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.
It was the perfect place, since she would leave no tracks on the hard bare ice, so Martine abandoned the trail and
clambered over the rock, taking care to avoid the patches of snow that clung to the cracked stone. Slipping through a cleft in the spires, she came out on the back side of the outcropping. There she waited, crouched in the lee of the stone, screened from the wind-driven snow, listening to the brutal squawks of the ravens answered by the titters of the chickadees. Already her fingers were cold and her feet numb inside her fur-wrapped boots, but her patience was at last rewarded when she heard the barking voices of gnolls nearby. The hunters were on the trail.
She set off into the deep snow, this time heading back toward the gnoll village. Martine knew she didn't have to leave the rocks. She knew she didn't have to go back. She could have turned her footsteps south and made for the pass to Samek. Still she slogged through the drifts that coiled around the pine trunks, always taking care to stay in the deep woods, well away from any trails.
Duty drove her back.
Jazrac's key was still in the village, against the wall in the main lodge, and she had to go back and get it. It's my duty as a Harper, she thought. That's what Jazrac or Khelben or any of the others would tell me. I'll never be a true Harper if I'm afraid to go back. I'll have failed, and they'll all know it. I have to go back.