Further explanation was cut off by a clamor that echoed down the hall. "I'll go see what's going on," Vil volunteered. As Martine laid a hand on his arm, the former paladin added, "Don't worry. IT try talk them out of anything rash, if that's what they're up to." He hurried down the hall, stooping under the low beams as he went
"What is happening, human? Have the little ones come
for me?"
"No, not that" Martine hoped that was the truth, but her voice, like her heart, lacked the strength of conviction. "You think the little ones come to kill me."
"No," the woman lied badly.
Krote rocked with a barking, staccato cough. "I am your enemy, human, but you fear the little people, too, eh?" The shaman pressed close to the slats. He leered wolfishly so that his long canine teeth glowed dully in the unflickering light. "Let me go, human, or give me a sword to fight them."
Martine moved away from the cage, shocked by the suggestion. "No!"
The shaman's fingers wrapped around the thick slats. "Why? You have honor. You know the Burnt Fur are better, more honorable, than the little people."
"Better? That's not true!"
"I would kill for freedom; little ones kill for blood. Now who is better?"
"T'hey're not like you! They don't threaten to eat you or marry you to impress the tribe. The Vani are afraid and angry. Your people attacked them today and killed a farmer. He hadn't done anything to harm your people." 'The Harper found herself leaping to the defense of the gnomes, of whom only moments ago she had feared the worst
"I just don't want them to do anything foolish," the Harper added. With one finger, she nervously scratched patterns in the dirt "I gave my word you'd be safe."
A dry chuckle purred in the gnoll's throat "My people, your people all alike," Krote whispered as he slid into the darkness. After only a moment, he returned from the shadows and tossed something through the pen's slats. Martine started and scooted backward. Krote broke into a dry laugh once more. "Look at it. It does not bite. Hakk was making it"
Martine gingerly picked up the small object, which curiously felt both smooth and raspy to her touch. In the light, it flashed wheat gold. She saw it was made from bundles of straw twisted and woven into a crude doll.
"Hakk make it for his cubs." The gnoll's voice was a gravelly whisper. "My people, your people, who is different?" The doll was cunningly fashioned from scraps of leather and cloth. The head was decorated with two specks of color for eyes, while two tufts of fur gave it wolflike ears. The hair was a thin daub of mud. Martine could imagine Hakk carefully mixing spittle and dirt until the texture was just the right consistency. In one knotted hand, the doll held a stone flake that looked almost like a sword. A braid of straw formed a belt; another scrap of fur made a loincloth.
Looking at the crude toy, Martine remembered the dolls her own father had made for her birthday, lovingly carved from a block of wood and then dressed in little gowns sewn by her mother. In her mind, she saw the image of Hakk, writhing beneath Vreesar's blood-soaked jaws. A lump choked in her throat, and tears blurred her vision. Furious with her lack of control over her own emotions, she flung the doll away into the darkness. "No! Cyric's damnation on you! You're not the same! You're not like the gnomes, and they're not like you!"
As if to prove her words, Martine sprang to her feet, and as she hurried down the hall, she heard Krote chuckle grimly as he crawled once more into the darkness.
It took Martine little time to make her way back to the main hall, her natural sense of direction holding her in good stead. The other gnomes were gone and the hall was almost dark, but Vil remained, squatting on the floor in serious conversation with Sumalo. The pair rose as she approached and had said their good-nights before she even joined them.
"'Ibis way," Vil said as he guided her down the hall to a
door. "Sumalo's arranged for us to stay the night I accepted for both of us. It wouldn't be a good idea to go back to the cabin tonight if the gnolls are about" He pushed the door open and waited for her to duck through the short portal before following her inside.
The room was narrow and windowless, a claustrophobic little chamber. It was furnished with a bed, table, and chairs, all gnome-sized, but these were all pushed against the back wall and stacked on each other to clear as much floor space as possible. The floor was covered with two neat mounds of thick bedding.
The warren doesn't have many human-sized rooms," Vil explained as he edged past Martine, "and Sumalo didn't want us sleeping in the halls in case they need to be used in an emergency. Hope you don't mind."
"It's fine. Almost as nice as your cabin." Martine pulled off her boots and laid claim to one of the beds. Compared to the snow cave she had slept in several nights earlier, this was positively spacious. Besides, she couldn't help noting, the company was much better.
Suddenly there was a loud, thunderlike clap, followed by the acrid smell of ozone in the air.
Vil sprang to his feet, practically upsetting Martine as she rose, startled by the explosive report. Quickly the pair sprang for their weapons.
With their blades flickering in magelight, the pair whirled on the source of the disturbance. A cloud of sulphurous smoke billowed in the doorway. When the smoke began to clear, a thin-faced man, smartly dressed in a traveling cloak, puffed and slashed doublet, and woolen breeks, strode out of the swirl of fumes, brushing tendrils of smoke from his slender goatee. In his other hand, the stranger carried a large satchel made of well-worn leather.
"Martine, my dear," the stranger said in an easy, familiar voice, "put away your sword. You're not under attack." 'Jazrac?" the woman blurted, practically dropping her blade in the process. Vil stood alongside her, his sword wavering with uncertainty.
The wizard casually sauntered across the room, giving the small quarters a disparaging once-over. The fight from the unflickering wail scones highlighted the silver and black of his hair with a theatrical glow. "Precisely, my dear Martine. It was the deuce to track you down. Now, may I put my bag here?" the tall wizard continued, hoisting his luggage. Vil let the tip of his sword sag to the floor in confused stupefaction.
"What what do you mean, track me down?" Martine stammered. "What are you doing here, Jazrac?"
"I read your letter," the wizard replied calmly as he plopped his satchel onto the furniture laden bed. The straps undone, the bag opened with slight hiss, like the sucking in of a breath. "And that curious bit of carving you got that gnoll to do. That was a clever bit of work on your part. But as I said, you're a hard one to track down. It took me a while to figure out just where you were."
As he spoke, Jazrac reached into the small bag until his arm disappeared all the way up to the shoulder. He removed his arm to produce a thick bundle of scrolls, neatly bound with string. That set aside, he reached back inside the bag and rummaged for something else. Confused, Vil watched the unannounced visitor shove his arm into the small satchel again.
Martine had no patience with the deliberately obtuse tack her mentor was taking. "Jazrac, I repeat, what in the hells are you doing here?"
The wizard paused in his unpacking and stared at the woman with mock injury, his arched eyebrows raised even higher. "Why, Martine, I've come to find out what kind of a mess you've made of things."
Eleven
Oh, gods, I'm doomed! Martine thought as she sagged against one of the paneled walls. At the same time, the color drained from her face, leaving her deadly pale. The thought that Jazrac needed to check up on her inspired in her a dread awe of the wrath the Harpers.