ice ripped through gnomes still staggering from
the first assault. Dirt sifted through new gaps in the ceiling
boards. The gate bar flexed, then snapped with an explosive
crack. The remaining door planks burst from the frame
and flew across the hail like projectiles. The lintel over the
door buckled and groaned, long splits rippling through the
carved beam. Snow quickly filled the air through the gal> ing opening.
Even before the dirt and snow had settled, the gnolls


Soldiers
of lee
	253

	252	The
Harpers



were charging forward. The gate was a shattered tangle, a
barrier no More. The first line of the warren's defenses had
been destroyed in a matter of seconds.
"What was that?" Vil shouted as he scrambled forward to
fill the breach. Martine jerked her sword free and stumbled
up to join him, stepping amid the mewling bodies of the
gnomes who'd been closest to the door.
"How should I know?" the woman gasped. "With Vreesar's
powers, maybes"
The rush of the Burnt Fur cut short any further talk as
the dog-men sprang through the wreckage. The first gnoll
through the gap took both their swords full in the chest and
died before it even had a chance to clear the threshold. It
had not yet fallen when another wild-eyed gnoll elbowed
the dying body out of the way, jabbing with a spike-headed
axe as it kicked away the broken boards. The wolf-man was
quick, beating back their blades as it bulled forward.
Another gnoll with a maul battered the still-standing frame
to widen the gap.
Jouka, his face blood-streaked and eyes ablaze, slipped
between the two humans and darted beneath the gnoll's
axe to stab the beast in the thigh with his thick-bladed
spear. Howling, the gnoll swung downward at its new tormentor,
lowering its guard in the process. Martine hacked
furiously at it, and the gnoll's hand suddenly flew free of the
beast's body. The gnoll staggered back, screeching as
blood jetted from the stump. Just as Vii moved in for the
kill, the maul-wielder crashed through the remaining splinters
and swung madly at the former paladin. Vil shifted targets
in midswing and chopped the second gnoll across the
face. The maul crashed down helplessly as the gnoll
flopped forward with a gurgling spray of blood, its lower
jaw and windpipe sliced away.
For a second, Martine thought the three of them just
might be able to hold the tide at the gate. The gnolls in the

front rank had been killed, and the reinforcements were
already failing back, fleeing from the bloodbath in the doorway.
Then, too late to do anything about it, Martine saw Vreesar
raising its hands for yet another blast. The elemental's
tiny mouth twisted in triumph as it callously condemned
the gnolls in the sphere's path to destruction.
"Gods--"
The rest of Martine's oath was extinguished by an explosive
roar. The shock wave, an invisible bubble of force, hit
like a battering ram, jerking the Harper from the floor and
flinging her slight body toward the back wall. The dying
axe-widder had caught the full force of the magical blast in
its back. Now its body flopped forward with a flatfish,
splayed look, riddled by ice-torn holes. Its insides spilled
through the huge gashes. Jouka was hurled across the
debris-cluttered floor, bouncing against the overturned
benches that blocked his way. Vii, whom she could barely
see, reeled against a side wall as he awkwardly avoided
falling ceiling timbers.
The ground came up hard, even though Martine's fall
was cushioned by a tangle of Vani. Her side, blistered and
torn, took the brunt of her slide, so that Martine's knees
buckled as she crawled free from the struggling mass.
There was no rush into the gaping breach. The gnolls
were apparently unwilling to charge lest their chieftain
launch another strike. That delay was all the Vani had going
for them. Reaching out, the woman seized dazed Jouka by
the collar and dragged him from the center of the floor.
"Get them out of here! We can't hold out any longer!"
Jouka didn't argue. Instead, he merely nodded weakly.
"Fall back!" he gasped, shoving nearby warriors toward the
inner door. They required no further urging.
A strong hand grabbed Martine's shoulder and hoisted
her up. "Thank Torm, you're alive!" Vil breathed huskily. "I


	254
	The Ha?ers

Soldiers of Ice
	255



fear the warren is lost." He pulled her toward the temporary
safety of the inner hall, for they both knew the respite
granted by the gnolls would not last.
"We can still defeat them," Marfine objected. They were
the last two through the inner gates. The doors quickly
closed behind them. Tables and benches were braced
against the doors--anything that could absorb the brunt of
Vreesar's icy blasts.
"At what cost, Harper? There are women and children
here." A Vani scream from the outer chamber, drawn out
and agonizing riveted everyone's attention. The gnolls were
celebrating their victory. At least it will buy us More time,
Martine noted grimly.
''Would you sacrifice them, too?" Vil demanded, speaking
not only to the woman but also to Jouka, whose face was set
hard. "It's time to evacuate the warren."
"This is our home! This dirt is in our blood," Jouka
snarled contemptuously. "We will not run. Maybe you
would be chased out of your home and idly watch it burn,
human, but we make our stand here." Jouka looked fiercely
to his fellows for support, but instead of a passionate band
of warriors, he saw a handful of fired and frightened family
men who held no false illusions of honor. The dwindling
screams from beyond their sight reminded all of the fate
that might be in store for their wives and children.
"Jouka, the human is right," Elder Sumalo gasped. The
priest had been wounded in the first blast and now lay on a
litter, bloody blankets bound around his side. ''We cannot
stand against their magic. Every door we close will be
blasted like the first. We must think of our families."
"Where will we go, Elder Sumalo? If we leave the warren,
we'll freeze," Jouka protested. "It's all the fault of this
human--her and her plan."
%Vho is at fault is not the issue, Jouka. Survival is," Mar- tine countered. "Look, we can hole up at Vil's cabin.'

"Unfortunately it lies that way." Vii pointed toward the
doors leading to the east gate. "We'll never make it from
another gate in this storm."
Martine sagged against the wall. She just wanted to give
up. Why had Jazrac even offered her...
"Jazrac! Gods, I forgot about him completely. He hasn't
left yet!" The Harper's face brightened, and she turned to
Sumalo and Jouka with renewed hope. "Gather the women
and children in one of these rooms on the eastern side.
Make sure they're well away from the fighting and send
someone to have the wizard join them. He can get us out."
'q'he wizard is useless." Jouka spat contemptuously.
"He's our only chance."
A loud thud sounded against the doors, and everyone
glanced at them nervously. "Gather everyone at the granary,''
Jouka said stiffly as he relented reluctantly.

When the inner door shattered under two tinging blasts
from Vreesar, the gnolls charged into an empty chamber.
Confused, the warriors tipped through the meager furnishings
of the hall, howling in triumph. They were certain of
victory. The gnolls broke into hunting packs and scattered
down the empty halls.
"Now!" Vil cried out as the marauders cleared the first
corner. The passage echoed with the sharp twang of crossbows
fired by the small cadre of Vani accompanying him. A
loud shriek proved at least one quarrel had struck home,
but Vil didn't wait to see. 'q'o the next position--go!" he bellowed.
The gnomes sprang from their hiding places and ran
down the hall, past where Martine lurked with another
small band of warriors.
After several minutes, the gnolls reappeared cautiously,
peering around the corner. "Hold your fire," the Harper


	256
	The Harpers

hissed. The Vani next to her trembled slightly. The head
disappeared, and then a single gnoll slowly stepped forward,
nervous and wary. Martine waited as he advanced
two cautious steps forward. "Fire!" she shouted. The gnoll
shrieked and slumped to the floor. "Back, everyone!" she
barked as the gnomes pulled out quickly. They had barely
reached Vil's new position around the next corner when a
handful of magical ice hurtled down the passage and burst
in a small explosion fight where they had been.
"Be careful, Vil. Vreesar's up there somewhere," Martine
said softly.
"You too, Martine,' he said with unmistakable concern.
"You sure you don't need help?"
"Krote's only one gnoll. You'll need every available
gnome. Don't worry about me."
'Tm--I'm only afraid I'll never see you again," the big
man said awkwardly.
"They're coming, Master Vilheim!" the Vani lookout
cried.
"Go, Martine--and let the blessed gods go with you."
The former paladin turned his back to her as if he welcomed
the interruption, so Martine left him to his command,
feeling touched by the man's sudden concern.
Martine limped through the dim halls, wary because of
the chance the gnolls might break through the defenders.
The distant noise of baffle mingled with fainter sounds--a
baby crying, a confused murmur of voices. The normally
warm warren was cold, the warmth lost to the night air
through shattered doors.
At last she reached Krote's pen, and she gave small
thanks to Tymora. She had secretly feared that one of the
Vani--Jouka, perhaps--might have taken it upon himself to
rid the valley of one More gnoll, but that apparently had not
happened.
"Word-Maker!" she called into the pen. "Come out here."

	Soldiers of lee
	257

The mound of matted straw at the back stirred, and a
pair of feral eyes glinted in the dim light. "My brothers
come. Is true, human?"
The woman undid the lock and quickly stepped back, her
sword held ready. The lanky gnoll eased slowly from the
pen, stiffly unworking his cramped joints, even though the
ceiling was too low for the seven-foot tall shaman to stand
straight.
Martine motioned him to start down the passage. "I don't
want to kill you, Word-Maker, but I will if I you force me to.
Do I have your word you won't attack?" The question was
almost a demand.
Krote stopped his canine stretching to look at the Harper
and then ask with silken cynicism, "Why should I believe
your words? You said you would free me."
"I will."
'qhrhy?'
Martine tossed back her stringy, short hair. "Because
you're the Word-Maker and you believe in your words--don't
you?"
Krote stood silent, ears twitching to the echoes that
rolled down the corridor. "I give you my word, human. I
will not attack. My people will kill me anyway."
"Good enough. Now goquickiy."
They hurried down the corridor, gradually increasing
their speed to an easy lope. They moved through the dark
passages toward the nervous din of the Vani. The hallways
were deserted, not surprising considering the battle that
raged through the underground halls, but it felt strange
nonetheless.
Finally they reached the granary Jouka had chosen. The
last of the refugees were just arriving. The way quickly
became jammed with cloaked older Vani women, young
wives cradling their newborns in swaddling, and children
clinging to their mothers' skirts. The council elders, too old


	258
	The Harlers

to fight but carrying canes and swords, were directing the
last preparations for escape, urging families to hurry as
they finished bundling packs of food and blankets. Hostile
eyes followed the gnoll, an enemy in their midst.
"Martine!' a deep bass rumbled from the hallway. It was
Vil, with the last of the rear guard, sprinting down the hall.
The gnomes of his command slipped into the room and
immediately struggled to slip into the few remaining supply
packs already prepared, all the while keeping an eye on the
corridor.
"Now what?" Vil asked.
"We hope Jazrac can cast the spells needed to get us out
of here."
"You don't know?" virs face suddenly creased with concern.
"I thought you had this planned."
"Almost. We just need a little luck." With that, the Harper
pushed her way through the crowd, peering over their
heads for Jazrac's tall form. At last she found him, looking
somewhat confused.
Martine was shocked to see the normally resplendent
wizard, a man who valued immaculate grooming as much
as his spells, looking so haggard. His lean face sagged; his
eyes made hollow depressions underscored by gray bags.
Even the carefully groomed goatee that Jazrac could almost
use like another finger jutted soullessly downward.
"Jazrac, over here!" She raised her hand high above the
milling crowd. The wizard stumbled over to where she
stood near the outside wall. He'd clearly slept no More than
she had, though he lacked the energy the surge of battle
had renewed in her.
'srhat are we doing here? Shouldn't we be doing something?"
the wizard asked in confusion.
''We are. I have an important question to ask you. When
you sneaked back into our room after the raid, you used a
spell, right?"

