'Me 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. 'This 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. 'Me 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.
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?'
Krote'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 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 brittlely as it knelt close to her. 'Perhapz you lie again. Tell me where the key iz, or I will lead my people there and kill them all.'
`There is no key.'
'Mere 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 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
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 birchbark. 'Teach 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, Martine 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.
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. These are all different letters you can practice later. Just do them in this order when you do.'
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
him as the gnoll left the hut.
