The elder paused, stroking his white beard while scanning the council chamber. He set the speaker's rod before him like a staff; forestalling any interruptions. Finally he began again. "Our warren is strong and the winter is our friend. We should not give up our best strength. We can wait here. These dog-men will be weak and frozen before the spring comes. Let them freeze while we stay warm:" Older voices echoed their approval.

The logic was sound, Martine knew. The warren was the Vani's best asset, an underground fortress the gnolls would find hard to break. Studying the faces of the council, however, it didn't look as if the priest's argument was carrying. Jouka's call for glory and action was irresistible to many. Compared to it, Sumalo's counsel of patience and cunning seemed weak and cowardly.

The debate continued, and Martine resisted every urge to leap forward with her advice even when the most outlandish claims were made. It was clear to her that the Vani were not a warrior people. Many of them, particularly the younger ones, had no concept of what a full-scale war against the gnolls would be like. Comparing the two camps, Vani and Burnt Fur, the ranger could tell the gnomes were outmatched in savagery, let alone sheer numbers. However, having already been dismissed by Jouka's faction, Martine knew her words would carry little weight

At last the speaker's rod passed to Jouka. With its authority in his hands, the council fell silent, waiting to hear what he would say. Seated, with his head bowed, the young warrior spoke in a calm, slightly nasal voice. He framed his words with surprising coolness, not delivering the tirade "Brother Vani, as leader of your council and voice of the Great Crafter, hear the decision of the council. By the laws of the last high king, there will be war."

A collective gasp escaped from the throats of the women in the room. Mothers clung tightly to their children. A few crooned lullabies to soothe their infants, who sensed something was wrong in spite of their tender years. Wives sought out their husbands, and when they met, they spoke not a word. The younger women paled as they thought of their swains. Martine could see fear for their loved ones in their eyes. Old Reko brushed back his beard and struck up a mournful tune.

Martine leaned over and whispered to Vil, "I think I'd best see Krote." She didn't feel welcome enough to intrude on the Vani at the moment. The families needed time together, and she would only be in the way. She was aware, too, of neglecting the Word-Maker ever since her arrival. Against all logic, she felt she owed a good deal to Krote.

"Good idea," Vil agreed. "I'll go with you." The pair rose and, after quickly stopping to bow to Sumalo, took their leave.

Outside the council room, the halls were chilly, since all the warren's heat was kept sealed in closed chambers. Why should I care about a gnoll? Martine asked herself as they made their way down a long hallway. She hadn't told Vil her concern about leaving Krote in the care of the Vani. A few of the young gnomes on the council had looked hot-tempered enough to decide on a lynching. With passions running high in the warren, it wouldn't take much to sway other gnomes into a dangerous mob.

If that happens, she thought, I don't know what I could do to stop it. All the same, I have to be there.

Vil guided her through passages, down staircases, and around turns, gradually leading her into the colder regions of the warren. In these distant corners were the animal

pens, root cellars, and storerooms, tucked far away from the brightly lit halls of the central warren.

At last they reached the sties. The tunnels here were old and unplanked, with ceilings of dirt supported by thick beams. The air had the stagnant smell of a stable, though a chill breeze provided some ventilation. The hallway echoed with the clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of a goat. A single magical taper, jammed into the earthen wall, gleamed steadily. The pens and their occupants cast unnaturally stark shadows, which fell away in a circle from the single pool of light.

"Word-Maker?" Martine called.

A guttural snarl came from the darkness: Removing the wooden taper, the Harper illuminated a small pen of bare earth covered with straw. Thick wooden planks made the bars of the cage, dividing her view into vertical slats of darkness.

"Word-Maker?" she called again.

"I am here, woman." Martine heard a rustle in the darkness in the depths of the cage, and then a black shape crawled forward into the thin orange light of the magical taper. Krote emerged from the gloom, stooped nearly double since the ceiling was too low for him to stand. The gnoll flashed his long canines upon seeing the Harper, but Martine couldn't guess if this was a show of rage or relief.

"You promised me safety, human," the shaman snarled. He was barechested, his crossed belts and arm wrappings gone. The gnomes had taken his charms, necklaces, and all the signs of his god to prevent the shaman from calling upon Gorellik. The only symbols of the shaman's office that remained were the thick-scarred tatoos around his eye. "You're alive."

`°This is an animal pen!"

"Word-Maker, I didn't promise you comfort. I don't remember you worrying about me back in your village." Krote settled into a squat "I healed you and saved you from Hakk's hunger."

Martine jabbed the light stick into the ground. "By marrying me to him!"

Her outburst caused Vil to perk up his head. Until now, he'd been listening with only mild interest, unconcerned with the complaints of a gnoll. "Married?" he asked in the trade tongue.

"I did this so Elk-Slayer would not kill the female." Martine couldn't see the grin on Vil's face, but she clearly heard him speak. "By Torm, Madam Elk-Slayerooof.!

A quick elbow to his ribs put an end to his playful mood. "That-will be enough from you!" she cautioned.

"Why you come here?" Krote asked.

"To close the rift. You know that," the Harper answered as she shifted her weight and tried to guess what the shaman's point was.

Krote shook his mangy head. "No, human. Why you stay here? You guarding me?"

"I came to see if you were all right I owe you that much." "Owe me? Why?"

It was obvious to Martine. "Because you saved my-"

"I know what I did," the shaman growled in perplexity. "How do you owe?"

"Kindness for kindness," Martine answered, equally perplexed that the shaman didn't understand this simple concept "YOU-"

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