	Soldiers of ice
	259

Pain crossed the wizard's face. '`yes... a passwall spell."
"Can you cast it right here and now?" The Harper pointed
toward the nearby outside wall.
"As a matter of fact, I have memorized it again. But
wh "
y--
"Just do it! We don't have time to talk," Martine blurted
with relief. "Just open a passage to the outside and get
these people out of here!"
The wizard's worn expression brightened slightly. "I am,
as you have reminded me, a senior Harper."
"Jazrac, you don't have to playact for me."
"Perhaps I can atone, if only in part, for past sins ....
Please stand back, everyone."
As Martine helped to clear a space around the wizard,
Jazrac straightened his clothing. Then, his hands stroking
the wall, the wizard uttered a series of garbled phrases. As
he spoke, the wooden wall seemed to evaporate like water.
Then the dirt, and finally a layer of snow, all faded into nothing.
A hallway, broad by gnome standards, had been cut
straight through the hillside. The howl of wind and a blasl
of cold air proved it was not an illusion.
"It won't stay open for long," the wizard said urgently.
"Jouka! Will" Martine shouted. "Guide everyone to the
cabin.'
With a calmness bred by fear, the gnomes formed intc
lines and hurriedly filed through the magical passage
toward the storm that raged outside.


Sixteen

The granary was empty except for
Martine, Jazrac, and a handful of Vani
who had volunteered to cover the
retreat. They'd already barred the door
with barrels of supplies and bags of
flour. Martine knew the barrier couldn't
hold up to Vreesar's icy blasts, but she
had no doubt it would slow down the Burnt Fur. At their
backs, snow blew into the room through Jazrac's magical
passageway.
"Get going, Jazrac. Use your ring to go and get More
help," Martine said once she was satisfied that everyone
else was gone. "We'll cover you."
"I'm staying with you."
Martine grimaced. "Look, this could get bloody. I don't
need any fake heroics now. Besides, we need you to go
back to Shadowdale and get help dealing with Vreesar."
"That can wait. Vreesar is here right now, and I don't
think he'll leave until he's done with us all. Like you, my
dear, I choose my troubles," Jazrac said with his old confi-

260

	Soldiers of Ice
	261

dence. "I'm not running away this time. You need me." He
pushed her up the magical passage. "If we don't get moving
now, we'll all be trapped."
Martine threw her hands up in despair. "Fine. Play hero
then." She turned to face the Vani. "It's time to leave, everybody!"
The gnomes quickly scurried up the hall Jazrac had
parted through the hillside.
As the wizard followed the little warriors, Martine said, "I
appreciate your offer, Jazrac, but do me a favor. Be careful
out there."
Jazrac struck an attitude of mock pride, with one hand
pressed to his chest. "Me? I shall be in no danger, my dear.
I am still quite capable of taking on a few ignorant gnolls."
Martine had to smile at the wizard's display of confidence.
"Just don't get carried away--for old friendship's
sake, okay?"
"For... old friendship's sake." The wizard savored the
words like a Chessentian wine merchant before giving his
grandest bow and departing. Martine wistfully watched
him go up the passage. She was surprised to realize she
still felt some respect for the man. After one last check of
the storeroom, she, too, hurried up the passage.
Jazrac's spell had opened a route cleanly through to the
outside, where the storm still raged, its fury unabated. The
trampled path of the refugees was already half drifted over.
Martine paused.
"Do we follow the others?" shouted Ojakangas, her sec-ond-in-command,
pointing to the trail.
Martine shook her head. "Not yet. There's a rope in my
pack. Get it out." She stooped to allow Ojakangas to reach
inside and draw out the looped coils. Taking the rope, the
ranger passed the length along to each warrior. 'Hang on
to it," she said, "so you don't get lost." With that, she drew
her sword, ready for the fight she knew would come.
"I'll go ahead. When you feel a pull, follow me and stay


	262
	The Harpers

close!" Without wasting any More precious seconds, she
plunged into storm, feeding out line as she went.
Without skis, the Harper blundered through the snow,
stumbling in the footprints made by those who had passed
through previously. At last she reached the end of the rope
and tugged to signal the others forward. After several minutes,
the rest of the rear guard had all joined her. "Any sign
of the gnolls?" she asked Ojakangas.
"None."
'q'he gods must still like us a little bit," the Harper said
with a frozen grin.
"Indeed. Thanks be to the Great Crafter," answered the
black-bearded Vani.
Three times the group repeated the procedure. Each
time, Ojakangas reported no sign of pursuit. Then the
storm stopped with eerie suddenness. At first Martine
thought she had finally reached the blizzard's edge, but
that wasn't it. The storm had simply stopped.
"Our escape has been discovered!" Martine called to
those behind her. "Come here and find cover!" The gnomes
lumbered through the snow to join her. As each arrived,
she silently pointed out a position to keep watch. Jazrac she
kept close at hand. If the wizard didn't break again, his
spells were her best asset.
"When this is over, you get yourself back to Shadowdale.
Understand?" It was simply too much risk having the wizard
out here fighting. They needed him to bring reinforcements.
Jazrac held up his hands. "Don't worry. I have no desire
to do this More than once."
Hiss... thunk.t An arrow tore at the sleeve of Martine's
parka, spiraling madly into the thick trunk behind her.
There it hummed angrily as the shaft quivered in the wood.
"Down!" she shouted, throwing her shoulder into her
companion's side. She acted instinctively, with no thought

	Soldiers of !ce
	26:

of the man's dignity. The pair flopped ludicrously into tX snow.
"What in the hells--"
Hiss.t Hiss.t Several More shafts whipped overhead, rigl
where they had been standing. One struck the same tre
with a solid thwack, while the others clattered off into tX
branches beyond. A gout of snow kicked up as anoth
arrow tunneled into the snowbank beside them.
In a twinkling, Martine tumbled off to one side. She sa
Jazrac roll the other way, not a moment before the i(
ground was churned by a fusillade of arrows. No More th,
twenty yards distant knelt three lanky gnolls, already dra
ing a bead on her.
Eschewing caution, the warrior woman sprang to hz
feet and charged the doglike archers, high-steppin
through the snow as she screamed a war cry. With on
hand, she whirled her sword over her head; in the oth{
her knife flashed in the dusky light. She heard the har'
music of a bowstring being released, but the shot we
wide. The second and third fired, and Martine gave asta
when an arrow hit her gut just below her sternum. Tt
metal armor she wore saved her, glancing the rough-forg
arrowhead off to the side.
Her seeming invulnerability was enough to shatter tl
resolve of the gnolls. The lead archer threw down its be
and ran, bolting an instant before her sword swiped throu
the air where it had stood. The other two broke rank wi
barking yips of terror as the wildly howling woman descend
upon them. The tip of her blade carved a long slash throu[
the ragged cloak of one, but the creatures managed
escape. Her battle lust departed with them, leaving her fe
ing drained and bewildered.
There was a huffing behind her, and Martine nea
thrust her blade into Jazrac's stomach before she realiz
who it was. "Hold!" the man cried. "Save it for the gnoll


	264
	The Harpers

Pushing her aside, the wizard traced a figure in the air, and
from his fingers leapt a series of sparkling motes of light.
They rocketed toward the knolls, sizzling the air as they
went. Two struck the nearest dog-man in the back, spewing
out gouts of blood as if it had been struck by arrows. Two More struck the second, reeling it around in a circle, but
the creature staggered on. The last dodged and darted
through a stand of saplings to strike the third full in the
face just as it turned to fire another shot. The beast howled
and dropped its bow, fingers clutching blindly at its shattered
muzzle.
"Jazrac, get back!" Martine blurted, her battle instincts
alerted by the sound of sprinting footsteps through snow.
In a single move, she spun to face a charging gnol[, little More than a shadow against the snow. With one arm, she
thrust out in a long lunge while her body ducked low
beneath the creature's high swing. Thwack! The dog-man's
blade hewed into wood, hacking splinters from the tree
trunk beside the wizard's head. The Harper's sword drove
into the beast's chest, and the gnoll's momentum almost
toppled her before the blade slithered through its ribs.
The gnoll's muzzle dropped open to show a ranged maw.
There was a gurgling hiss as the flopping body slid down
the length of her blade. Even impaled clear through, the
creature wasn't finished. One scabrous arm, reeking like
sewage, swung out awkwardly for her, clipping the woman
in the side of her helmet. Thick claws gouged futilely at the
met21.
With a quick flip of her other hand, the ranger slashed
out with a dagger. She aimed high, just under the dog-man's
muzzle, and was rewarded when warmth soaked her
sleeve and the gnoll's head lolled stupidly. Twisting, she let
the creature fall. With one foot on its chest, she tried to pull
her sword free, but the blade was stuck fast for the moment.
Even as Martine dispatched her foe, the others were

	Soldiers of ice
	2

embroiled in battle. Though she held only a knife, Mart
unhesitatingly threw herself at the nearest creature, a:
brute who had cornered Jazrac. The wizard didn't stan
chance in close combat and had only managed to surv
by dodging behind a tree trunk. Preoccupied with Jazr
the dog-man was blindsided by Martine's rush. Wit
pushing stroke, she drew her blade across the beast's be
slicing through layers of fur to the flesh beneath it. T
startled gnoll tipped back its wolfish head and howled
astonished pain, leaving itself wide open to attack. Bef(
Martine could strike again, Jazrac lashed out with his &
ger. His grip was awkward, and the wizard left himself w
open to a counterstrike, but it didn't matter. The blade d
into the gnoll's chest, and the creature sank to its kne
gasping for life. Martine seized its helm and twisted
head back to deliver a quick coup de grace.
Swallowing, Martine stood a moment until her he:
stopped pounding. Breaths of raw air burned her thrc
but until the panic of the moment passed, gasping gulps
air were all she could manage.
Almost as quickly as it began, the battle was over. By I
time the two humans were able to join the gnomes, I
Vani's skirmishes were ended. A quick assessment reveal
three wounded, two minor and one serious one. He wa:
youth named Yannis, who had been hit in the gut by iv
arrows. That was bad enough, but worse still by Martin.
estimation was the fact that at least one gnoll had gott
away. Already the baying of the hunters was closing throu
the wood.
"We're not going to make it," a little bearded warri
grunted. "Not with Yannis wounded. You and the other
make for the mustikka." He pointed toward a thicket
blueberry bushes off to the left
"And you?"
"I will delay them."


