blackness. 'Does everyone understand what to do?'
The group nodded. 'All right I'll go first'
From the way Vil had explained it, the tunnel dropped about four feet and then wormed around toward the rear of the cabin. Vil had described it as a 'tight fit,' but Martine figured she'd be able to wriggle through without difficulty. She slid carefully past the jagged edges, and her feet touched bottom. ' 'Candle.'
Vil passed a taper down. Guided by the small flame, she lowered herself to lie on her belly. The dim light did not carry far, blocked by a thick mass of cobwebs across the tunnel. With her sword, she brushed the webbing aside, but it still hung in dusty tendrils from the top of the passage
The Harper wriggled across the cold ground into the darkness. There was barely space to raise her head up to look ahead. Vil hadn't been kidding when he said it was cramped. The ceiling rubbed at her back in places. Tiny shapes scurried away frantically as she roused a den of field mice.
It wasn't long before she began to feel the dark tunnel was endless. Pushing the candle ahead of her, the Harper
crept along slowly. At last she saw a faint glow that marked the end of the tunnel. Beyond another curtain of cobwebs, the shaft was lit by opaque light.
'Made it,' the woman called back to the others. Struggling with her sword in the tight space; she carefully jabbed at the icy crust that sealed the opening. It was thicker than she guessed, and by the time the blade had broken through it, Jouka was bumping up against her feet. At last she succeeded in clearing a hole in the ice large enough to wriggle through. Halfway out, she paused, watching for anything suspicious.
By daylight, the woods at the back of the cabin appeared unwatched, but the morning fog concealed everything beyond the first row of trees. Martine waited cautiously for any sign of the enemy. 'Hurry up,' the gnome behind her hissed impatiently. Finally, still uncertain it was clear. the black-haired woman scrambled through the gap, sign' for Jouka to hand out her gear, and then sprinted into the nearby woods. Gulping the fresh air and pleased to be in daylight once more, the woman Hopped onto au icy snow-bank and strung Vil's bow.
One by one, as Martine kept watch with nocked arrow, the others wriggled out and melted into the forest. First came Jouka, followed by a long pause before Krote appeared. The gnoll had to tear at the ice with his claws to widen the hole before he could squirm his broad shoulders through.
Just as Vil was emerging from the hole, gnoll voices rang from the front of the house.
'My brothers come after their dead,' Krote said. 'Will they notice we're gone?' Martine worried And. 'How can they know, human?' Krote asked. 'Whatever,' Vil added. 'Let's not linger here. Martine, you know where Jazrac's body is. We'll need his ring to catch Vreesar in time. You lead.'
Without benefit of skis, the group's progress through the snow was difficult. The birds were all silent, whether as a reaction to the chaos of battle or their presence, Martine did not know. They slipped through the sepulchral woods, hip-deep in white snow. The low fog, somewhere between ice and mist, swallowed the noise of their exertions, distorting calls and echoes till it was impossible for Martine to gauge the distance of any sound.
The fog provided traitorous comfort, for it came and went unexpectedly, one minute concealing, the next leaving them horribly exposed. 'Cyric's damnation!' Martine swore each time the fog lifted and revealed their position. There was already too much risk of being discovered without the tricks of winter conspiring to make things worse.
As the four neared the conquered warren, progress became slower and slower as mistrust and caution played on their fears. Martine could only pray she was right about Krote; she had no reason to trust him other than an irrational instinct about the gnoll. Some might have called it woman's intuition, but it wasn't that. She had long ago learned to dismiss such reactions. No, her faith was grounded on the vague kinship between warriors, the bond between men, women, even brutes who lived according to the dictates of the sword. It was this bond that allowed her to work with the unruly, the mercenary, or the detestable, whose motives and goals she could not conscionably abide anywhere else. It was this fraternity that made her trust Krote. Even though he was a shaman, the gnoll understood the life of the sword.
Would Krote betray her? No more, she felt, than the gnome at her side. Both were fierce in their beliefs, adamant in their pride and honor.
At last Martine guided them to the edge of the ravine. She remembered the stand of massed birch that flourished in a sunlit break between the trees. She remembered it being at her back. Using that to orient herself, the Harper
quickly found the wind-drifted tracks of the night before. From there, it was a simple matter to backtrack to the battle site.
In bright daylight, the place looked different. What seemed ominous by dusk was clear and peaceful this morning. Not innocent, though, Martine thought. Few forests were innocent, but their daytime secrets were less sinister than those that lurked in the depths of the night
Broken trees, frozen bodies, and pink snow was evidence they had found the site. The gnolls had made no effort to collect their dead, although the bodies had evidently been quickly stripped of everything useful. The naked corpses were frozen hard, their skin ice blue beneath the tawny fur. Vil and Jouka examined the battlefield with the curiosky of warriors, quietly impressed by the woman's' handiwork Krote moved from body to body, commending cub by name to his fierce god Gorellik.
Seeing signs of the looting, Martine realized her plan would come to naught if the gnolls had stripped Jazrac clean. Not wanting to look, she had to force herself to examine the site. It was with sick relief that she saw a booted foot jutting out from beneath a tangle of branches. A quick cry summoned the others.
The two humans and the gnome dug away the drifted snow. Krote stood back, his arms wrapped around himself for warmth, refusing to assist. 'It is not clean,' he insisted adamantly. 'I will not touch it.' Martine wondered if his conviction were true or if it was just an excuse.
Gradually the snow was cleared from the corpse. Jazrac's skin was an awful bloodless white with traces of frozen blue veins under the skin. Martine forced herself to think of the corpse as a thing. Remembering it as Jazrac salted too many wounds in her memory, and she couldn't afford to break down now.
The ring was on his left hand, I think. 'Mere, under…
that tree trunk.' The Harper pointed deep into the tangle of Vil surveyed the deadfall and shook his head. 'We'll never be able to move this. Jouka, can you get in there?' The gnome wormed his way through the branches until he reached the heart of the tangle. After a moment, he swore bitterly. 'The ring won't come off. The finger's swollen.'
'Cut it off,' Krote suggested without hesitation. He glared at the humans to see if they had any objection. 'Should I, woman?' Jouka asked.
Martine flinched at the thought, but she could think of no other solution. 'Do it,' she said before stepping away. She didn't want to see or know anything about this part of the gruesome job.
When Jouka resurfaced, he looked tight-lipped and grim. He held out a plain silver ring toward the ranger. 'The blessings of the Great Crafter on you in this age of sorrow,' he consoled stiffly. 'I commend you on his release from toil.'
'What?'
Vil intervened. 'Me Vani live for centuries,' he explained. 'In their opinion, death frees the spirit from centuries of drudgery.'
Jouka nodded. 'It is just our way to steal some joy from Death and his minions.'
`Thank you, Master Jouka.' Martine held the ring in her fingers. -Word-Maker… the ring.'
The shaman reached with his clawed fingers to accept the magical ring. His eyes were wide and eager, his jaw open wolfishly.
'I do not like this,' Jouka said softly. Even as the gnoll moved forward to claim the prize, Jouka and Vil stepped in close behind him, their swords tensely poised.
The gnoll plucked the ring from Martine's fingers, his
face twisting. Was it wonder? Triumph? Martine looked up into his face but could not tell. He was a gnoll. Who knew what emotions filled his mind?
With deliberate movements, Krote slipped the ring over his clawed finger. The silver circlet slid over his bony knuckle and settled into place. The shaman let out a rasping breath and closed his eyes as if in bliss.
