to hold the rags in place. Where the straps crossed the backs of the gnoll's hands, they glittered with spiked silver. Broad crossbelts of dark brown banded his skeletal chest. Each was decorated with metal studs and beadwork worked into crude designs of birds, wolves, and other symbols the Harper could not identify. They rippled in the lodge's wavering light like things alive. A grimy bearskin cloak was draped over his gaunt shoulders. The incongruity of his dress made him stand out from the bestial crowd.

The gnoll came forward almost hesitantly into the light. As it had for Martine, the pack parted before the new arrival's advance, shrinking back with his every step forward.

At the edge of the fire pit, just short of where Hakk stood, the challenger stopped. His black lips pulled back from his long muzzle in a brutal smile. From this distance, the Harper could see that fully half his taut face was etched with tattooing. Two purple-black scars radiated from one eye, the first cutting a wedge from his matted hairline, the other running down the length of his muzzle.

With the sweep of one long arm, the new arrival threw his heavy bearskin cloak off. It landed with a dull thud on the ground behind him.

"You may not wish to hear my advice, but a corpse tells neither truth nor lies."

"It lies about another creature on the ice, mighty chief' We told you the truth about what happened. Nothing else is on the ice." Brokka stepped closer to Hakk, leaning over the chieftain's shoulder to hiss the words.

The chieftain took it as a cue. "You question Brokka's word, Word-Maker?"

"I am sure Brokka saw what he saw."

Clever, thought Martine. His answer ducked the chieftain's challenge. Better still, it was beginning to appear as if Word-Maker wanted her alive. Tymora's wheel seemed to

be turning back in her favor.

"Then she knows nothing and is of no use to us. We will kill her for the meat."

The Harper could see her chances doing an about-face again and refused to remain silent about her own fate. "Brokka did not see the death creature… the fiend. The fiend hunts us all."

Barely had she finished the words before the chieftain threw his head back and burst into a chorus of baying yelps that sounded like laughter. The pack held silent for only a moment before the young curs began to yip derisively. The joke grew as they drummed the earthen floor with savage delight.

"This is our valley. No one comes here who does not fear the Burnt Fur. Let this fiend come if he does not fear our might." Hakk's boast triggered scattered howls of approval as the drumming faded in the hall. Then he turned once more to face Martine. "As for you, you will be meat in our stewpots." The chieftain drew a knife of curved bone from its sheath.

"It is a shame to kill such a prize, Hakk Elk-Slayer," the one called Word-Maker said, nodding toward the woman. Already tensed for the deathblow, Martine grew tenser still as she wondered what the gnoll was up to.

"I do not fear a shortage of meat for the tribe," the WordMaker continued, so softly he was almost whispering. "You are a great hunter and will lead us to game. You do not need to kill this scrawny human for our pots. Let her live, and we will steal the humans' secrets from her."

Hakk shook his head. "Humans are weak. They teach us nothing. She will merely be another mouth to feed."

"But think of the fame you would gain with a human captive in your lodge. In all the tribes, the packs would repeat your name with respect around their fires."

The chieftain paused and gave a sly glance toward the

one called Word-Maker. By now the lodge had quieted as their audience slowly realized something was afoot. "What other chief could rival you?" Word-Maker pressed on. The human is a good omen. Brokka said the ice stopped moving when he found her. She might have great powers." His long tongue licked greedily as the chieftain prowled before the fire pit, considering the Word-Maker's words. The scene swirled before her as Martine awaited the outcome. Blood loss, fatigue, and the raw grate of overtaxed nerves were overcoming the Harper. Only fear kept her conscious. The scene around her blurred until she saw only Elk-Slayer and Word-Maker standing before the glowing pit.

The chieftain stopped pacing and reclaimed his position on the wooden platform. Martine snapped back to full consciousness. "I have chosen!" Hakk barked loudly to the pack. Ears eagerly perked to listen, the gnolls ceased their murmured barking and focused their attention on the platform.

"Brokka, you are a brave hunter. You bring the tribe much meat." At these words, the old gnoll smiled toothily at the rest of the pack. Praise from the chieftain probably translated into improved status better meat, better females, Martine guessed.

The chieftain wasn't done speaking, however. The ranger tensed again, fully expecting him to pronounce a grim judgment for her. "Let the tribe know I offer three fine robes and the first meat of our next kill for the human. Does my hunt brother agree?"

Martine hadn't enough skill to read Brokka's emotions accurately and could only guess that the gnoll was surprised. Still, considering the honor just accorded, the gnoll was not in a position to refuse. "Elk-Slayer is kind. He gives me more robes than the human is worth." Apparently the old gnoll knew how to play the game:

"It is good," the chieftain said. The pronouncement ended what little bargaining there was. With cold yellow eyes, he sized up his new possession, still sprawled on the floor. "Word-Maker!" he roared.

"I am here, Elk-Slayer."

"I claim the female for my harem. I will not eat the human unless she displeases me. Will this bring me honor?" "A human female among your wives every lodge will speak of it"

Wives! Weak or not, the word electrified Martine. She was to be one of this brute gnoll's wives? She was about to lurch to her feet to protest this arrangement when a cold glare from Word-Maker stopped her. The look was clear; it. carried in it neither lust nor kindness, but rather a cautionary warning to stay out of something she did not understand. The Harper sagged back to the ground, quaking with anger that quickly turned to violent shivering as her weakened body finally surrendered control.

"Krote Word-Maker, say the words to finalize my claim." The chieftain's voice rang deeply through the lodge, triggering an excited buzz from the assembled tribe.

The gaunt Word-Maker nodded sharply and turned to the pack. "Hear the words of the servant of Gorellik. Hakk Elk-Slayer has claimed the human female. To take her is to challenge him. To injure her is cause for blood feud. This female is claimed. Gorellik approves this." The words were recited as an old formula, familiar and easy in their utterance.

At first the tribe's response sounded like a low grumble of snarled voices laden with discontent. The Harper's ears proved wrong, however, as the growl quickly resolved itself into a rhythmic chant. The drumming of paws slapping against the earth rose higher and higher. Though the accompanying words were garbled by the clustered voices and unfamiliar phrases, Martine caught the unmistakable

strains of a mating chant

I've just been married! she realized suddenly.

The realization left her stunned, both by the deed itself and by the haste at which it had been accomplished. Married to a gnoll! Fortunately weakness and fear blotted out any thoughts of what her new duties might be, leaving only the vague realization of the hopelessness of her situation. Blackness swirled into her vision, leaving only the two, chieftain and shaman, before her in the firelight.

"Word-Maker!" her new husband barked over the rising chorus. The female must not die. Heal her or suffer the consequences."

The other gnoll bristled instinctively at the command, lips curling slightly to expose yellow fangs. Then, just as quickly, the Word-Maker recovered his composure. "I will do it," he grunted with a nod toward the chieftain. "Take her to the spirit lodge."