	266
	The Harpers

"No, not you. Me." Jazrac stepped forward.
"You, human?" Ojakangas said. He spat into the snow.
"You ran from baffle."
"I'm not running this time, and I have a better chance
than you. My spells can take out More gnolls than your
sword can."
"Ojakangas," Martine said impulsively, "take Yannis and
the others to the cabin. "I'll stay here. The wizard goes with
you."
"No, Martine--'
"I'm going to get you back alive, Jazrac," Marline promised
as she wiped her blade clean. "We still need you to get help.
Ojakangas, Jazrac... get going."
Jazrac didn't move. "No. You go. I'm staying here."
Martine was about to protest, then hesitated. It was
Jazrac's choice and the noblest thing he had done so far.
For all his faults, the man was still her superior, and she
couldn't deny him this chance to regain his own self-esteem.
The Vani had already completed a makeshift drag for the
wounded Yannis.
"Get going," she ordered.
"Good luck, wizard," Ojakangas called back as he started
off.
"Remember, I need you alive, Jazrac,' the junior Harper
said simply. 'What was the plan."
"Plans change. A Harper has to be flexible. Now go." The gnomes had barely entered the edge of the thicket
when the baying started up, close at hand. At the rear of
the group, Martine lingered at the edge of the clearing,
knowing she should stay with Jazrac. She saw the wizard
turn, and for an instant, the ranger thought he was going to
change his mind, but instead Jazrac turned toward the
sounds of baying in the woods beyond and raised his arms.
Twisted words flew from his lips, and a small flaming

Soldiers of Ice

sphere formed between his fingers, then rocketed bet
the trees. Jazrac didn't wait to see it hit but ducked
Deep in the woods, the sphere burst into a fiery globe.
woods rattled with the crackling hiss of fire, and the air
permeated with the scent of burnt pine needles.
The searing flames roiled outward, catching sev
gnolls in its fiery wash. Fur and cloth, heated to the if
point, erupted in fire, and the screaming creatures fl;
helplessly about like macabre torches. Then, as sudd
as it had appeared, the fire faded, leaving only a r(
melted scorch in the earth.
Even as the wizard was preparing to cast another s
Martine caught a glimpse of silvery white moven
through the trees off to the left. Madly she abandone
gnomes and charged across the snow, trying to a
between Jazrac and the icy white form she knew
Vreesar.
"Jazrac! Look out!"
Martine barely had time to see the elemental rais
hands before a blue-white sparkle flashed from its fin
straight for her. The Harper dodged to the right wit'
thinking, and the air cracked loudly as a beam of bitter
crackled across the gap between them. Intense cold cot
like galvanizing fire along her limbs and lanced at her j
till her body curled and spasmed. A violent shock waw
a deafening thunderclap followed immediately, the air
tered by the precipitous drop in temperature. The H;
crashed into the snow, her body paralyzed, her ears scr
ing from the reverberations of the blast.
Wheeling away from the icy streak the bolt had ca
across the snowfield, the elemental turned on Jazrac.
wizard snarled something unintelligible to Martine's
ing ears, and another series of fiery sparks flew fror
hand straight toward the fiend. The buzz of the creat
laughter filled the forest as the dazzling sparks if'


Soldiers
of Ice
	269
	268	The
Har
ers

before they reached
their target.
"Your magic iz uselez against me, human,"
the elemental
buzzed evilly.
It was as if the words were a signal, for out of
the woods advanced a line of gnolls. Their clothes were
ragged furs. Some wore conical caps with dangling earflaps;
a fortunate few had helms. Jaws agape and panting steamy
air, they closed in for
the kill.
Martine heaved to her feet and drew her sword.
She still felt weak and unsettled from the icy bolt
she'd barely avoided. She knew she couldn't afford to be
struck by another one of those, but that didn't matter. All
that mattered was that Jazrac needed her help.
She stumbled toward
him unsteadily.
Two gnolls closed on her, hoping to trap
the Harper between them. Her attackers quickly discovered
they had miscalculated. Even with her nerves still
twitching, Martine easily evaded their unschooled blows, although
she couldn't prevent them from flanking her on two sides.
Even then she managed to hold them off,
alternating lightning-quick thrusts from one side to the other. A swift lunge
sliced the arm of one, sending him reeling back. That break
in tempo gave her a chance to cast a look back toward
Jazrac. The stalking line of gnolls had begun to charge,
leaping through snowy drifts with yipping cries. Vreesar held
back, apparently preferring to let the gnolls do its fighting.
The dog-men knew their prey and sought to close the distance
so their swords would have the advantage over the
mage's
spells.
"Jazrac, look out!" Martine
screeched.
The wizard looked up and then jabbed a finger of
warning off toward her left. Concerned about Jazrac,
she'd ignored her own predicament. The unwounded gnoll
was crashing through the knee-deep snow, axe swung back
to the side like a bare-knuckle fighter about to throw a
two-

fisted roundhouse. The Harper dropped to one knee as
the axehead whistled over her head, ruffling her hair. With
a quick flip, she turned her sword and rammed it
backhand into the gnoll's gut. The blade drove in with virtually
no resistance till it hit
bone.
The gnoll shrieked and continued its charge,
blind momentum carrying it forward. Martine leaned
backward to avoid the blundering beast, fiercely clinging to the
sword hilt as the creature tumbled forward. She wrenched
the blade sideways and twisted until the dog-man had
spun almost completely around. Rolling back into the snow,
she then planted one foot up against the gnoll's midsection,
just below her blade, and kicked outward. The gutted
gnoll tumbled backward, axe flailing, and her blade slid free,
hot blood steaming in the frigid winter air. Her attacker
writhed in the snow, yowling
mindlessly.
Martine's other attacker, clutching its bloodied
arm, broke and fled as she rose to her feet, chosing not to
face her
again.
Somehow Jazrac seemed to be holding his own, but
the gnolls were pressing him hard on three sides. Suddenly
the wizard put his hands to his mouth and uttered a
tremendous roar, inconceivably loud. All along a spreading
line, ice in the trees shattered and fell through the branches.
Two of the dog-men, injured by the magical blast, clutched
at their bloodied ears and flopped helplessly to the
ground, while another staggered
back, dazed.
Neither Martine nor the wizard waited to
assess the results. As she plowed forward to dispatch the
gnoll Jazrac had staggered, the wizard abruptly took flight just
in time to avoid Vreesar's
slashing claws.
To Martine's relief, the wizard shot upward.
With Jazrac out of danger, she could concentrate on her
own battles. She was alone now, facing Vreesar and half a
dozen of the enemy. One was dying, one had fled, and
two
were
crippled,


	270
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice .



at least for the time being. That left the one staggering from
the effects of the magical sound blast and another somewhere
off to her left. The fiend was the greatest threat, but
he seemed More obsessed with Jazrac than her.
Hovering in midair, the wizard's hands flew as he worked
another spell. This time flaming darts appeared in his
hands, and he hurled these at the elemental. Unlike his earlier
effort, these did not fade but struck the fiend solidly.
The icy creature shrilled in pain as the fire burned into it,
and the unfinished magic it had been forming crackled uselessly
in the air.
Martine was like the cold reaper collecting its due. A
quick slash at the hamstrings of the staggering foe removed
him from the fight. Moving past one of those the wizard
had bloodied, Martine delivered a swift kick to its jaw, rocking
its head with a satisfying snap, even as she faced off
against the remaining uninjured foe. "Jazrac!" she bellowed,
her hearing finally starting to return to normal.
"How are you doing?"
"Holding my own!" The wizard twirled in midair, his arm
raised to cast a spell even as Vreesar finished forming
another of its potent ice spheres.
"Jazrac, look out?
The icy sphere shot toward its target with a whoosh and
struck the hovering wizard full in the chest. Without an
anchor to hold him, Jazrac hurtled backward, encased in a
blue, crackling aura, trailing frostlike sparks until he
slammed into a thick pine with a sickening thud. Even as
he ricocheted limply from the trunk, another sphere rocketed
forth, grazing the wizard and throwing him into a
tumble before tearing away half of the thick tree trunk.
Wood and ice splinters showered into the snow, stinging
Marfine as they hit.
The wizard crashed to earth with an inert flop, gouging
the icy ground in a smear of black ash and red blood.

"Jazrac?'
Heedless of the gnolls, heedless of falling shards, he
less of Vreesar, even heedless of the teetering pine ti
wavering dangerously on its half-shattered trunk, Mart
crashed through the drifts to the fallen wizard's side. q
Harper lay in a broken tangle, his back twisted in a way I
was totally unnatural. His clothes were white and fro
coated, his finery brittle. The air smelled of blood
death. Martine didn't bother checking further. She kn
there was no point.
"Son of a bitch!" she screamed in the direction of the c
mental. He/' view of the fiend was blocked by the trees, I
that had probably saved her up to this point. Marti
quickly scanned the distance to where she thought she s
Vreesar, trying to guess the best route to close on the me
ster.
Crack! Crack/Crack! All thoughts of attack were c
short by a rapid series of splintering sounds overhead
the cold-blasted pine sheared loose. The shattered tru
swung outward, ripping away other branches as it fe
Another tree cracked and groaned as its shallow roots ga
way, unable to support the weight of the fallen giant. T
forest rang with the echoes of splintering wood. A mass
dark green and snowy white descended into the gap betwe,
the two adversaries, driving Martine back from Jazrac
corpse. The two trees crashed to earth in flumes of pi
needles and snow. The grit of broken bark stung her eyes
"Woman!" Vreesar's voice buzzed over the fading roi
'q'hank you for the stone! I leave you now to get my brot
erzY' From far off, she heard Vreesar's buzzing laughter
the elemental faded into the night. "Tell the little onez I w
be back!"


Everything's gone wrong, Martine
thought miserably. Jazrac's dead, Vreesar
has the key, and I can't do anything about
it. I should never have come. I'm not cut
out to be a Harper, and now I've killed
them all. The gnomes, Jazrac, Vii, me--we're
all either dead or as good as dead.
Martine sat in the snow next to her mentor's corpse in
silent despair. The pain in her side, the arctic chill, the days
without sleep--all added to her feeling of utter hopelessness.
All she had to do was sit here among the drifts and
slowly let herself sink into death. It would be so easy.
It was the yipping calls of the gnolls that roused her. She
and Jazrac had beaten back one wave of them, but already
another was forming. Soon they would sweep through, following
the trail of the refugees.
This isn't right, a voice within her said. This isn't the way
jazrac died. He died fighting for his beliefs. Get up, woman.
Die fighting, like Jazrac. Die like a Harper's supposed to
die, the voice urged.

272

	Soldiers of lee
	273

Blindly, automatically, the Harper lurched to her feet.
Her hands felt as if they belonged to some other creature,
and her side tingled with the cold. Feeling it was her duty,
she futilely tried to drag the wizard's body with her, but his
chest was wedged beneath a fallen branch. The body
wouldn't budge. In her daze, the ranger managed to remember
the ring, the one Jazrac had planned to teleport with,
but even that was buried beyond her reach. Cold hands
scrabbled at the snow, trying to reach the wizard's lifeless
hand, but it was to no avail. The gnoll calls were coming
closer; Martine couldn't wait any longer.
Sword in hand, the Harper crashed through the thicket,
alternately ignoring the thorns that scratched her face,
then cursing them when they caught her clothing and
slowed her down. Smaller than even Martine, the gnomes
had chosen paths that were nearly impossible for her to follow. More than once she dropped to her hands and knees
to crawl through a gap in the thick thorns. Her only consolation
was that the route would be even More difficult for
the gnolls who followed.
When she was finally out of the brambled ravine, it still
took the Harper almost an hour to reach Vil's cabin. Snow
borne on a stiff night wind helped to cover her tracks, but
the same wind froze her blood-dampened clothes stiff.
"Martine! Jazrac!" a voice cried ahead of her and slightly
off to the left.
"Over here!" the ranger tried to shout back, but the
words choked in her cold-parched throat. Even speaking
hurt through her chapped wind-cracked lips.
They must have heard her, however, for within moments,
tall Vilheim, accompanied by a pair of diminutive gnomes,
stormed into sight, weapons held ready for battle. Spotting
the Harper wading through the snow, the man rushed to
her side while the gnomes fanned out in both directions.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice a mixture of


	274
	The Harpers

relief and concern. "Where's the wizard?"
"Jazrac's dead," she mumbled. "What are you doing
here?"
"Scouting."
A wolflike cry echoed through the woods.
One of the two gnomes skied to a stop alongside the
humans. 'q'hey're coming, Master Vilheim." Fear filled his
voice.
"Lean on me, Martine." The warrior pulled the woman's
arm over his shoulder, holding it in place with one hand
while he wrapped his other arm around her waist. He was
still on his skis, and she was surprised he could remain balanced,
the way her weight tipped him off center. Nonetheless,
Vil managed to half drag her along with him.
When the cabin came into view, a dim glimmer of light in
the darkness of the woods, Martine was relieved to see the
gnolls had not yet discovered the place. Heads bobbed
back in forth in the flicker of torchlight. The woman
thought the clearing around the building seemed slightly
larger than before, but she couldn't decipher why. As they
neared, Martine saw a good deal of activity outside and
then realized what had changed. A crude barricade filled
the center of the clearing, surrounding the cabin. It was
constructed of thin-trunked trees chopped from the clearing's
edge and heaved into place. In spots at the edge of the
clearing, the concealing underbrush was cut or trampled
for several yards into the woods. The gnomes had been
industrious in the short time since their arrival.
Panting, the group reached the solid logs of the barricade
and began scrambling over it. The howls of pursuit
were clear now, and the Harper could catch glimpses of
movement through the trees. Outlined by the glow from
the cabin windows and the torches, she knew they were
easy targets. The hiss and thunk of an arrow into one of the
logs confirmed her fears. Two, then three More whistled

