'Dancing certainly brings up a thirst.' Vil's words were strained as he picked a path to the hogsheads.
'The little fiddler was very good,' Martine said with equal awkwardness while trying to straighten out her rumpled clothes.
`That's Reko, their bard,' the former paladin explained. 'At three hundred and forty seven, he's had a lot of time to practice.'
For a moment, Martine was taken aback, until she remembered that most gnomes lived well past three centuries or even more. The thought suddenly made her wonder how old the warren was. How long had the Vani laid claim to this valley?
Her questions were never asked, for at that moment, a pudgy youth stormed into the hall. In his rush, the gnome charged through the throng like a small boulder, startling one benchful of drinkers so that they almost spilled to the floor. The chatter in the hall suddenly ceased, though no
one moved, fearing what they might hear.
'Father's dead!' the gnomish youth blurted out, his eyes wide and voice breaking with tears. 'Our farm was attacked by the gnolls. Hudni… Father… everybody's dead!'
Ten
The revelers were struck silent The clogging stomp of the dancers lurched to a halt, and the fading drones of the fiddle strings echoed down the wooden halls. Gossips hushed their prattle. Mugs ceased to clink. Ancients strained half-deaf ears to hear the next word, uncertain of what had already been said.
'Brother Buri, what has happened?' Elder Sumalo asked softly in his thin, wheezy voice. The old priest forced his way through the stunned gnomes to reach the trembling youth. Sumalo kept his voice calm and soothing to prevent the boy's terror from spreading panic among the revelers.
'It was the gnolls,' Buri blurted, his fat cheeks quivering as he gasped for self-control. 'Father and I were just finishing the chores we were going to come to the dance and I went inside, and then Father shouted that there were gnolls coming, and then he screamed, and then they broke down the front door, and I… I…' His words floundered as the young gnome's voice broke, caught up in tears that
trickled into his thin beard.
Sumalo gripped the youth's shoulders, giving comfort in strength. 'And?'
'I got away through the escape hole… but Father didn't.'
By this time, the menfolk of the Vani had clustered close to hear the tale. Those of warrior age pressed closest and listened most intently. Martine, pressed back by the swarming small warriors, spotted Jouka, Turi, and Ojakangas in the forefront
Jouka turned the youth away from Sumalo to face him. 'Buri, how many of the dog-men were there?' Though Jouka spoke softly, there was no softness in his voice. His eyes were decisive and bright.
'I don't know.'
'Think. Think carefully. We must know their numbers. Think of the warren here! How many were there?'
'Ten… maybe more. I'm not sure! There was a great white creature with them, though: It broke down the door.' The youth's rotund body quivered as if it were going to melt in Jouka's hands.
'Vreesar!' Martine choked back the name, but the warriors heard it anyway.
'Enough, Jouka,' Sumalo said firmly, rescuing the boy from the woodsman's grasp. 'Buri, you've had a hard time. Stay here with your cousins and sleep. Kara… Heikko… will you take the boy in?' The priest steered the youth toward a golden-bearded warrior and his stout wife. Their faces lined with concern, the couple wrapped their arms about the youth and led him away.
Satisfied the young gnome was cared for, Sumalo hurriedly turned to the Harper, his stocky body stiff with displeasure. 'You know something of this?'
Martine nodded.
'Jouka, Turi… bring the others. We must have a council now. Mistress Martine, you will attend.' Elder Sumalo's decision was quick and precise, and nobody, not even Martine, thought to question his authority as the white-bearded old priest began to march to the council chamber. 'Reko, play something soothing,' he advised the bard in passing. The old fiddler nodded and set his bow to the strings. As Martine left Vil in the dance hall, she heard the strains of a gentle lullaby swell behind her.
The raucous dissonance of debate began even before the knot of gnomes who preceded Martine had clambered onto the tiers in the council hall. Worming through the spectators jammed around the door, the human woman reached the edge of the tiers at the council floor. All eyes were on her, curious and wary, but the debaters never paused to acknowledge her presence.
Over the buzz of excited voices, Sumalo finally made his voice heard, pounding the floorboards with the speaker's rod.
'Speak in the common tongue!' the priest bellowed hoarsely to a knot of elders who spoke in a dialect so ancient Martine could barely understand it. 'Me outsider must understand our words!' A grumbled sigh ran through the Vani, but they complied with his command.
Elder Sumalo continued quickly before the pandemonium could begin anew. 'The question before the council is what to do now about the gnolls outside. This human, Mistress Martine, has recently been their prisoner. I ask her now to tell us what she saw'
His iron charms jingled as the priest waddled forward to present Martine with the speaker's rod. Respectful of their traditions, she kissed the smooth wood before beginning her tale.
The hall was packed tight with gnomes, with the whitebeards in the lowest tiers, while the farmers and woodsmen filled the upper benches. Martine faced them, acutely
nervous to be speaking before them.
Where do I begin? she thought, her mind reeling. Should I tell them about the rift? It was a Harper mission, and after all, Harpers and their jobs were supposed to be secret. It was a time-honored principle that the less said, the better.
The ranger decided to avoid any mention of the details of her assignment. The recounting began with the events of her capture. Martine's audience craned forward, engrossed in the details. The Harper did her best to assess the number and skill of the gnolls. She stressed the actions of the Word-Maker, pointing out that Krote's absence deprived the tribe of their medicine man.
Heads waggled when she reminded them of the prisoner. Voices thick with accents murmured darkly, but none rose to interrupt her. Sumalo listened impassively, his head nodding, while Jouka fidgeted and fingered his sword nervously. Turi, his ear cocked to catch every word, leaned forward attentively on his wooden bench.
The calm broke into storm when she described the arrival of Vreesar. Leaping to his feet, Jouka Tunkelo seized on her revelation. 'A fiend a thing of the elements? Where did this come from, human? What have you failed to tell us?' A chorus of murmuring, even from the whitebearded front tiers, supported his question.
Martine was on the spot. In situations like this, the ranger knew she had little skill to concoct a convincing lie. Holding the speaker's rod aloft in a vain attempt to maintain silence, she explained, 'He came from a rift in the glacier.'
'A rift? What does this mean?' queried a gap-toothed ancient in the front row.
Martine could feel the veil of secrecy slipping from her grasp. 'It's a hole between the worlds between this world and the realm of ice.'
The explanation triggered debate as to whether the council had heard her correctly. The discussions flew in heated whispers as the gnomes huddled in small knots, each trying to have his say without raising his voice too loud. Only Sumalo in the center chair nodded with understanding.
'Realm of ice? How do you know this?' Jouka demanded. Martine hoped a little more of the truth would satisfy the gnomes' curiosity. 'Because that's what I was told. I was sent to close it.'
'Sent?' The word rolled through her audience as they seized on its import.
'Mistress Martine, you said you were sent. Who sent you?' Now even Sumalo, quiet up to now, joined the questioning. The priest's leathery old face was wrinkled with concern.
