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
other's warmth. Fi 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, Martine 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, 'Wrists hurt I could have killed you in the cave.'
Martine drew the bone-handled knife and absentmind 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.'
'Mat 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 gifts 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 carne 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!' Martine 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 Vil stepped through the center of the Vani line. Seeing her, he stopped abruptly. 'By Torm, what happened?'
'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,
remembering to warn them about her pursuers.
Vil 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 gnolls 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,
