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
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.
'Word-Maker!' her new husband barked over the rising chorus. The 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. 'Take 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 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 own 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.
`°Thank 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 gathered the simple materials for the task. A half- burnt stick, scraped from the lodge's small fire, became a pen, a curl 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.
Hole sealed. Guest ofgnolls. Will escape. Don't worry. Not hurt.
M.
Finished, the ranger looked at the message with the addled confidence of exhaustion. I
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