	Soldiers of !ce
	275

out of the night. One of the Vani screamed as an arrow
struck him squarely in the shoulder. The little man toppled into the compound.
"Get him!" the Harper croaked to the gnomes guarding
the perimeter, pointing to the injured gnome, who sat dazed
in the snow at the base of the barricade. "Vil, are there any
archers?"
"Not enough." Noticing that the Harper did not carry her
bow, the man thrust his wooden longbow into her hands.
'Take mine. You're probably a better shoU'
The wood was cool and smooth under her fingers.
Instinctively Martine field-checked it, sliding the bowstring
between her fingers, checking the mounts at top and bottom.
The bow was supple, the string a little overstretched,
but it would do. Vil stepped behind her and gripped her
shoulders in his gnarled hands, guiding her sight toward
the trees. "See those shadows over by the bent pine?" he
whispered, as if the gnolls would hear. His scratchy cheek
pressed against her neck as he sighted down her temple.
Focusing her attention on the area Vii had indicated,
Martine finally saw a shadowy shape, tall and feral, then
two, then three move out from under the sheltering trees
and into the moonlight, stalking. Martine judged the distance
and the light.
"I see them."
'q'nen send them this present. If we kill a few, that should
encourage the others to stay out of range." The warrior
pressed a slim shaft into her hand. With experienced precision,
the ranger nocked the arrow and drew back without
looking. As she brought the bowstring to her cheek, she
noticed that the leaf-headed tip glowed a silvery blue, radiating
its own light She paused; the tip wavered.
"Yes, it's magical," Vii assured her, reading her thoughts.
"I've been saving these, but I think now's the time to put
them to use."


	276
	The Harers

Martine focused on the target. Behind her, Vil slid away
to direct the shooting of the others, like a master of archers
guiding his unit through a drill.
The bowstring released with a twang, and a silvery
streak shot through the darkness. The Harper didn't wait to
follow its flight, but busily nocked another arrow.
A spitting howl was proof of her aim. Sighting in again,
the Harper spotted her target, twisting and staggering, one
clawed hand clutching at a shoulder. Twang! A second shot
sped through the air. She had another arrow nocked and
drawn before the creature screamed a second time. The
third shaft hissed away at another target before Martine
paused to check her work. The first gnoll clutched spasmodically
at the moon, its torso heaving. The third arrow
struck its target just above the clavicle and below the
throat. As the second gnoll reeled and tried to stumble
away, moonlight flashed off the arrowhead projecting from
the back of its neck. The beast took a jerky step and then
sagged against its milling companions. The dying gnoll slid
facedown into the snow. Another gnoll jumped, struck by
another arrow, and then the area around them erupted in
little fountains of snow as the few Vani archers released a
fusillade. The gnolls broke for the shelter of the deeper
woods, leaving behind their wounded companions.
"Hold fire! They're retreating!" Martine shouted triumphantly.
A clatter of arrows hailed the shelter of their barricade.
The Harper ducked for the cover of the fallen trees. A thick
gnomish curse sounded near her as an arrow grazed one of
the defenders. The gnome clamped back the pain, determined
to stay at his post at all costs.
"Good work!" Vil praised. 'q'hat'll hold them for now. Put
the torches out, keep watch through the logs, and don't
stick your heads up." The warrior commanded the Vani
with easy confidence. This was clearly not his first big

	Soldiers of Ice
	277

battle. The fires hissed in the snow as the gnomes put his
commands into action.
Vil crawled to where Martine sat, cradling the bow in her
arms. "What happened out there?"
Martine looked at him dully, for a moment not comprehending
the question. "Jazrac's dead," she said finally.
"Vreesar killed him."
'Wrhat about Vreesar?"
"It's gone--off to get the stone. Jaz hurt it, badly I think,
before he died."
"Praise Torm for small favors," Vil breathed. "At least we
won't be fighting Vreesar tonight."
"It's coming back, Vil, with More creatures like it! I've got
to stop him. It's my duty," she mumbled.
Vil put a firm hand on her shoulder and pulled her gently
toward the cabin door. "Right now you need some rest. Get
yourself inside and find a place to bed down if you can. It's
pretty crowded. I'll get some shifts set up out here and join
you in a little while."
The cabin was More than a little crowded, Martine saw
immediately. There was barely sufficient space for all the
refugees from the warren. The storeroom entryway was
filled with the handful of Vani men who remained. Despite
their small numbers, they were packed into the tiny area so
tightly that there was only space to sleep sitting up leaning
against each other. Most either slept or sat round a smoky
pine fire built in the center of the floor. Wives came to sit
with their husbands before returning to the task of comforting
the new widows. Others tended to the walking
injured among them, bandaging their wounds with embroidered
scarves and once-precious lacework. Krote sat in the
coldest corner, bound hand and foot. He watched Martine
with yellow eyes as she stepped through the crowded
group.
The main room of the cabin was filled to bursting, with


	278
	The Harpers

Soldiers of Ice
	279



mothers, their babies and other children, and older Vani.
Nearly all of Vil's scant furniture had been piled outside
onto the barricade. Only the bed remained, and it was
loaded with infants. The rest of the floor was covered with
makeshift beds of blankets and mats. There was barely
space to step across the room. Steam from the tightly
packed bodies condensed in the doorway when the outer
door was opened.
Vil's treasured bath was no better. Peeking inside, Mar-tine
saw that the small space was filled with about eight
wounded Vani, being tended by the womenfolk. The ranger
noted with relief that most of the injured didn't seem to be
seriously hurt. If necessary, they could be put back on the
line. Most of their wounds were cuts or gashes from splinters
of wood and ice received in the initial assault on the
warren. The bad news was that one of the few who were
hurt was Elder Sumalo. The old priest was sleeping fitfully
on a hard wooden pallet, a blood-encrusted bandage
wrapped round his bare chest. Without him, without the
gifts of the Great Crafter, there was no healing for the
others.
It was clear from the cramped conditions that Martine
and Vii could not stay there. The only space that seemed
possible was in the crowded entry, with the Vani warriors.
Returning there, the Harper, with much shifting and
squeezing, cleared a space for herself and Vil. With her
knees tucked up under her chin, she claimed a blanket and
almost immediately dozed off.
The rattling of the door roused the Harper, and she
opened her eyes just in time to see Vil and a few others slip
inside the room. There was a brief flurry of movement as
the next shift of guards stepped over everyone to get outside.
The cold from outside caught them in its frigid
embrace, as if welcoming the heat it would leech from their
bodies. After the door was dosed, trapping a fresh glitter of

frost within, Martine could hear the cabin groan while the
timbers redistributed their heat.
Vil settled next to Martine and huddled close so the
small blanket could cover them both. The other gnomes
wormed in among their companions--except for Jouka.
Still wearing his spiked badger suit, he couldn't very well
squeeze into the tight spaces next to the others. His only choice was to join Krote in his cold corner near the outside
door. The gnome glared up at his bound enemy, and Mar-tine
swore the gnoll bared his fangs.
"I do not like this, Master Vilheim. We should have More
guards posted. How do you know the gnolls will not attack?"
Jouka grumbled, all the time staring balefully at the prisoner
next to him.
Vil sighed. "The gnolls won't attack tonight. Think it
through. Right now they're probably looting your homes.
With any luck, they're getting drunk and maybe even fighting
among themselves. Second, they're not that desperate.
They've got food and shelter, so I don't think they see any
need to hurry. Third, the moon's just past full. The gnolls
are too smart to rush this place on a bright, moonlit night.
The only thing that could get them to change their minds is
Vreesar, and he's gone." He shifted his long legs, trying to
find a comfortable position. "I've fought plenty of gnolls
over the years, so you'll just have to trust me. What do you
think, Martine?"
'What sounds reasonable."
"Why ask her? It was her mission, her plan that got us
into this mess." His black beard bristling, Jouka puffed up
his chest, ready to argue. His fellow gnomes were silent,
many watching him with interest. 'q'his is all the fault of
interfering humans," he growled, glaring at Martine. "She
came here and caused this trouble. If we had been left
alone, none of this would have happened. Now she hides
here with that." The gnome pointed toward Krote, sitting


	280
	The Harpers

beside him. The gnoll snapped at Jouka's finger, but the
gnome pulled it back quickly.
"And she brought Vreesar here, too, seeking her magical
stone. First she risks all our lives by hiding it, and now
we're all in danger because she gave Vreesar the stone as
part of some plan of hers.' Martine shifted uneasily. Jouka's
grumblings were starting to get nasty, and the other
gnomes were listening to him.
"Such a good plan it was.., now we no longer have a
home," he ended sarcastically. The other Vani said nothing,
their expressions wrapped in thoughtful concentration.
With no one else speaking in her favor, Martine prepared
to defend herself. Just then Vil's firm hand steadied the
Harper.
"Let him rage," the former paladin advised. "He's lost a
great deal."
Martine bit her lip and nodded. Even though she knew
Vil was right, it was difficult to accept the man's wisdom
this time. Seeing that she would not rise to the bait, the
sullen gnome slowly let his accusations fade into a murmur
of discontent. Someone poked up the fire and laid on More
wood, stirring up a cloud of sparks. The weary Vani murmured
among themselves, softly debating the wisdom of
Jouka's words.
"Is he right?" Martine whispered to Vil.
Vil leaned his face close to hers. "No."
The answer came too quickly to satisfy Martine. "He could be. If I hadn't come here, then Vreesar would never
have come here either. The Vani would still be safe in their
warren."
"Or dead in the snow," the man countered. "Vreesar
would have crossed the rift whether you arrived or not."
"But I came to help, and now look at everything."
"So you think all this is your fault?"
"Damn it, Vil, I'm a Harper. Helping is what I'm supposed

	Soldiers of Ice
	281

"Martine, you are only one person. What did you expect?"
Martine felt the deep concern in the man's voice. "What do
you think would have happened if you hadn't come?"
"I don't know," she answered slowly. With her dagger,
the woman poked at the packed dirt just beyond the edge
of the blanket.
"Vreesar would have come through unchallenged, bringing More and More of his kind with him," Vil speculated as
he shifted into a More comfortable position. "Sooner or
later a whole army of them would have moved south, probably
with the gnolls. The Vani wouldn't have stood a chance
then. You've already made a difference. At least there's only
one of Vreesar's kind. The gnomes have a chance to fight."
Vil's words didn't exactly console Martine. "It was supposed
to be an easy mission. I tried so hard to impress the
other Harpers, and now look at the mess everything is in. A
fine Harper I make. I don't know what to do, and then when
I do something, everything goes wrong." She stabbed at
the dirt. The gnome next to her shifted his feet uneasily.
Vil sighed. "Do you think if the job was easy they'd have
sent a Harper?"
Martine studied the man's face in the gloomy firelight.
The stubble on his chin was becoming a full-fledged beard,
streaked through with gray. Lines of sweat and dirt clung in
the creases of his weather-beaten skin. "I don't know.
Jazrac said it was like a test."
Vil shook his head. "If nothing else, Jazrac was cautious.
He wouldn't have sent you if he didn't think you could do
the job. Quit worrying about what others think and do
what's fight."
"That's not the way Jouka sees things." Martine had
managed to gouge a small hole in the dirt floor by now.
"Martine, Jouka seeks only to blame." Vil paused, trying
to find a way to make his point clear. 'I'here's an old story.


