The Ring of Winter (18 page)

Along with the rocks and dirt, Grumog had gobbled up Artus’s journal.

When the beast bit down upon the wyvern-hide binding, its spadelike teeth shredded the tough covering—and thus broke the enchantment placed upon the book long ago by the Red Wizards of Thay. Thousands of pages spewed out of the journal when the binding snapped. Grumog tried to push them out of its mouth, but there were simply too many of them. The lizard-thing gagged. Twitching and gasping for breath, it fell over and kicked its feet futilely. Then the god of the Batiri died.

Artus walked silently to the creature’s bead. Its mouth had been forced so wide by the paper that the lower jaw hung at an impossible angle, broken. A few pages floated free of Grumog’s mouth and drifted to the ground. Artus picked up one of these. The top read; The tale of Elminster at the magefair, as told to me by the Sage of Shadowdale himself. Most of the text had been sheared off by one of Grumog’s teeth.

He crumpled the page and let it fall.

The journal had contained his whole life, everything he’d done as an adventurer and all that he’d learned from the sages and heroes of Faerun. Even when it had been stolen aboard the Narwhal, Artus knew somehow he would get it back. Now it was gone for good, irrevocably destroyed.

“That was quite a trick,” Byrt said, nosing one of the pieces of parchment. “It goes to show the power of a good book.”

The larger wombat trundled to his fellow’s side. “Leave ‘im alone,” Lugg growled. “Can’t you see ‘e ain’t thrilled about this?”

Artus absently gathered up his unstrung bow, a few stray pieces of discarded clothing, his quiver of arrows, and the now-smoldering torch. Without a word, he headed off down the tunnel, backtracking Grumog’s trail. The wombats fell in behind him, keeping a respectable distance.

“I think he can help us,” Byrt whispered.

Lugg shook his head mournfully. “I don’t think anyone’s likely to ‘elp us.”

Grinning so broadly all his wide teeth showed, Byrt replied, “Give him a chance, old sport. I think our Master Cimber is a good fellow, if a bit at sea right now.” He looked up at the man shuffling down the tunnel, shoulders slumped, head bowed. “Anyway, I think he could use our help, poor chap.” He picked up the pace, trying to catch up to the explorer.

“I wonder what ‘orrible thing ‘e did to deserve that,” Lugg mumbled, then hurried after the others.

Kaverin Ebonhand leaned back in his chair and placed the back of one hand to his forehead. The black stone remained cool, even in the most unfriendly of climes. Currently, it was doing a fine job of soothing the headache he had developed the moment Artus disappeared into the pit.

“What do you think the punishment is for murdering Batiri warriors?” Phyrra asked, nervously cleaning her glasses with the hem of her tunic.

The decor of the room they occupied suggested many gruesome possibilities. Like much of the goblin queen’s two-story palace, the main motif here was human bones and animal skins, though this particular room was rife with skulls. The bleached relics of meals past grinned from the walls, the tables, and even the backs of chairs. Small and large, human and inhuman, they kept perpetual, sightless watch on the prisoners.

Kaverin chuckled bitterly. “Allowing Cimber to escape was the worst punishment they could have inflicted upon me, my dear.” He gestured to Feg, and the winged monkey fanned him more fervently.

“He might be dead, you know.”

That hopeful statement only turned Kaverin’s mood more sour. “Impossible,” he scoffed, “You heard the clatter from the pit. Did it sound to you as if that—that—thing the goblins worship simply chewed Cimber up? He was armed, for Cyric’s sake! Could this Grumog succeed where I have failed, despite the efforts of six long years?”

The sorceress silently returned her attention to the Mulhorandi artifact she had taken from Artus, which still hung around Kaverin’s neck. The medallion was very, very old and exceedingly interesting. She had added two more glyphs to the white damper surrounding the silver coin. Now Phyrra took up her charcoal one last time. “I’ve already broken the enchantment that made it impossible to remove the medallion, as well as the one limiting Skuld’s servitude to moments when his master is in danger.” She made two quick strokes. “This one will free him from his imprisonment. You’ll have a sleepless guardian who never has to leave your side.”

