Martine flopped back onto the flea-infested furs as all the tension drained out of her body. 'Tymora 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.
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 clear 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.
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 Martine 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 gnoll'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.
Vreesar 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. That 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. 'Me prisoner's kicks grew weaker and weaker. 'What 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, 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. Martine 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.