	282
	The Harjers

Soldiers of Ice
	2



A fox catches a mouse out gathering acorns. 'Cursed be the
oak,' moans the mouse beneath the fox's paw. The fox says,
'Foolish mouse, why do you curse the tree? It didn't hurt
you.' And the mouse answers, 'If the oak hadn't dropped
the acorns, I wouldn't have been gathering them, and you
would never have caught me.' Hearing the little mouse
complain, the fox laughs and laughs so much that he lets
his paw slip, and the mouse pulls his tail free. Off runs the
mouse, only to be caught in the jaws of a snake. 'Oh, cursed
be the fox,' moans the mouse, 'for letting me go, else I
would not have been caught.'"
"So what happened to the mouse?"
"I don't know. Maybe the snake ate him."
Martine leaned wearily against the former paladin's
shoulder. "So if Jouka's the mouse, what am I? The fox or
the snake?"
"Well, I sort of thought of you as another mouse," Vil said
with a dry chuckle.
Martine snorted. "Are you sure you're not still a paladin?
You always seem to be worried about others."
Vil tried to shrug the question off. "I don't know."
"Huh?"
"I've been feeling More.., paladinish lately. Maybe it
was a mistake; maybe I should seek Torm's forgiveness."
Vil shifted again, still trying to find a comfortable position
for his lanky legs.
"What about the freedom you have now.., you know,
like you told me?"
Vil smirked. "An illusion. I have all this freedom, and
what do I do? I hide up here in the north, doing nothing but
chopping wood. I've been hiding up here, hiding from
everything I lost--the people I knew, the things I did.
Maybe I thought they'd all forget who I once was, and then
I could go home. What kind of freedom is that?" He turned
to look at her. "I didn't realize it until all this happened. I've

just been moldering up here. Now I feel as if there's a I
pose again."
Just in time to die in a senseless war, Martine thought
herself. She couldn't think of a quick, understanding rel
to Vil's sudden confession. "You're tired. Get some slee
she said instead.
Realizing that perhaps he'd said too much, Vil nodd
and settled back against the wall. Within minutes, I
snores joined those of the gnomes around her While I
cold wind whistling between the boards provided a mou
ful accompaniment.
Martine lay awake, cradled in the man's arms. She v
tired, but her mind was churning as she thought abc
what Vil had said, about Jazrac's death, about Jouka, abc
the threat of Vreesar. Slowly thoughts formed as she forc
herself to think like a Harper and not some hesitant appn
rice. A new plan was forming in her mind, bold and dang,
ous. It held no guarantee of success, but it was, she thoug
a plan worthy of a Harpen
Gingerly Martine slid free of virs arms. The man snort
and stirred, and Martine thought he might wake, but
only rolled over to fill the space she'd abandoned. T
woman picked her way across the small room to whe
Krote huddled, his rags pulled tight round his fUrry boc
trying to keep in every bit of warmth.
The glint of the gnoll's eyes greeted her. Knowing I
could see her, Martine signaled him to keep silent a
knelt in front of him, light glinting off the knife she carrie
She looked at Jouka carefully to make absolutely sure ti
gnome was asleep. His spiked breastplate rose and fell
the slow rhythm of slumber.
"Word-Maker, listen to me," she barely breathed, turni
her attention back to the shaman. The guoll shifted uneas
when he saw the knife. "Hold out your hands." Suspicious
Krote raised his bound wrists, and she set to sawing tt


	284
	The Harers


ropes apart. "I'm letting you go."

"Why?" the gnoll demanded in a hoarse whisper.

"I want you to help me kill Vreesar.' There was no point
in trying to be clever.

The gnoll's eyes widened in disbelief. 'qhat did you say,
human?"

"You're free. I'm letting you go--and I'm asking you to
stay," Marfine said as she continued to saw at the ropes. "I
need your help to kill Vreesar. If you don't choose to give it,
you can go out the door right now. I'll make sure the
gnomes don't hurt you.'

As the ropes fell away, the gnoll flexed his clawed fingers,
which were purple and numb under his brown fur.
"You trust me?" His voice was an incredulous snarling hiss.

"Yes." Martine did trust the gnoll, but for no reason that
she could name. "You live for your honor, don't you?"

"Yes," the shaman rumbled. "Why should I help you?"
The Harper turned her attention to the ropes around his
ankles. "I'm guessing you don't have much choice. As long
as Vreesar lives, you can't go home."

The gnoll's lips parted in a wolfish grin. "Mahr-tin, you
not like little ones. You think like gnolls. You are right. I
help."

Martine nodded as she undid the coils around his feet. It
was the closest thing to a compliment she'd likely ever get
from the shaman.

Helping Krote to his feet, Martine cleared her throat
loudly until the noise roused the slumbering gnomes. As
they stared up in astonishment at the unbound gnoll towering
over them, Martine made her pronouncement. "I'm
going to kill Vreesar and put an end to this. Who wants to
come with me?"


Eighteen


An array of startled large-nosed faces
stared up at her. Fiery Jouka, his hand
clutching the severed ropes, jumped to
his feet.

"Are you mad, woman? You've cut this
beast free!" the gnome raged, his face
florid in the dim light.

"I've set him free," the Harper announced, staring down
at the irate gnome. "He's chosen to help me."

A gasp of astonishment rose from the little men. Jouka
sputtered. "That beast? How can it help?"

Martine laid a restraining hand on the gnoll. "For one
thing, he's going to get me to the glacier. I have a plan."

"Another of your plans! Will this one work any better
than your other ones?" The gnome sneered.

"I don't know," Martine snapped. Disgusted, she turned
to the others. "I don't absolutely need your help, but I'm
asking anyway. If this works, Vreesar's dead and you can go
home. If it fails--well, then I'm dead, but at least you're no
worse off than you are now."


285


	286
	The Harpers

Vil pushed his way to his feet. "I'll go. What's the plan?"
Martine looked down at her audience. "Vreesar's gone
back to the glacier to open the gate. We'll ambush it when it
gets there."
Jouka kicked a bucket in disgust. "An excellent plan! And
how will you get there---fly? It takes a full day and night of
hard skiing to reach the glacier, and this fiend has a full
night's head start on you."
"We'll teleport."
"What?"
"We'll teleport there," she repeated firmly. "Jazrac had a
ring. I can't use it, and you can't use it," Martine explained,
pointing to Jouka, "but I'm betting that Krote can. He uses
magic like Jazrac did, so the ring should work for him."
"If you give him the ring, he'll just run away."
The woman stepped aside, giving Krote a clear route to
the door. "He could leave now if he wanted to."
The shaman seemed to relish being the subject of their
argument. He smiled broadly. "Maybe I not help. Maybe I
let little people all die."
The faces of the gnomes seemed to change color magi-caily
at his words. Some grew pale, while others turned red
with indignation. The shaman's words triggered a wave of
discussion among the gnomes. In the heat of argument, the
Vani all but forgot the presence of the humans or the gnoll.
It was as if they were back in their council chambers at the
warren. Only Jouka, indignant and inflexible, remained
silent. He stood in his corner, spiked arms carefully folded
over his spiked chest.
After some time, Ojakangas, the broad-chested carpenter,
finally rose pretentiously and, in his best imitation of
Elder Sumalo, pronounced the decision.
"You propose a great risk, Harper," Ojakangas announced,
stroking his trim black beard. The guome's voice was high
and nasal, and if the situation had not been so serious,

Soldiers of Ice 2

Martine would have found it comical.
"But if you are willing to take this risk, we will allow I
the gnome continued. Martine wasn't aware the gnor
had any real say in the matter, but she kept her opinions
herself. "There are conditions, however."
The woman set her hands on her hips. This was her pl
and she didn't care for the idea of the gnomes imposing
conditions. "Like what?"
"The guolls may still attack. If they do, we think it will
at dawn. We ask you to wait until after the sun has ri
before leaving. Your enemy will still be far from the gla,
then."
Martine pondered Okajangas's words, wondering if tt
was any trick. "Agreed," she finally said.
"Second, one of our people will go with you, to be s
that someone"--Ojakangas looked meaningfully at Krol
"does not betray you."
"I welcome the aid, but who will it be?" Martine
pected the answer, but she couldn't refuse the gnome
this.
"Jouka Tunkelo."
The Harper winced. Jouka looked up in furious surp:
"Me?"
"That is right, Brother Jouka,' Ojakangas said stel
"The council has decided."
The black-armored warrior fumed but couldn't very
challenge the authority of his fellow gnomes. Insteaf
snatched his thorny helm and stormed out of the cabir
the frozen compound.
With Jouka's departure, the gnomes began to ch
excitedly, warily circling their new ally. Krote stood
still, his rag-wrapped arms folded over his chest, th*
donic smile still on his lips.
Marfine pushed through the confusion of gnomes I
'qrhy did they choose him? He hates the whole planl


	288
	The Harlrs

gnome logic was completely lost on her.
"Martine,' Vii said with a chuckle, almost as amused as
Iote by the outcome, "what other choice did they have?
Think a minute. It allows Jouka to save face, and it gives
you the best warrior they've got. Still, the look on Jouka's
face...'
"Wonderful... just wonderful," Martine snapped, far
from happy. "Excuse me, but we have some preparing to
do. Come on.' She led the way into the heart of Vil's
cabin.
Inside, the pair picked their way through the carpet of
gnomes, gathering supplies. Occasionally babies bawled
and whimpered, only to be quickly hushed by their mothers,
and here and there widows wept softly in the arms of a
comforting relative or friend, but in general the room
remained grimly silent Silence settled over the two humans
as they worked, contemplating the task that ]ay before
them. Clearing a little floor space, they assembled their
gear. The warrior produced two wicker packs and a mound
of blankets from the small planked loft overhead, followed
by sausages, hardtack, bundles of sugar, dried fruits, wax,
whetstones, and a host of minor but necessary items. Vil
fussed over the preparations, paying careful attention to
each item selected. Only when he was satisfied did he
finally pause to warm himself by the fire. 'qTlat should be
enough," he said as he rubbed his chilled hands together.
"We don't want to overload the packs."
Shouldering their gear, they carried the loads outside.
Martine was startled to see a faint trace of dawn limning
the mountain ridges. The whole night had passed by unnoriced.
When was the last time she had slept More than a catnap?
Two days ago? Three? She couldn't even remember.
"We sleep now," the man advised, noticing her grogginess
as she stumbled over the frozen ground. 'qhe gnomes
will wake us if anything happens."

	Soldiers of lee
	289

Martine nodded and let him steer her back inside for
what she hoped would not be another futile attempt at rest.

A firm shake roused the Harper from a world of warmth
and comfort. Martine tried to tell the landlady to let her
sleep by the fire for an hour More, but the shaking was
insistent until finally the woman opened her groggy eyes.
"No More ale, Jhaele," she mumbled, trying to focus her
eyes.
"Ale?" squeaked a nasal voice.
The Harper shook her head and her vision cleared.
Ojakangas leaned over her, his expression unamused by
her blathering. 'Whey're coming, human. You're needed on
the line."
The Harper lurched to her feet, suddenly clearheaded.
Her side throbbed, her cuts and scratches burned, and her
skin chafed, raw from days in armor, but the woman hardly
felt these pains. Quickly buckling on her sword, she
opened the door and stumbled into the glare of early morning,
the sun's reflection blinding off the snow.
Stilll in a semidazed condition from sleep, she heard Vil
shout, "Get down, Martine!' in a tone that demanded immediate
attention. An instant after she'd let her knees buckle
in response to his order, she heard the whistle of an arrow
just overhead. It ended in a solid thunk against the cabin
wall, its head driving several inches into the solid pine.
"Be careful, for Torm's sake! They've targeted the doorway!'
Vil was crouched in the snow against the fallen trees,
gnomes to either side of him. Black-feathered shafts jutted
from the log barricade, testimony to the events of the dawn.
Fully awake now, the Harper scuttled across the snow to
join Vil. "Anything happen?" she asked, dismissing the
archery as unimportant.


