but other than that, they showed him none of the kindness she had received.
'Move, dog — man,' the guard rumbled, jerking the weary gnoll onto the trail. The gnome acted without cruelty or kindness, only a matter-0f-fact coldheartedness. The WordMaker staggered a bit as he followed, but held himself stiff. His pride was fierce and far from broken.
`Treat him well, Vani,' Martine croaked fiercely as the gnome and prisoner passed by. 'He saved my life.'
The gnome started to glare at the human disdainfully, but the passion in her eyes put him off. Chastised, he motioned the gnoll forward and the pair passed out of sight.
Shortly after that, Martine felt the drag lurch from the ground, towed by Vil and a pair of gnomes. Bundled and lashed in, she could only let herself be jounced along as the party began the journey home.
At some other time, the trip would have been too rough
and uncomfortable to sleep, but now was not such a time. The rhythmic swish of skis over snow, the chill in her limbs, and the monotonous parade of green pine branches overhead lulled the Harper to sleep. She had memories of waking several times, though each was barely enough to lift the veil that lay over her consciousness. There was little notable about these brief moments of lucidity the rattle of a woodpecker as it drilled into a pine, the burn of painful sunlight as they crossed a frozen meadow. There was a brief moment of interest as they passed a Vani farmstead. In her present state, Martine would never have even noticed it had not a pair of their party taken their leave here. The farm was a miniature warren, hidden in a hillock. Its only outward sign was a small door into the mound, hidden within a clump of birches. After brief good-byes and a round of drinks, the trek began once more.
Only a final jolting stop broke her dreamless haze after that. Groggily she became aware of the barely familiar surroundings of Vil's cabin the hewn log walls, the scent of woodsmoke, and the outline of a tree that arched over the cabin's roof. Bound into the drag, the Harper could only wait impatiently as Vil undid the lacings. Krote was still with them, bound but unhurt, and although the gnoll's pride was certainly wounded, Martine doubted the gnoll had expected any more.
'Vil, is there someplace he can be kept?' Martine wasn't sure it was necessary to treat the shaman as a prisoner, but she also wasn't quite ready to take the chance. Last night in the snow cave had been a matter of survival; now the situation was slightly different.
The former paladin scowled as he undid the last lacing, thinking. 'Someplace, yes, but not in my house. The Vani will have to take him.'
Now it was Martine's turn to scowl as she considered the wisdom in handing her prisoner over to the gnomes. 'How do you know he'll be safe?' she asked softly.
'They're not beasts, woman,' Vil rumbled. 'If he doesn't provoke them, the Vani won't harm him. You'll have to trust them on this.'
The Harper wasn't quite so sure about the gnomes, but she knew she was in no condition to be responsible for a prisoner. 'All right, it'll have to do,' she said with a nod before turning to the others. 'Master Ojakangas, will your people take this prisoner and guard him? You can see that I am in no shape to do so.'
The broad gnome nodded. 'This was expected,' came his taciturn reply.
'You said I would be treated well, human,' Krote hissed, furious at being turned over to his enemies. Ojakangas jerked the rope around Krote's wrists, warning him to be silent.
'I said you wouldn't be harmed. You're still my prisoner, Word-Maker.' The Harper was too tired to argue the point. Krote would just have to accept whatever happened. 'I'hank you, Master Ojakangas. Guard him well.'
Prevented from killing their enemy, the gnomes, Jouka in particular, set to the task of binding Krote with such relish that Martine worried about their intentions. Still, there seemed to be no effort to seriously mistreat the prisoner, and she said nothing more as she watched the gnomes leave.
Once the Vani were gone, Martine turned and went into the cabin. Her body throbbed; her fingers and face burned as the warmth of the cabin penetrated her frost kissed skin. Her feet felt leaden and numb, sure signs of encroaching frostbite. Barely four steps inside the cabin, she collapsed in front of the fire and ungracefully fumbled at her boots. When they were both finally off, she thrust her feet as close to the banked coals as she dared. Heels propped up, she shed her improvised cape and pawed at the remains of her
parka, peeling away the sweat stiffened clothes.
'Thank gods we're back!' the ranger said as Vid stomped through the door.
'Thank Torm indeed,' Vil wearily agreed. He selected tinder for the coals and quickly had a small, welcome blaze coaxed from the embers. When the fire was lit, he sat on the sooty stone hearth, where he carefully eased off his boots.
'Heat… I never thought I'd feel it again,' Martine moaned as she lay with icy feet almost in the fire. Tiny curls of steam began to rise from her damp woolen socks. Already her soles were starting to itch and burn as the frostbite was slowly driven out of her toes. Even that pain couldn't keep her awake, though.
An untold time later, the woman surfaced from oblivion surrounded by the startling warmth of a thick comforter. After the comforter, the glimmer of firelight and the gnawing pain of hunger were the things she was most keenly aware of.
I'm dreaming, she thought, staring at the scarred rafters over the bed. It took several minutes to realize she was once more lying in Vil's bed, buried deep in blankets and a faded goose-down comforter. Her host sat at his rickety table whittling curls from a block of wood. 'Oh, gods,' she gasped as the dull ache of consciousness moved through every muscle in her body. 'How long have I been sleeping?'
'Ail night and the better part of a day,' the big man said as he set down his work.
Martine sank back into the featherbed. 'Hungry'
'Yes!' she blurted. She was famished.
Vil fetched a big bowl of broth and set it carefully in her lap, then remained hovering over her to see if she needed some help eating. Although the spoon was unsteady in her
hand, Martine slowly and deliberately scooped up a few drops of the broth and greedily slurped it down, determined not to be fed like a child. The soup was fatty and over-salted but rich nonetheless with the pervading taste of smoked venison. Chunks of meat and fat and bits of ash swirled through the murky liquid, and it all tasted wonderful.
Only later, after she'd bathed and changed, did Martine finally start to feel human again. The gear she'd stored at Vil's cabin provided clean clothes, and after a quick inspection of her ragged parka, she decided the best course was to burn it. The tears in the leather were impossible to patch, and she saw black specks moving in the fur trimfleas, no doubt The former paladin rummaged up a coat to replace hers. It was more than a little large, but serviceable with some alterations.
With a sheet of foolscap and her writing kit, the Harper sat at the table. Finally, after so many days, she could compose a proper letter to Jazrac. So much had happened and there was so much to explain that the woman didn't know where to begin-nor did she know just what she should say. The crash… the elemental… her capture by the gnolls… For what was supposed to be a simple job, I certainly made a hash of it, she thought ruefully.
Martine decided to use discretion. Jazrac:
That should do it, the ranger thought as she gently blew the ink dry. Taking the bone-handled knife, she set it upon a corner of the page. She wasn't quite sure how long to leave the letter sitting out at least a day, she guessed. 'Is it all right to leave this out on the table?' she asked her host.
The big man shrugged. 'That's fine. We won't be around anyway.'
'What.?'
Vil clapped a hand to his forehead. 'Sorry. I forgot. The gnomes are celebrating the safe return of the search party tonight'
