Unrolling the brittle sheet of bark, she began the lesson. Slowly and carefully she played the role of tutor, a part she wasn't particularly suited for. It took more verbal skill and patience than she had to explain the mysteries of writing.

Fortunately for her, the title Word-Maker was no misnomer for Krote. She was impressed by the gnoll's quick mind and prodigious memory. He could watch her make the strokes of a letter with a piece of charcoal and repeat them perfectly.

Martine decided to take a chance. Pushing a smooth split log in front of the gnoll, she said, "Carve what I show you. Then you can practice on your own."

Martine knew it was a gamble and tried not to show her eagerness: Her heart leaped as Krote drew Jazrac's knife and held it ready to carve.

"All right. Copy this," Martine instructed as she smoothed out a piece of leather. Carefully she drew the symbols in a neat row for Krote to copy. These are all different letters you can practice later. Just do them in this order when you do."

With a generous smile, she slid the leather to Krote. In neat block letters, it said, "CAPTURED BY GNOLS. M." "You must teach me more," the shaman insisted, not ready to stop.

Martine shook her head. "You must practice-like a young cub learning to shoot a bow. Then I will teach you more." The whole success of her plan hinged on the shaman carving the message for her. And while he was doing that, she could plan her escape.

"I will practice," the shaman said with reluctance as he rolled up the leather. "Remember, you must not die when our new chieftain questions you." Martine was sure she heard a note of distaste in the shaman's words when he said "new chieftain."

"I have no intention of dying, Word-Maker," she assured

him as the gnoll left the hut.

Martine flopped back onto the flea-infested furs as all the tension drained out of her body. "Tymora be praised!" she sighed. She'd done it. She'd tricked the Word-Maker into sending her message. It hadn't been easy. Now she could only hope that Jazrac looked into his crystal ball at the right time and understood what he saw. Too much still hinged on luck for her to feel secure.

I have to escape soon or I'll be dead, she thought frankly.

Eight

Martine was grateful for the wakefulness Krote's spell provided. It was the first time her head had felt clear since the one called Brokka had brought her down from the glacier. She needed a clear head if she was going to escape.Carefully the ranger peered through a crack in the door curtain and looked out onto the white clearing beyond. Immediately alongside the entrance was the thick-furred leg. of a guard. The leg was at an odd angle, and the ranger guessed the gnoll was bored and leaning on his spear. She slid away from the entrance, trying not to reveal that she'd been spying. The guard would be a problem, though the fact that he was probably bored might help.

The first thing is to get together a survival kit… anything that can help me stay alive once I get away, she thought. Unless I can survive in the snow, there's no point in even trying to escape. Whatever I can scrape together in this lodge will have to do.

The Harper fell to searching the birch-bark hut as quietly as she could. She set aside anything potentially useful, whenever possible hiding it under the furs of her mattress. There was precious little, but it was still better than nothing at all. By the time she was done, her hoard consisted of several sharp pieces of bone, a long fire-hardened stick that she could sharpen to a point, a leather pouch stuffed with tinder, a gourd dipper she could rig up as a firepot, and the flea-infested but warm furs she was sitting on. Working carefully so as not to bring the lodge down upon her, the ranger undid some of the bindings that lashed the frame of the hut together. The cords were made of strong sinew. Stretched between her hands, it would make a crude but effective garrote.

Martine meticulously rolled and tied the items into a bundle, pleased with her luck. Her finds provided more than she expected crude weapons, fire, and shelter. What remained were food and a better weapon, but as a prisoner, the woman doubted she'd be able to get her hands on these.

There was still the matter of the guard outside, and once she was past him, the rest of the tribe. If she had a knife, she reasoned, then she could cut her way out the back of the lodge, but a few experiments showed the wall was too firmly built for her to cut through with her crude bone tools. If she was going to get out, it would have to be through the front door.

With her sharp stick in hand and escape kit within reach, there was nothing for Martine to do but huddle by the door and wait. She waited as her fire, lacking more wood, died away to a ruddy bed of coals that warmed the hut but provided little light. She waited as the sun traveled across the sky till it slowly gave way to the mountain shadows that preceded night. She waited as the magical vigor faded from her nerves and her stomach started to knot with hunger.

Finally she allowed herself to doze, trusting her senses to wake her should any opportunity arise.

Perhaps her instincts failed her, or perhaps nothing happened, for the next thing she knew, the thin light of morning was seeping through the gap around the curtain. She heard voices shouting outside. Her legs were knotted from sitting all night, she discovered when she unwound herself to peer through the crack.

Across the clearing, the main lodge was the heart of pandemonium. Gnolls tumbled from the longhouse, shouldering each other aside in a savage rush to escape from something inside. Their shouts, barks, and howls quickly alerted the rest of the village. From every hut, close and distant, warriors snatched up spears and sprinted toward the commotion. The guard outside her hut wavered, torn between the conflicting courses of duty as guard and warrior. The beast's hesitant steps toward the fray gave Martine hope, and she quietly tucked her bundle under her arm in preparation to make a dash for freedom.

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.