	290
	The Harers

Vii shook his head. "Not yet. I think they're building up
their courage for a charge. Their archers have us pinned
down, so my guess is it shouldn't be too much longer."
'qrhat's the plan?"
"Plan? Fight them." Vil gestured toward the cabin.
"Ojakangas has gathered the wounded who can still fight.
They're our reserves. Everybody else who can fight, about
fifteen in all, is out here. Good plan, eh?"
A whooping cry came from the woods. Before the echoes
had finished, a lone gnoll charged from between the mist-cloaked
trees, running madly toward the barricade. The
beast sprinted with its wicker shield held high and its
sword low, covering the open ground at a startling pace.
"Stay down.., wait!" Vil bellowed. A volley of gnoll
arrows punctuated his warning.
With a last spring, the gnoll scrambled onto the barricade,
try'rog to hack a gap through the tangled pine branches.
"Stop him!" Vil shouted, and a small squad of gnomes hurried
to the position. They jabbed their spears up between
the trunks, but the gnoll furiously blocked the thrusts aside
with his shield, meantime trying to poke his sword back at
them through the gaps. The clatter and clang of the skirmish
resounded through the clearing.
In the midst of that fight the woods erupted in a chorus
of howls. The ravens gathered at the fringe of the woods
squawked and took flight all at once.
"Jouka, Oja--here they come!" Vii warned.
A ragged line of gnolls, shrieking savagely, burst from
the woods and sprinted madly across the gap. Martine
guessed there were about twenty of them. The pack headed
for a different section of the wail, one unprotected now that
their pack mate had drawn off the defenders.
Moving in a crouching run along the line, Martine and Vil
reached the new position just as the first of the gnolls
scrambled onto the logs. Swords drawn, Martine and Vil

	Soldiers of !ce
	291

madly slashed and thrust at the mass of Burnt Fur warriors.
Fresh blood on her blade told the Harper at least one of her
blows had been successful, but there was no time to pick
targets. The barricade hampered the attackers, but even so,
the pair could not hold off the massed assault. Arrows
winged into the snow between the humans and the cabin as
the gnoll archers tried to pick off the two defenders.
First one gnoll, then another, leaped over the top of the
wall to land inside the compound. They wheeled madly to
fend off the few gnome reinforcements rushing to the
humans' aid. Martine caught one in the back with the point
her sword, cutting it about where its kidney should be, but
even as the dog-man fell, another leaped over the wall to
take its place. She watched in amazement as Jouka, a dagger
in each hand, sprang from the top of the logs and
landed spread-eagled on the chest of another gnoll, hugging the creature in his spiked embrace. The gnoll squealed
as the nailed armor shredded through leather and fur to
tear the flesh underneath. As the creature flailed, Jouka finished
it off with a double thrust of his daggers to its throat.
Jouka untangled himself from the corpse, bits of cloth
and fur clinging to his bloodstained spikes just as Martine
and Vil were forced to give ground. "Ojakangas---now!" Vil
yelled as he hacked the legs out from under a gnoll who
attempted to break past.
The cabin door banged open, and a stream of little men
poured out, screaming shrilly. Their charge hit the startled
gnolls in the flank. Seeing the makings of a trap, Martine
shifted to the far side, hacking her way past the opposition
until she stood alongside Jouka and several other gnomes
who had joined him.
Now the attackers were pressed on both sides. In addition,
the cabin wall blocked the gnolls in front of them,
while the barricade would severely hamper any retreat.
The twang of a bowstring behind her told Martine that the


	292
	The Harpers

Vani were returning fire on the gnoll archers, forcing them
to concentrate on the bowmen.
With a wild cry, Jouka charged forward once More, and
the gnolls instinctively retreated from the porcupine-like
warrior. They backed into their pack mates trying to hold
back Ojakangas's crew on the other side. The resulting
confusion was all that was needed. Believing they were
being abandoned by their brothers, the front ranks started
to clamber over the barricade and make for the trees.
The Harper was determined to keep the gnolls in full
retreat and not to let them reorganize. "Rush them!" she
ordered even as she charged forward. Screeching her best
banshee yell, the woman whirled her sword in broad arcs,
heedless of her own danger.
At the sight of a wild woman and a spiked midget fearlessly
rushing them, the dog-men in the front rank broke
and clawed at those behind them in a frantic bid to get
away. The spark of panic fanned into a flame, and the
retreat turned into a rout. The Vani fell upon the backs of
the fleeing enemy as they tried to get over the barricade.
As the last of the Burnt Fur warriors finally broke free
and fled for the woods, Martine and Vil moved quickly to
restore order. Several Vani had to be restrained from scaling
the logs and setting off in pursuit. A quick count of the
bodies showed two gnomes dead, plus several with minor
wounds. Not bad, Martine thought, noting the bodies of
twelve dead gnolls. It was anyone's guess how many of the
dog-men had been injured, but the number was significant.
'qhat should hold them for a while," Vil murmured as he
and Martine sprawled against the logs to rest. The man's
relief was obvious.
"Can you be sure?" the woman asked.
"It would stop me. They'll fall back out of bow range and
then dig in, but I don't think they'll try another direct
assault."

	Soldiers of !ce
	293

With the fierce skirmish ended, a gnomish woman was
cautiously making the rounds with bowls of hot porridge.
The Harper had almost forgotten what hot food--any food--was like. Pulling off her mittens, she greedily
scooped the warm gruel into her mouth with her fingers.
She could feel her energy returning.
As the defenders sat in the snow eating, an echo of gnoll
voices reached them. Nervous, the Vani put down their
bowls and scurried to battle positions, awaiting another
attack.
Nothing happened, however. In vain, they watched the
tree line for the guolls to rush into view. Even the sporadic
rain of arrows stopped.
"Little people!" a voice barked suddenly from somewhere
beyond the barricade. "You fight well today. You make worthy
enemies.
"Listen, little people. Our chieftain is gone, and we do not
want to kill any More of you. We leave now in peace. Do not
try to follow us. We will know if you do. No More war
between us, little people. Agreed?" The words faded, leaving
only the silence of the trees creaking in the wind.
The ani clung to their barricade in stunned disbelief.
Then Ojakangas cut short any debate by standing up and
shouting, "Go back to your valley, dog-men, and we will
make peace!"
"We go. It is cold here, and your little tunnels are too
small for us. We leave a guard to make sure you keep
peace. Do not leave cabin, or we kill you all."
"It's a trick," Jouka said grimly.
"No trick, little one," said Krote. The gnoll stood in the
cabin doorway where he had listened to the exchange. The
shaman looked at the bodies of the Burnt Fur, still sprawled
over the barricade where they had been cut down. ''You
have killed many warriors," the gnoll said with a touch of
sadness. 'fflaere will be many females without mates."


	294
	The Harpers



The Word-Maker went from body to body, turning each
so he could see it. "Blind-Eye. Rakk. Broken-Tooth. Fat
Belly." Krote recited the roll of the dead. 'q'hat was Varka
who spoke," he said finally. "He must be new Word-Maker.
If he says peace, there will be peace."
Martine took a chance and stood up. No arrows flew.
'q'hat still leaves Vreesar. How are we going to get out of
here without breaking this peace?"
"I don't know about you, Martine, but I figured we'd use
the back door," Vii commented casually as he stood.
"Back door?"
The former paladin flashed a smile. "Only a fool makes a
stand without a means to escape. I built another way out."
"Where is it?" she asked quickly.
"Under my bath. All we have to do is knock a hole in the
bottom of my tub and crawl out the tunnel. It comes out at
the edge of the woods." Vii grinned impishly.
The Harper impulsively stood on tiptoe and kissed the
warrior firmly on the lips. Vii was too startled to do anything.
His face colored under his graying beard. Martine
quickly pulled away.
She looked at her companions' faces, surprised, amused,
weary. "Jouka, Krote, Vil... are you ready to go?"
Vii hefted an axe and purposefully strode into the cabin,
looking taller and even More gaunt than usual.

Nineteen

Martine, Vii, Krote, and Jouka crowded
into Vil's already cramped bathroom. As
soon as the wounded ani were moved
carefully aside, Jouka jumped into the
bottom of the big wooden tub Vil had
set into the floor. Taking a hand axe, the
gnome set to work. As he watched the
destruction of his craftsmanship, Vil winced each time the
axe descended. Outside the room, the gnomes pressed
around the door of the chamber and watched curiously.
When the axe finally broke through, Jouka lost his balance
and nearly dropped it down the gaping hole beneath.
The musky smell of damp earth filled the small room.
Jouka moved several feet to one side, then began to chop at
the other end of the broken board.
"No More hot baths," Vii moaned. "I'll miss them."
More wood splintered, and the gnome passed a three-foot
section of board out. The group passed it down the line
as if it were something to treasure.
"It took me weeks to build this," Vii lamented mournfully.

295


	296
	The Harpers

A barking cough of a guoll echoed faintly from outside. It
sounded as if it came from near the front of the house. Mar-tine
stiffened, her hand reaching instictively for an arrow
fi.om her quiver.
"Do not end our peace, humans," Krote Word-Maker cautioned
as he saw her move.
Several More planks were passed out of the tub before
Jouka clambered out. "It's done," he announced, slipping
his axe back into the sheath he wore.
Martine stepped forward and gazed downward. The
jagged hole in the bottom of the tub yawned into blackness.
"Does everyone understand what to do?"
The group nodded.
"All right. I'll go first."
From the way Vii had explained it, the tunnel dropped
about four feet and then wormed around toward the rear of
the cabin. Vil had described it as a "tight fit," but Martine
figured she'd be able to wriggle through without difficulty.
She slid carefully past the jagged edges, and her feet
touched bottom.
"Candle."
Vil passed a taper down. Guided by the small flame, she
lowered herself to lie on her belly. The dim light did not
carry far, blocked by a thick mass of cobwebs across the
tunnel. With her sword, she brushed the webbing aside,
but it still hung in dusty tendrils from the top of the passage.
The Harper wriggled across the cold ground into the
darkness. There was barely space to raise her head up to
look ahead. Vil hadn't been kidding when he said it was
cramped. The ceiling rubbed at her back in places. Tiny
shapes scurried away frantically as she roused a den of field
mice.
It wasn't long before she began to feel the dark tunnel
was endless. Pushing the candle ahead of her, the Harper

	Soldiers of Ice
	29'

crept along slowly. At last she saw a faint glow that marke
the end of the tunnel. Beyond another curtain of cobweb
the shaft was lit by opaque light.
"Made it," the woman called back to the others.
Struggling with her sword in the tight space, she car,
fully jabbed at the icy crust that sealed the opening. It wl
thicker than she guessed, and by the time the blade h,
broken through it, Jouka was bumping up against her fee
At last she succeeded in clearing a hole in the ice lar
enough to wriggle through. Halfway out, she pause
watching for anything suspicious.
By daylight, the woods at the back of the cabin appear
unwatched, but the morning fog concealed everythi
beyond the first row of trees. Marline waited cautiously if
any sign of the enemy. "Hurry up," the gnome behind h
hissed impatiently. Finally, still uncertain it was clear, tl
black-haired woman scrambled through the gap, signah
for Jouka to hand out her gear, and then sprinted into I
nearby woods. Gulping the fresh air and pleased to be
daylight once More, the woman flopped onto an icy sno
bank and strung Vil's bow.
One by one, as Martine kept watch with hocked arrc
the others wriggled out and melted into the forest. Fi
came Jouka, followed by a long pause before Krote appean
The gnoll had to tear at the ice with his claws to widen I
hole before he could squirm his broad shoulders throug
Just as Vii was emerging from the hole, gnoll voices r,
from the front of the house.
"My brothers come after their dead," Krote said.
"Will they notice we're gone?" Martine worried aloud.
"How can they know, human?" Krote asked.
"Whatever," Vii added. "Let's not linger here. Marti
you know where Jazrac's body is. We'll need his ring
catch Vreesar in time. You lead."
Without benefit of skis, the group's progress through


