Their journey wasn't easy. The snow ranged from shallow to deep as it drifted around the tree trunks. Frequently brambles conspired to block the way, and steep ravines stood in their path at several points. Massive deadfalls, where several trees had fallen in a single storm, created impassable snarls that could only be bypassed. All around these fails, uprooted pines leaned perilously on their neighbors. The woods softly resounded to the creaking trunks and the dismal hiss of the wind. Ravens spoke of their passage, the birds' harsh voices ringing far through the mute woods.
Although Martine was born to the outdoors and knew it well, this forest was different from others she was familiar with. The endless tracts of pine were not like the woods of oak and elm in Sembia and the Dalelands. The forest here was tall; muffled, and cold.
A feeling of dark watchfulness tingled at the back of Martine's neck, and she knew it was the spirit of the forest. Others, townsfolk and farmers, never felt it That sense was knowledge only true woodsmen knew by the way the wind rustled the leaves, the direction the water flowed, or even how a rabbit left its tracks. This forest's spirit was ungenerous and unforgiving, barely tolerant of intruders. Martine didn't feel any warmth in these woods like those of her homeland.
Exhausted, the Harper finally called a stop as she leaned, perspiring in the chill, against the trunk of a tree. Krote squatted, his jaw slack and tongue hanging as he panted clouds of frost, almost as spent as she and glad for the rest.
"You do not need to threaten me with the sword. I will not escape," the shaman finally growled as he brushed snow from his dirty bindings.
Martine thought she heard an edge of bitter irritation in his voice. "Why not?" she asked doubtfully.
"I cannot go back."
"Why not?" It seemed all she could manage to say. Krote's lips curled in a snarl. "Vreesar banished me. If I go back, I die."
"I heard him bar you from his lodge. That's not banishment" Martine poked her sword at the snowbank, carving little holes near the gnoll.
"Lodge and tribe are one."
"How come he didn't kill you? He killed Hakk and that other gnoll."
Krote waggled an ear at her words. "You saw that, human? I live because even Vreesar fears the gods." Krote jangled the charm that hung around his neck. "Kill me and you anger Gorellik, the god of my people."
That was enough talk for Martine. She didn't like the implied threat in the shaman's words, and so with a rough shove of her foot, she got the gnoll back on his feet.
For the next hour, the woman plodded in silence. It took all her effort just to keep her attention on the trek, and she had no desire to talk through her cold-burnt throat. The path became even harder to follow as dusk fell, the thick shadows hiding jarring bumps and holes. Her leg muscles were beyond aching, numb with incessant pain. Sweat weighted her clothes. Even with the growing cold of nightfall, she drove them on by moonlight. Moonlight was almost a euphemism, silver Selune not yet even half full and barely penetrating through the black-needled boughs. Sil
ver rivers ran through the trees, broken by black rapids of bare rock and exposed moss.
Martine had no idea how many hours or days it had been since starting when she finally called their march to a halt Krote, exhausted as well, stood still among the dimly lit trees. "If we stop, we freeze," he warned grimly.
Freezing almost seemed appealing to Martine, but the gnoll was right. They needed protection from the night cold.
"We'll dig a shelter," she said, pointing to a large snow bank at the base of a bluff. She began to scoop away handfuls of snow. Krote did not resist or argue but mutely held up his bound hands for her to cut them free.
In a short time, the two had tunneled out a chamber a tomb fit for an ice queen, Martine felt barely big enough for them to lie down in. "This is where we sleep," the woman explained as she re-bound the gnoll's wrists. She didn't have enough cord to tie his ankles, so she could only rely on common sense and trust. "If you run away, you'll freeze in the cold. If you kill me, you'll freeze here. Understand?"
The Word-Maker nodded. "And if you kill me, human, you freeze. This night we need each other."
Martine nodded, her sore shoulders screaming at even that slight turn of the head. With tinder and Jazrac's knife, Martine kindled a tiny fire in the entrance that barely warmed them
Dinner consisted of moss and tender bark, the best the ranger could gather in the snow. Normally she wouldn't have bothered, but her captivity had left her starving. Krote was not that desperate and so only watched her eat.
"Inside," Martine said after the unappetizing repast. As the gnoll squeezed in through the entrance, Martine gave one last look skyward. Selune's Tears, a waft of star motes that hung off the crescent hook of the butterfat moon, weaved through the sparse branches of the wind-blasted pines along the cliff face. The sky was clear and bitter. Night birds lurking in the icebound woods called to any listening ear, speaking to each other of their might and wisdom Something, a breeze or a small beast, snuffled beyond the rim of light. The night forest excited her; even here, it was a world she understood and loved, more so than the timid towns and villages she had sworn to defend as a Harper.
A grunt from Krote broke the mood. Drawn back from her reverie, the Harper numbly crawled inside, taking care to keep her sword ready. Now came the time when she had no choice but to trust the shaman. Trust out of necessity did not come easy.
In the near darkness, the Word-Maker had twisted and squirmed his rude bed closer to the ice-sheened wall, distancing himself from Martine's space. Even so, the two, woman and gnoll, were still pressed tight to each other. Martine placed her drawn sword along the wall, just in case. Only exhaustion would grant her any rest tonight.
As she lay in the darkness, the ground chill insinuated its way through the layers of her leather parka, into its sweat matted fur lining, through torn and stained clothes, past skin, until it reached muscle and bone. Martine could feel it creep through her body. The cold wanted to kill her, to stalk down the warmth within her and leech it into the snow until she was left an ice-filled husk. In the near darkness, these thoughts obsessed the woman. She had camped in the woods as much as she had lived indoors, but never could she remember a night so hostile.
"Gods, I'm freezing," she chattered softly.
"So am I," her companion answered unexpectedly from the darkness.
Tentatively the pair inched closer to each other. Neither wanted to get close to the other, but they needed each
other's warmth. Fi their bodies huddled together. The gnoll stank, and where his fur poked through, it scratched her, but the contact kept the cold at bay. Finally the Harper drifted into a dim semblance of sleep.
When the cave walls began to glow autumnal gold, Martine at first dismissed it as another waking dream. The light persisted, until she finally realized it was no fantasy. Wriggling through the narrow entrance, she gratefully drew in a lungful of clear morning air. Accustomed to the den, she had forgotten just how thick, rank, and humid the snow cave was until she was outside of it.
It was incredibly bright outside, the kind of brightness that comes when all the moisture has been frozen out of the air, allowing the sun's rays to burn unhampered onto the ice-sheeted ground, where the sunlight reflects back up and for a brief moment crosses itself to intensify the glare. On such mornings, it seems as though the whole world has risen up from an ocean of light.
Retrieving her sword, the Harper tugged on the WordMaker's boot until the gnoll finally woke. She had expected the shaman to wake quick and alert, as matched the feral reputation of gnolls, but Krote, it seemed, was a terrible sluggard. Only after a fair amount of growling was she able to get the gnoll outdoors.