Before the guard could reach a decision, a furry figure hurtled through the great lodge's doorway and crashed against the backs of the slowest sprinters. Thundering after it came Vreesar, barely able to squeeze through the narrow doorway. Its chest was mottled with a ghastly pinkish stain, livid on its silvery whiteness like a fresh scar.
"Where iz the whelp who burned me?" With long, cold arms, Vreesar sifted through the terrified gnolls, seizing those closest to it, only to cast them aside once it was satisfied they were not its prey. Even at the distance between the two lodges, Martine could see the fiend's ice spined brow tremble and twitch with fury. Abruptly it lunged forward and caught something with a triumphant cry. "Ahhh! You would try to kill me? Who told you to do thiz?"
The elemental hoisted aloft a squirming gnoll, not much older than a kit, judging by its size. Vreesar's chilling claws
encircled the gnoll's neck tightly, but the fiend took sadistic care not to squeeze its prize so tightly that its struggling ceased.
"You burned me. Now you will freeze. That iz your punish-"
"Lord of the Burnt Fur, it is our custom that a chieftain does not kill warriors," Krote Word-Maker interrupted boldly, almost shouting to be heard over the din. Standing in the dark doorway of the main lodge, the shaman had only just appeared on the scene. Like one accustomed to enforcing the burden of tribal memory, the Word-Maker spoke with the absolute certainty of tradition. His words silenced the gathered warriors as they expectantly awaited the outcome.
Vreesar peered back over its shoulder and stabbed the shaman with an incensed glare. "What do I care for your customz?" it crackled.
The gnoll snapped his fangs in surprise that anyone, even a thing as alien as the elemental, should ask such a question. That is what makes us the Burnt Fur," he replied, his tone one of horrified amazement. "Great chieftain, without the laws, the right ways of doing things, we would be no more than-than the wolves of the forest. The old ways made you chieftain. If custom is not followed, then you will not be our chieftain."
"Fear makez me chief," Vreesar snarled evilly. 'Me prisoner's kicks grew weaker and weaker. "What do I care for thiz weak tribe'z customz? You are my slavez. Thiz pathetic creature tried to kill me, and az hiz master, I can kill him if I choose."
Whether from bravery or foolishness, Krote stepped forward to stand directly in front of the chieftain. "Only if there is a duel. That is the correct way." He spoke in a soft voice that the wind barely carried to Martine. "It was an accident. The kit did not mean to spill his soup on you. Spare his life, and the kit will die willingly for you in battle."
The fiend paused as if considering Krote's words, although at her distance Martine could not read any expression into the creature's face. The Word-Maker stepped back a pace, trying to ease the tension of the scene.
"You are right, Word-Maker. The kit will die but not willingly." The elemental clenched its hand more tightly. The young gnoll convulsed in a single twitching spasm as its larynx and vertebrae were crushed with a series of thick, meaty popping sounds that echoed over the silent clearing. Martine had heard that sound before, many years ago in the port city of Westgate, when a mob had hanged a pair of suspected thieves. Like those hanged men, the gnoll's jerky struggles lasted longer than its life, the muscles flailing long after the mind had ceased to control them.
As if the dead body were no more than a soiled rag, Vreesar let the corpse drop. "My slavez will not be clumsy," it hummed. Of all the warriors, females, and kits gathered before the longhouse, the elemental ignored them all save one-Krote, who still stood directly facing the creature. The Word-Maker was rigid with outrage.
Martine could read in the gnoll's flattened ears and curled lips the warnings of a dog about to fight. So intent had she been on the confrontation that it came as a surprise when she suddenly noticed that she was alone. Her guard had vanished, apparently joining the onlookers who circled the pair. The ranger needed no more prompting. Grabbing up her bundle, she wriggled through the door and immediately sprinted for the woods. Having already failed once because she had been too cautious, she decided now to act boldly and trust Tymora's wheel. By its spin, she'd either make it or be captured once more.
"Word-Maker!" The elemental's shrill cry made the Harper's heart drop, for in that moment, she was certain
her flight had been discovered. Panic forced her to increase her speed.
I've got to reach the woods before them. I'll be safe there. Martine knew her skills as a ranger would serve her well in the forest. The forest would become an ally. She knew how to travel without leaving a clear trail, how to conceal herself in the shadowed spaces between the trees.
"Word-Maker!" Vreesar shrilled again, its buzz keening like a furiously spun grindstone. "Do not defy me!"
Even as she sprinted across the last bit of open ground, Martine breathed a sigh of relief, for behind her the drama had not played out as she had feared. The onlookers would still be watching, her guard still away from his post, and her escape might yet go unnoticed.
There was a jumble of voices behind her, none of which Martine could hear clearly, and then Vreesar's stinging drone once more pierced the clamor. "I do not care for your advice or your customz, Word-Maker. Get out of my sight before I kill you, too. Hide in your hut, weak one. Do not come into thiz hall again!"
The elemental's orders gave Martine very little time. If Krote went to the hut, he was sure to discover her escape. Nonetheless, at the very edge of the clearing, the Harper deliberately veered from her course. The shelter of the thickets beckoned to her, but the woman resisted plunging through the unbroken snow. Just ahead was what she sought, a well-used trail that wound through the woods. Her plan, quickly formed, was to follow it until she was well away from the village and then strike out on her own. With luck, she'd hide her own escape route among the footprints of her captors.
At the entrance to the pine forest, she paused to scan for pursuers. Success hinged on secrecy, and if she had been discovered, the ranger wanted to know now There were no gnolls in sight. She didn't wait for the cry of pursuit. Turning onto the path, she plunged into the welcome gloom of the winter forest. The trail almost instantly twisted out of sight of the camp, bending past tall pines, birch thickets, and the bare canes of last summer's berry bushes.
The temperature was frigid, whipped colder by the strong winds that swirled through the trees. She welcomed the wind, though, for the fine powder it swept along with it would quickly drift over the trail, making it harder to distinguish her tracks from all the others. Without weapons, food, or proper gear, Martine needed every advantage possible. Even though the snow was fairly well packed, follow-. ing the trail was arduous without skis or snowshoes. It didn't take long before the cold was forgotten. Sweat worked into the thick weave of her clothes, where it froze, making her legs and arms crackle with each step.
A half-mile along the trail, perhaps more, the ranger heard the first sounds of alarm. A series of baying howls, like jackals calling together the pack for a hunt, drifted through the woods. In the silence of the forest, the voices of the gnolls were unmistakable from the hoots of the owls or even the occasional call of a lone wolf.
Maybe they won't find the trail right away, Martine thought as she ran. No, wishful thinking like that gets people killed, her warrior instincts reminded her. They'll find my path soon enough. It's time to get off the trail.
With that in mind, Martine stayed on the path until it skirted a granite upthrust, one of many that marked the lower slopes of the surrounding mountains. The weathered stones rose from the undulating snow in a series of spires, tilted and tumbled to form irregular terraces. Few trees grew around the base, leaving a windswept area where the snow had thawed and frozen with each sunny day until the snow was a hard crust of wind-rippled ice.