	298
	The Harl)ers

snow was difficult. The birds were all silent, whether as a
reaction to the chaos of baffle or their presence, Martine
did not know. They slipped through the sepulchral woods,
hip-deep in white snow. The low fog, somewhere between
ice and mist, swallowed the noise of their exertions, distorting
calls and echoes till it was impossible for Martine to
gauge the distance of any sound.
The fog provided traitorous comfort, for it came and
went unexpectedly, one minute concealing, the next leaving
them horribly exposed. "Cyric's damnation!" Martine
swore each time the fog lifted and revealed their position.
There was already too much risk of being discovered without
the tricks of winter conspiring to make things worse.
As the four neared the conquered warren, progress
became slower and slower as mistrust and caution played
on their fears. Martine could only pray she was right about
Krote; she had no reason to trust him other than an irrational
instinct about the gnoll. Some might have called it
woman's intuition, but it wasn't that. She had long ago
learned to dismiss such reactions. No, her faith was grounded
on the vague kinship between warriors, the bond between
men, women, even brutes who lived according to the dictates
of the sword. It was this bond that allowed her to work
with the unruly, the mercenary, or the detestable, whose
motives and goals she could not conscionably abide anywhere
else. It was this fraternity that made her trust Krote.
Even though he was a shaman, the gnoll understood the
life of the sword.
Would Krote betray her? No More, she felt, than the
gnome at her side. Both were fierce in their beliefs, adamant
in their pride and honor.
At last Martine guided them to the edge of the ravine.
She remembered the stand of massed birch that flourished
in a sunlit break between the trees. She remembered it
being at her back. Using that to orient herself, the Harper

	Soldiers of Ice
	299

quickly found the wind-drifted tracks of the night before.
From there, it was a simple matter to backtrack to the
battle site.
In bright daylight, the place looked different. What
seemed ominous by dusk was clear and peaceful this morning.
Not innocent, though, Martine thought. Few forests
were innocent, but their daytime secrets were less sinister
than those that lurked in the depths of the night.
Broken trees, frozen bodies, and pink snow was evidence
they had found the site. The gnolls had made no effort to
collect their dead, although the bodies had evidently been
quickly stripped of everything useful. The naked corpses
were frozen hard, their skin ice blue beneath the tawny fur.
Vii and Jouka examined the battlefield with the curiosity of
warriors, quietly impressed by the woman's handiwork.
Krote moved from body to body, commending each by
name to his fierce god Gorellik.
Seeing signs of the looting, Martine realized her plan
would come to naught if the gnolls had stripped Jazrac
clean. Not wanting to look, she had to force herself to
examine the site. It was with sick relief that she saw a
booted foot jutting out from beneath a tangle of branches. A
quick cry summoned the others.
The two humans and the gnome dug away the drifted
snow. Krote stood back, his arms wrapped around himself
for warmth, refusing to assist. "It is not clean," he insisted
adamantly. "I will not touch it." Martine wondered if his
conviction were true or if it was just an excuse.
Gradually the snow was cleared from the corpse. Jazrac's
skin was an awful bloodless white with traces of frozen blue
veins under the skin. Martine forced herself to think of the
corpse as a thing. Remembering it as Jazrac salted too
many wounds in her memory, and she couldn't afford to
break down now.
'q'he ring was on his left hand, I think. There, under. 


	300
	The Harl>ers


that tree trunk." The Harper pointed deep into the tangle of
wood.

Vii surveyed the deadfall and shook his head. "We'll
never be able to move this. Jouka, can you get in there?"

The gnome wormed his way through the branches until
he reached the heart of the tangle. After a moment, he
swore bitterly. "The ring won't come off. The finger's
swollen."

"Cut it off," Krote suggested without hesitation. He

glared at the humans to see if they had any objection.
"Should I, woman?" Jouka asked.

Martine flinched at the thought, but she could think of
no other solution. "Do it," she said before stepping away.
She didn't want to see or know anything about this part of
the gruesome job.

When Jouka resurfaced, he looked tight-lipped and grim.
He held out a plain silver ring toward the ranger. "The
blessings of the Great Crafter on you in this age of sorrow,"
he consoled stiffly. "I commend you on his release from
toil."

"What?"

Vii intervened. "The Vani live for centuries," he explained.
"In their opinion, death frees the spirit from centuries of
drudgery."

Jouka nodded. "It is just our way to steal some joy from
Death and his minions."

"Thank you, Master Jouka." Martine held the ring in her
fingers. %Vord-Maker... the ting."

The shaman reached with his clawed fingers to accept
the magical ring. His eyes were wide and eager, his jaw
open wolfishly.

"I do not like this," Jouka said softly. Even as the gnoll
moved forward to claim the prize, Jouka and Vil stepped in
close behind him, their swords tensely poised.

The gnoll plucked the ring from Martine's fingers, his


	Soldiers of Ice
	301


face twisting. Was it wonder? Triumph? Martine looked up
into his face but could not tell. He was a gnoll. Who knew
what emotions filled his mind?

With deliberate movements, Krote slipped the ring over
his clawed finger. The silver circlet slid over his bony
knuckle and settled into place. The shaman let out a rasping
breath and closed his eyes as if in bliss.

"Can you use it, Krote? Can you use it?" the Harper asked
eagerly. Everything depended on his answer.

Behind the gnoll, like the slave who warned the king of
his own mortality, Jouka softly added his own words:

"Remember, dog-man. My sword is faster than--"
Whaaaam!

All at once every ounce of air in Martine's lungs felt as if
it had been sucked out of her. The shock kn6cked her legs
completely out from under her. The next thing she knew,
she and the others were sprawled across a hard sheet of
ice, nearly blinded by the glaring reflection of sunlight. The

morning air felt colder than it had been mere seconds ago.
"Gods!" the Harper swore.
%Vhat happened?"
"Where are--"

'qhere," Krote rasped, pointing his long arm toward a
ridge of upheaved ice, the edge of a great frozen crater in
the center of a frozen plain.

"The glacier," Martine mouthed in an awed whisper.
"We're here." Slowly she stood up, like a sailor home from
the sea adjusting his legs to shore. The others rose, their
expressions awed. Krote stared at the ring on his finger. Vil
kept his eyes on the ridge and adjusted his gear, while little
Jouka felt himself over, as if checking to see that all his
parts had survived in one piece.

"I bring you here as I said I would," the shaman said.
"Now what?" Vil queried.

Martine shaded her eyes and scanned the ridge. "Now


	302
	The Harers

we find Vreesar. Up there, I think."
"Where?" Jouka asked.
Vil studied the waste. "That's a lot of territory, Martine.'
"We'll just have to look," Martine said helplessly. She
started trudging in the crater's direction.
Krote growled. "I do not waste time searching. Woman,
where are my charms?"
"What are you talking about?"
Word-Maker snapped his teeth in irritation. "My signs of
Gorellik... where are they?"
"I have them, dog-man," Jouka answered unexpectedly.
"Give them to me."
"Do it, Jouka,' Martine ordered.
The gnome grudgingly handed over a leather pouch.
Taking out the iron fetish of his god, the shaman held it in
his hands while he mumbled a prayer. When he had finished,
the gnoll held the charm out and carefully turned
around in a circle. Halfway through, he stopped and pointed
farther up the crater wall. "There--not far. Gorellik has
given me a sign."
Martine guessed the shaman had used a spell to find
things. She'd seen priests use them before, though only for
simple searches such as finding a peasant's lost axe or a
merchant's stolen purse. It had worked then, and she didn't
doubt its effectiveness now. "Let's go." Shouldering a pack,
the Harper began scrambling over the uneven ice as fast as
she could manage.
After only fifty yards, the group came to a fresh trail concealed
beyond a pressure ridge. The tracks, large and
clawed, were unmistakably Vreesar's, and they were
headed toward the crater's rim.
'I'oo late!" Jouka cried.
Martine seized the little warrior and pushed him forward.
"Not yet--the tracks are fresh. If we hurry--"
"Up there!" Vil shouted, scanning the slope. The

	Soldiers of !ce
	3

elemental wasn't More than a hundred yards away, alto
to the lip of the shattered rift. There was no indicatior
had seen the group, although there was nothing to prew
it from turning and seeing them at any time.
The man broke into a sprint, leaving the others behi
Martine followed at a dead run, but her shorter legs col
not keep up with the long-striding warrior. Jouka lagg
even farther behind, struggling in the snow and ice, wk
the gnoll hung to the rear.
"Vil, wait? the Harper shouted. "We should att
together."
The man kept running. "We've got to stop it now, bef,
it can break the stone," he shouted back.
"Damn it, Vil,' the woman huffed as she thrashed a
him, "don't be so... paladinish!"
The elemental evidently heard something, and it tut,
to steal a look in their direction.
"You? Vreesar shrilled as the charging warriors bount
across the icy field toward their enemy. Although the fie
could have meant Vil, Marfine felt the creature's gaze
on her. 'qoo late, humanz!'
The Harper was still several long strides behind Vil wt
the elemental held up Jazrac's blood-black stone, clutct
in the viselike grip of its fingers. There was no time left,
hope of snatching the key from Vreesar's grasp befor
could crush the fragile rock.
"No!" Marfine shouted as she flung her sword in desl
ation. The long sword tumbled awkwardly toward the fie
"Please, Tymora--" she started to pray.
The goddess of luck must have heard her plea, for
iron hilt of her tumbling blade struck the elemental sol!
across the shoulder, knocking its arm wide. The stc
clamped in Vreesar's fingertips, jarred loose and tumt
into the snow.
Before the fiend could recover, Vil sprang upon it,


	304
	The Harpers

man's sword cutting a brilliant arc of sunlight as he slashed.
Steel rang as the warrior struck the elemental's hard carapace.
Vreesar shrieked as the sword pierced the ice creature's
shell with a noise like the popping of a lobster being
shelled.
"Vil! Look out!" the woman screamed.
The warning came too late. Vil was drawing back his
sword for another swing when the elemental slashed its
glittering claws across the man's head. Martine heard the
sound of tearing flesh, and Vil's head snapped back. His
muscles rubbery, the former paladin staggered a few steps
before collapsing to the ice, the long sword dropping from
his grasp and skittering across the ice. Blood streamed
from a long gash in his helm and the shredded flesh of his
cheek. The slash had laid his jaw open to teeth and bone, so
that when he tried to scream, the cries only made gurgling
noises with no mouth to shape them. Nonetheless the warrior
lunged for the elemental, desperately hugging the
freezing creature in his grasp.
Martine groped for Vil's sword, the only weapon close at
hand. As she searched futilely, afraid to take her eyes off
the fiend, the creature shaped its tiny mouth in a mockery
of a smile. Sparkling fire formed into a ball between Vreesar's
fingertips even as Vil tried in vain to pull the creature
down.
"Let go, Vil!" Martine shouted, helpless to stop the fiend.
"It endz, human," Vreesar snarled. With a sudden jab, it
shoved the frozen ball down Vil's breastplate and hurled.
the man aside. Vil's torn face barely had a chance to register
confused surprise before he was pitched agonizingly
against an icy upthrust. A repercussive roar filled the air.
Metal shrieked as Vil's breastplate burst in bloody ruptures,
blasted by the ice-splintered explosion it contained.
The man heaved with a single twitch, then flopped, his shattered
body barely contained by the twisted metal shell.

