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.
Vreesar 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.'
'Your 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 snarled. '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
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 helm.
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 Vreesar'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 theblack 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 fail, 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.
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. 'hank 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. 'You 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.
With spring, though, she was rested and eager to move on. Martine watched as the messenger mounted and strapped his harness in. 'Farewell,' he said. 'Remember Mulmaster.'
'May the gods- especially Torm-go with you. As for Mulmaster, tell Silverhand I won't be saving the world anymore.'
'What 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.
