At their room, the wizard, who had nothing to prepare, waited outside while the other two made ready for battle. Working quickly, the pair struggled into what armor each had brought from Vil's cabin. Martine wore a resilient tunic of chain mail, intricately woven by elves under the light of the full moon or so the merchant who had sold it to her claimed. Whatever the circumstances of its creation, the suit had served her well for many years, helped by careful patching and a fine sheen of oil. As she pulled it on, the
metal felt bone cold even through the clothing she wore beneath it Her open helm fit tightly over her fur cap, so she finally opted to set the helmet aside. She missed the light touch of her sword, the one she'd christened Sea Dog, but the weapon she'd borrowed from Vid was solid enough. She still had her bow and quiver, which she slung over her shoulder. 'Ready?' she asked finally.
'You can help me with this clasp.' Vil grunted. The warrior was almost finished buckling on his battered old breastplate, the final piece of his armor, an unmatched collection of leather, chain, and metal plates. It was an old suit and well matched to the wearer, the armor shaping itself to his body over the years. The big man moved easily in it, and without the sometimes annoying squeaks and creaks of poorly made plate mail. Sword and hanger in arm, he nodded he was ready to go.
In the hall, Jazrac waited. Borrowing one of the old quilts, he had bundled it around himself till his face barely peeked through a small gap at the top. 'I still think we need more information,' the wizard complained even as they started down the hall.
Just as the three neared the east gate, a fantastic figure, encrusted from head to toe in a suit of iron and jutting spikes, ambled around the corner and almost walked into Martine. The Harper could barely recognize the grim Jouka beneath the bizarre armor. The gnome's black beard was bound with ribbons and tucked around his neck so it didn't snag on the spikes bristling across his breastplate. His armor consisted of three pieces of black iron, jointed at his chest to follow the curvature of his muscles. Shaped iron covered his arms, thighs, and calves.
That alone would have made the armor more than serviceable for war, but Jouka's plates were studded with thick, rusting iron spikes that almost looked as if they had been driven through from the underside so that the sharp points wavered dangerously with every movement of the wearer. The suit was complete nail studded gauntlets, tack-covered arms, even a metal helm, a full skull mask of hammered iron, gingerly tucked under one arm. The helm sported features of smooth anonymity, with barely the trace of a mouth, nose, and chin. The whole thing was marked by the needle-sharp points that projected to an even length about the skull, like some strange cultist's mask.
'What is that?' The question, full of disbelief, exploded unconsciously from Martine's lips.
'This, human, is my badger fighting suit,' Jouka said proudly, almost thumping a thorny fist against his spiky chest.
'A what?' She knelt to have a better look.
'My badger fighting suit,' came the fierce reply. 'Sometimes badgers dig into the warren and we have to kill them.'
'In that?'
'It is an old Vani tradition, Martine,' Vil answered, coming up behind the pair. ''The Vani corner the badger or wolverine, usually by penning it inside a room.Then one of the warriors goes in and tries to kill it. By custom, the lucky fighter is armed with just a knife and that outfit.' The man nodded toward Jouka's armor.
'Lucky?'
'It is a great honor to kill a badger,' Jouka huffed. 'I have killed two badgers already'
'It's how their men become true warriors,' Vil pointed out.
'But why the suit?' Martine asked as she gingerly touched one of the spikes.
'Badgers do not like the spikes, human. It gives the fighter a fair chance.'
'A chance? Against a badger?'
Jouka glared up at her as if she had questioned his
manhood. 'Have you ever fought a badger, woman? Do not-'
`The Vani call him
The gnome nodded sagely. 'A bear will run where a badger turns and fights. The Vani fight like badgers, too.' Having arrived at the east gate, he cut the conversation short.
In the chill hall, an assemblage of gnomes were gathered into rough-and-ready companies. The militia broke ranks the minute Jouka and the others entered the hall and besieged the spiky gnome with questions, demands, and suggestions. In the cramped chamber, Vil and Jazrac towered over the clustered gnomes packed around them. The little warriors bristled with an assortment of weapons, mostly stubby spears. Short swords, their hilt grips well worn with use, hung in the undecorated scabbards of many others. There was a suggestion of armor under the shapeless layers of their dirty white parkas. Armets, pot helms, skullcaps, and other wondrously incongruous headdresses bobbed among them. The air reeked of gnome sweat, oil, and stale beer, the latter no doubt consumed to fortify more than a few before they set out.
With all the voices raised at once, Martine did her best to listen, but the tumult was a blend of shouting so thickly accented that the Harper gave up all hope of understanding.
At last Jouka, who would serve as commander of the raid, restored order. Organized back into their companies, the gnomes stood tensely expectant while Jouka huddled with his chosen captains.
'I didn't think the gnomes had this many warriors,' Martine said to Vil. There were about forty of the Vani packed into the little hall. 'They don't,' Vil said softly. 'You can't count most of these fellows as warriors. Most of them are farmers. A few are hunters who know the valley well, but fighters like Jouka are precious few'
The aforesaid gnome, in the middle of his captains, nodded toward the humans. 'The humans are welcome, too. Master Vil you know. The woman can use a sword as well.' There was a murmur of surprise from some of the more traditional farmers. 'The thin one is a wizard… or so he claims.'
Martine felt that Jouka's introductions were somewhat strained, as if he were unwilling to admit their skills. However, the gnome added finally, 'They know how to fight, brothers, and every sword will help us. They will travel with me. That way they cannot get lost.' A weak chuckle rose at their expense from the gnomes.
'Elder Sumalo is no longer as young as he once was,' Jouka continued, 'so we will have no priest. If your brothers are hurt, you will have to bring them back to the warren for healing. Sumalo will be ready for you. My brother, Turi, and the human wizard are our only magi.'
'Is Turi a good mage?' Martine whispered to Vil.
The warrior shrugged. 'Good enough, if you need illusions tricks of light and shadow, phantoms those sorts of things. Better get yourself ready to go,' Vil added with the barest nod to Jazrac. 'Does he need skis?' Jouka was already herding his chattering fellows outside as Vil took his skis from the pegs.
'Not at all,' Jazrac cheerily replied, overhearing the question.
Stamping their ski-clad feet to drive out the cold, the gnomes waited impatiently outside for the humans. In the morning chill, their frosty breath caught in their beards and mustaches, coating them with a snow-whitened glaze. The waiting gnomes said little, their gazes fixed grimly on
the woods. Their old eyes held no fear, only determination for the mission before them.
Jouka gave the signal to move out. The outer doors parted. 'We go!' barked Jouka, barely waiting for the humans. Expert skiers, the Vani set a brisk pace, each following in the track of the gnome before him. Martine was surprised how quickly the short-legged folk could shoot across the snow as she and Vil labored to keep pace. Only Jazrac traveled without the long boards, instead drifting over the surface of the snow, held magically aloft, floating alongside Martine and Vil.
'I thought such magic could be used only for brief periods,' the former paladin rumbled. 'We're likely to be traveling all day.'
The wizard ignored Vil's evident irritation. 'Thats true of spells, yes, but a ring of flying is much more useful.' To demonstrate, the wizard made a pass by the skiing warrior, rising slowly until his feet were level with the man's helmeted head.
Singularly unimpressed, Vil growled, 'I've seen flying wizards before. Archers call them flying pincushions.' Martine chuckled, for wizards tended to be pretty useless as fighters. It was their spells and not their fighting prowess that made them powerful.
Appropriately chastised, Jazrac resumed skimming over the snow, stirring up a thin cloud of ice crystals as he