	Soldiers of lee
	305

"Vii?' Martine screamed again. Tears blinded her eyes.
She scrambled forward, anguish giving her strength. The
swirling snow kicked up by the blast uncovered a glint of
metal, and her hand settled on the cool steel of virs sword.
Using the weapon like a cane, Martine heaved unsteadily
to her feet. Rage fought with tears as she faced the fiend.
Martine wanted to vent her hatred of the creature More
than she had ever wanted to strike out at anything in all the
world. Stumbling over the snow, the Harper pulled her arm
back to thrust. The elemental was distracted by its own
wound, a clean split in its hardened shell, so Martine managed
to get close enough to hear its heaving gasps and
smell the murderer's freezing aura.
She wanted to see its eyes, to see if there would be fear in
them. She hoped the elemental would be afraid, afraid of its
own death.
"Vreesar," she whispered.
The fiend looked up, and their eyes met, its orbs tiny and
almost hidden behind an icy fringe. The elemental thrust
its hand forward, already crackling with energy, but Mar-tine
knew that trick and batted it away with a fast swat.
Before the creature could recover, the Harper slammed her
sword forward, throwing all her weight behind it. The
sword tip skidded and then found a gap where the hip met
the torso and sliced inward. The creature reeled back, and
Martine, still staring eye to eye, fell forward with it. They
hit the ground with a bone-breaking impact that threw the
Harper to the side. Vreesar's magical ice ball slipped from
its grasp and rolled down the slope.
Crackle-booom.t
The blast's shock wave stunned Martine, and the ice
needles tore at her back, but her prone position saved her
from the worst of the blast. Vreesar's knee hit her in the
gut, and she flipped away to land painfully in a jagged bed
of hard ice.


	306
	The Harpers


As both struggled to their feet, Krote's tawny form
flashed past the Harper. Martine thought the gnoll was
lunging to attack, but instead the shaman dove at a patch of
snow. When he emerged, Word-Maker held Jazrac's stone
in his paw. The gnoll panted clouds of steam as he savored
the power in his grasp.

reesar froze, torn between the stone and the threat of
Martine's sword. It couldn't turn on the shaman without
exposing itself to the ranger. Its wounds, leaking a clear
fluid, were testimony to the effectiveness of its attackers.

Even with both hands wrapped around the hilt, the
Harper barely could hold the sword. The ground seemed to
tilt and roll as she tried to shake off the reverberations
pounding inside her head. Every gulp of breath lanced her
with fiery pain.

Greedy eyes coveted the artifact. "Shaman," Vreesar
droned soothingly, "I will make you chieftain---chieftain of
all the tribez of the north. My brotherz will be your army.
Give me the stone and we will destroy the humanz and the
little onez." The elemental slowly held out its hand, waiting
to receive Krote's gift.

The shaman crouched. His eyes were filled with feral
light as he looked from human to monster. His jaw hung
open, salivating like a hound hunched over its kill.

"Krote, don't do it!" Martine managed to croak in desperation.

"Word-Maker, you can be chieftain."

'/our word--you live by your word," she reminded him.
"Chieftain of the Burnt Fur," Vreesar tempted.

The wild light vanished from the shaman's eyes. "Burnt
Fur all dead!" he snared. "And you killed them. You not get
stone!" With a sudden move, the gnoll tossed the cinder to
Martine.

"Now you die!" Vreesar shrieked. With a halting step, it
lunged toward the woman. Martine dropped her guard as


	Soldiers of Ice
	307


she reached out to catch the stone. Suddenly a hand
pushed her aside, and Jouka's small black-spiked figure
sprang between her and Vreesar. Sunlight blazed in a hundred
sparks off the steel points on Jouka's outspread arms.
Before the charging elemental could evade him, the gnome
seized the monster's legs in his porcupine embrace, triggering
a series of cracks as the spikes drove through the
fiend's shell. Vreesar kicked its leg frantically, trying to
throw the little warrior off, but the gnome clung like a burr,
all the time banging his spiked face mask against the elemental's
thigh. Cold white ichor streamed down the featureless
curves of the gnome's hdm.

Forgotten by Vreesar, Krote rose up behind the elemental.
Almost as tall as the monster, the gaunt gnoll seized the
fiend's shoulders and twisted its body backward. The air
rang with the beast's alarmed shriek. Its long arms flailed
as it tried to reach the tormentor at its back. Claws raked
Krote's arms, slicing his wrapping until it dangled in bloody
strips, and the gnoll's face writhed with pain, but still he
clung to the creature.

"Now, human!" the Word-Maker roared. Releasing one
hand, he grabbed reesar's jagged brow, ignoring the
needlelike points, and stretched its head back. "Kill it!"

Though the world still spun, Martine staggered forward
and raised her sword with both arms till it pointed down
like a spike. Vreesar's little eyes widened in fear. "Nooo!"
the shrill voice pleaded.

Martine slammed her sword point first into the fiend's
exposed throat.

When the monster finally stopped thrashing, Martine left
Krote, left Jouka, left her sword, and stumbled to where Vil
lay. She knelt beside the man, knowing already all hope was
lost. He sagged against the canted ice, eye half closed and
dull, his head turned so that she could not see his shredded
face. Blood trickled from his mouth and became lost in the


	308
	The Harers



black and gray of his beard. More soaked through the rents
in his armor, the steel bloated out by the blast. When she
raised his arms to fold them over his chest, his limbs
flopped with the impossible limpness that only death
brings.
There was no breath, no last words of farewell, no
chance for one last speech as in the tales of the bards.
There was only his body, still warm, but lost forever.
"Good-bye, Vil," she murmured, saying what he could
not hear.
Behind her, Krote stood silent, ignoring the streams of
blood that trickled from his arms while Jouka undid the
dark-spiked mask that hid his face. Krote turned to face
him, and in another place and time, the two might have
traded blows, but now Jouka only kept a wary distance, perhaps
finally deciding that this one gnoll deserved to live.
"It's over, Mistress Martine. The battle's done. Your plan
worked." Jouka paused and mustered up what little compassion
he could. "He did not fall, Mistress Martine. He did
not die in vain."
The words slowly returned her to the world, and she
gently closed the man's one remaining eye. With a weary
effort, filled with pain, she rose to her feet. "Praise be to
Torm, Jouka,' the woman intoned, looking at the stone in
her hand. "Praise be to Torm.'

Epilogue

The woman walked across the spring
meadow, boots sinking in the icy mud.
Her black hair was a little longer now,
and she moved a little stiffly, too,
although her wounds were fully healed.
She would always be a little stiff as an
aftereffect of Vreesar's icy blast; such
things were part of her life now.
On her back the woman carried a stout wicker pack. It
was heavy with gear--armor, weapons, blankets, and
food--that she would need to cross the southern mountains.
Vil's sword swung at her side, along with a pouch full
of magical oddments recovered from Jazrac's hoard. So
many things were new to her, gifts from the gnomes, that it
almost seemed as if she were carrying a new life away from
the valley of Samek. She wished it were so, for that would
mean release from old pains and sorrows.
Eventually she joined the man and beast who waited at
the center of the meadow. The man was young, handsome
enough in a rugged way and brimming with self-assurance.

309


	310
	The Harpers

The beast was a hippogriff, a fine steed filled with fire and
strength.
"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" the young man
asked solicitously.
"And ride with you?" She looked from the golden-plumed
hippogriff to the sky. It was amazing how his mount had the
look and lines of Astriphie. 'Whank you, but no. I'm sure the
Harpers can do without me for a few More weeks."
"So they told me when I asked," the young man allowed.
"Silverhand wondered if you were planning to pass through
Mulmaster on your way back. There are rumors the High
Blade is growing More powerful than seems right. He
didn't say you had to, though."
Martine smiled ruefully. "More reports. Well, they said I
need More seasoning."
"Actually, I'm supposed to make the report. He said you
should 'assess and act as you see fit." The young man
looked past her toward the grassy mound of the warren.
'ou spent all winter there?"
"Most of it. There's a cabin in the woods." The old pains
returned.
Martine looked back to see if any of the gnomes had
come to see her off--not that she expected them to. Jouka
and Ojakangas were busy rebuilding now that warm weather
had come, and Sumalo was feeling his age. She'd said goodbye
to them already anyway.
The youth was a fresh young Harper, a messenger for
those higher up, sent north to find her and Jazrac. It took
the Harpers some time, but eventually someone had gotten
concerned enough to send someone to look for them. News
of Jazrac's loss was met with sorrow, but no one blamed
her. Instead, they read her reports and asked her to stay a
little longer to ensure the peace and help rebuild. At first
Martine thought it was a punishment, but as the weeks
went by she wondered if they hadn't meant it as a reward.

	Soldiers of !ce
	21 I I

With spring, though, she was rested and eager to move on.
Marline watched as the messenger mounted and strapped
his harness in. "Farewell," he said. "Remember Mulmas-ter.'
"May the gods--especially Torm--go with you. As for
Mulmaster, tell Silverhand I won't be saving the word anymore."
'fqhat does that mean? Are you going or not?"
"Just tell him. I think he'll understand."
The messenger shrugged and gave his hippogriff a gentle
spur. Martine watched them leave, remembering Astriphie
as the mount soared through the sky. In a short time,
it was only a dwindling speck near the horizon.
Feeling a little wistful about the long journey, Martine
shouldered her pack and started walking. From the directions the Vani had given, she thought she could be through
the pass by nightfall, but only if she did not dally.
It was sometime around noon when she heard other footsteps
on the trail. Not expecting company, the woman drew
her sword and waited, ready for the worst. Her vigil ended
when a tall, gaunt figure came into view.
"Woman," said the rasping voice, "I will go with you."
From the shadows stepped Krote, Word-Maker no More,
bow and spear in hand. He still looked as skeletal and haggard
as before--more so, perhaps, because of his scarred
arms and shredded ears.
Martine paused in surprise. Since the fight on the glacier,
she had seen the gnoll only a few times, when he'd come to
speak with the gnomes. She understood he wasn't chieftain
and that Varka had usurped his role as shaman. The tribe
hadn't killed him, as Vreesar had demanded, but every time
she saw him, Krote had always been alone.
"Go with me? What about your people?"
"I have no people," the gnoll answered coldly. 'qlaey have
no use for me."


	312
	The Harpers

"Why come with me?"
"I owe you my life."
"And I you. Why, Krote... really?"
The Word-Maker drew himself up with dignity. "Because
you trust the words of gnolls."
Martine studied the gnoll, trying to make up her mind.
As much as he had been the enemy, she still respected and
trusted him in ways not fully explainable. The journey
would be long, and a companion would be welcome.
"You have my word I will not harm you," Krote said
simply.
"Or any others?"
"That depends, woman."
It was good enough. Martine shrugged her pack into
position once More. "You may join me, Word-Maker," she
offered.
'qnat is good, human," Krote fell in step behind her, and
they began the long hike over the pass.
"I can't wait till we get to Mulmaster," the woman called
out cheerily as she disappeared into the woods.
"Mul-massster" the gnoll echoed curiously. "What is
that?"

Elaine Bergstrom
ISBN 1560765712
The monks' hold over the Gathering
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Even before he'd drawn his first
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Searing draxna in an unforgiving world...
	The Obsidian Oracle
	Book Four
	Power-hungry Tlthian emerges as the new

	ruler of Tyr. When he pursues his dream of

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DARK SUN and te TSR logo are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.
1993 TSR, inc. All Rights Reserved.

About the Author

David Cook has avoided
jobs for More than ten year
designing games andwri
books, which he doesn't.
sider such a bad deal. He
written three other no
besides this one, inclu Horselords and Beyond
Moons, and a host of roleot ing material. An adopted ,
consinite, he has a famil
passion for giant monsters,
other things he's not going I,
you about, except that the rr
zoo is smaller since he wrote one of these books.


