The shaman's claim made no sense. Judging by what she'd seen of the Vani warren, the gnomes had been there a century or more, building and tending to their home. No gnoll chieftain, she guessed, could have that kind of lifespan.

"What do you mean, they stole your hunting grounds? Surely they were there first." The Harper part of her, the part that always hungered for information, was speaking now.

"It is our right because we need it," was the shaman's sharp answer.

"Because you need it, the valley belongs to you?"

Krote's long tongue licked his lips. "It is right of rrachk-kiah."

"Rrachk-kiah?"

The gnoll groped for an explanation as he unexpectedly warmed to her interest It seemed as if he wanted to explain, to justify the ways of his tribe. Perhaps she had triggered a passion within him, part of what earned him the title WordMaker.

"What is seen is owned," the shaman continued. 'Me gods gave my people everything in the world. Everything we can see belongs to the gnolls. So the little ones steal our hunting grounds."

"That's… quite a claim." Martine picked her words carefully, trying not to let any sarcasm creep in, despite the arrogant egotism of the gnoll's beliefs.

"It is right. Why else would the gods make the world?" Word-Maker proclaimed.

A series of shouts from outside interrupted any need to reply. Krote's ears twitched as he stepped to the door flap and peered outside. The woman braced herself to spring at him while he was distracted, but before she could act, the shaman whipped out a knife. Involuntarily a savage growl welled up in his throat

The chorus of barking yelps from outside intensified. The dog-man suddenly whirled, pointed the knife in her direction, and barked, "Stay!" before disappearing through the door flap. It wasn't the ranger but something outside that had triggered Krote's reaction.

Martine sat dumbfounded for a moment, but only for a moment. Scrambling to her feet, she hastily gathered whatever she could find that might be of use in her escapefurs, a pouch, a sharp stick, even a few trinkets from the walls. Wrapping them into a tight bundle, she paused at the lodge's flap to listen before venturing outside.

Whatever was happening, it was important, judging by the noise. From the mingled chorus of barking shouts, Martine imagined the entire tribe had turned out. The words were unclear, but the excitement was obvious.

This is my chance, the Harper thought as she crouched

low by the entrance. With luck I can make it into the forest unnoticed.

Pulling back the door flap slightly, Martine was greeted with a view of an assembled throng, their backs facing her. The massed gnolls, some robed, others bare-skinned in the cold, were gathered in the center of the clearing, their attention transfixed by something the Harper could not see. The gathering piqued her curiosity, but not nearly as much as the chance of escape. Grabbing her bundle, she slipped through the opening and edged her way along the front of the lodge, moving quietly in hope of avoiding attention. Her breath steamed out in tense bursts, and each crunching footstep made her wince even though there was little chance of being heard over the racket made by the gnolls, which sounded like battle cries and war alarms. Had Vilheim returned with the gnomes? Or was it Jazrac? Martine paused, hope rising that someone might be coming to rescue her.

Even as she stood eagerly wafting, the fierce war cries of the gnolls gave way to howls of panic, and the tightly knit mass of bodies abruptly exploded as the gnolls turned and bolted, those at the back thrust aside by others from the front lines. Females scooped up their kits and ran for the shelter of the lodges. Latecomers scrambled for weapons stacked near the lodge doors. Through a brief gap in the crowd, Martine saw Elk-Slayer, muscular and nearly naked, berating his warriors to form a wavering arc of spears against whatever approached.

Then Martine saw the intruder and understood the cause of the gnolls' panic. It was her tormentor, the creature from the rift, icy bone-white, moving with clicking stiffness as it stalked into the center of the village. Its head snapped from side to side, its icicled brow hiding eyes that swept over the gnolls. The small, rasping mouth clicked together in threatening snaps, while its long arms swung to and fro, thin claws cutting gouges in the hard snow. Seeing the fiend, Martine paled and promptly forgot about caution. Relying on the confusion the creature's arrival was creating, she clutched her bundle tightly and sprinted from the shelter of the lodge into the gap that separated it from the gloom of the forest. A gnoll charged past, forcing the ranger to veer madly, but the creature seemed to pay her no mind.

I've made it! she started to think as the trees drew nearer.

The second she entertained the thought, the woman knew it was precipitous. Before she had completed another two steps, a rough hand seized her. "Hah!" snarled a harsh voice as clawed fingers gouged into her tender shoulder. Her arm jerked in a spasm of pain and her bundle spilled from her grasp. Kicking and struggling, she tried to break free from the gnoll, but his grip did not loosen. With a fierce twist, she was pulled about to face her captor.

"I thought you might try to escape," Krote grunted as he held her fast, his amulets jingling as she squirmed about "Cyric take you!" Martine tried to kick him, a move the gnoll easily avoided.

"Varka, bring the human," the shaman barked to a warrior hurrying by with sword and shield in hand. Varka, a short, mangy creature, grinned wolfishly, and with a sharp poke of his sword, urged Martine into obedience. Realizing her chance to escape was lost, she sullenly pretended surrender, all the while still hoping for a chance to break free once more.

"Female, what is that creature?" Krote rasped as they hurried to where Hakk's warriors uneasily faced off against the intruder. So far, neither the gnolls nor the fiend had done more than glower at each other.

"I don't know. Its the same creature that captured me on the glacier." Her near escape and failure had crumbled the

Harper's resistance.

Krote started to say something else, but his words were silenced by a warm buzzing as the fiend spoke.

"Warm thingz," the newcomer droned slowly as it surveyed them all, talking as if they did not matter. "Many warm thingz: Good. You will be my slavez. I am your master."

To Martine's ears, the claim would have been preposterous were it not for the monotonous confidence with which the creature spoke. It was not a thing of this world, and there was no sure way to say what it was capable of doing. Beside her, Krote sucked in the cold air with a snarling hiss.

An eerie silence fell upon the tribe. Martine had expected outrage, or at least more of the wild tumult that had heralded the fiend's arrival, but instead the gnolls seemed to go dumb. The warriors in the half-circle around the fiend wavered. Martine assumed it was cowardice until she realized they were waiting. The eyes of the warriors, indeed of all the crowd, turned to their chieftain, Hakk Elk-Slayer.

"What are you waiting for? Your tribe can kill it," the Harper found herself urging the Word-Maker. Though still a gnoll prisoner, she feared the fiend more.

"Quiet," Krote whispered. 'Me creature challenges ElkSlayer. He must fight to remain chieftain."

"What? Against that thing? What kind of a challenge is that?" Unable to contain her disbelief, Martine nodded toward the elemental.

"Quiet! It is the way things are done."

It seemed to Martine that the fiend was as confused as she was by the sudden silence of the gnolls, for it swayed from side to side, glaring this way and that as it waited for an attack. The droning buzz of its voice went higher, perhaps in amusement, as it spoke again. "No fight? Good slavez…" The Burnt Fur are not slaves," Hakk finally roared out. Even before the first faint echo rebounded from the dense woods, the chieftain sprang forward, using two hands to whirl a gnarled club over his head.