With a final cross of the charcoal stick, Phyrra completed the magical symbol. The white casing cracked, then flaked away. Silver light radiated from the medallion. The sorceress covered her eyes, but Kaverin found himself mesmerized. The tiny, four-armed figure on the front of the disk writhed in pain. It grew larger and larger, until it could barely crouch within the confines of the circular prison. The medallion warped and, finally, disappeared in a burst of energy.

When the spots cleared from Kaverin’s eyes, he found Skuld standing before him. The Mulhorandi guardian spirit held Phyrra by the front of her blouse. “Your spell made me fail to protect my master, witch,” Skuld rumbled. “For that you shall die.”

“No,” Kaverin said calmly. He dangled the twisted remnant of the medallion before him on its chain. “I, Kaverin Ebonhand, am your master now. Let the woman alone.”

His silver eyebrows knit in consternation, Skuld dropped Phyrra unceremoniously to the floor. He planted two of his hands on his hips, rubbed his chin with another, and reached for the medallion with a fourth. Kaverin ducked out of the chain and handed it to him.

“Only the one who wears this has the right to control me” Skuld noted. “You relinquish that right so easily?”

“Of course not,” said Kaverin smugly. “The glyphs the young lady added to the disk make you my slave, whether I wear the medallion or not. You must protect me and do my bidding … forever.”

“Until you die,” Skuld corrected. “I will be free when you die.” He crushed the chain and the fragments of the silver medallion into a ball.

Kaverin smiled. “Then you will never be free. Moreover, you are going to help me find a ring that will make certain I don’t ever have to see the Realm of the Dead again. First, though, we—”

The door to the room creaked open, and Queen M’bobo sauntered in. At her side was Balt, the leader of the Batiri warriors and her consort. While the queen’s face showed little emotion, the veins on the general’s neck were bulging with suppressed anger. Neither seemed particularly surprised to see Skuld, and they disregarded his presence with the unthinking bravado of royalty. Kaverin understood their confidence; the entire village would tear him to shreds if he harmed their beloved queen.

“We no kill you now,” Balt said, disappointment clear in every broken word.

Kaverin bowed and gestured to his silver guardian. “My thanks for your consideration. This is Skuld. He is my manservant, just arrived from parts unknown.”

With practiced disinterest, M’bobo eyed the servant. His double set of arms was no more strange to her than the light-skinned humans who had begun to appear in her jungle. “Maybe he do,” she murmured. “You meat or metal?”

Skuld remained silent, but Kaverin quickly filled the awkward lapse. “Do for what?” he asked.

“You owe price for warriors. Pay family something good and heavy,” Balt replied. Expecting resistance, he raised his chin defiantly and planted the butt of his spear on the wooden floor.

Phyrra stood and dusted herself off. “What about more beads and trinkets?” she asked Kaverin in a Cormyrian dialect meant to baffle the goblins.

He shook his head. It was clear in the goblins’ faces that the time for petty bribery was over. “Name your price,” Kaverin told the queen.

Slowly she leveled a scaly finger at the winged monkey. The creature shrieked and hopped to its master’s shoulder. “Feg is very valuable to me, and I treasure him greatly,” Kaverin said, though his eyes remained as cold and lifeless as his hands.

Balt pointed his spear at the creature. “We go easy. Take monkey and all baggage. That be heavy enough.”

“What?” Phyrra exclaimed. “How are we supposed to survive here without any supplies?”

Kaverin sat down, rested his elbows on the chair, and knit his jet fingers together before his face. “You need to be paid something valuable, but also of equal weight to those warriors I killed, is that it?” At M’bobo’s curt nod, he sighed. “Skuld, you do not eat. Am I correct in assuming that?”

“I have not consumed a bite of food or swallowed a gulp of wine in a thousand years,” he reported proudly, though his filed teeth would have made any casual observer think otherwise.

“And you do not speak unless I ask you to? I find idle chatter very annoying in a traveling companion.”

“That is so, master.”

Kaverin nodded. “You know sorcery, of course… .”

Phyrra al-Quim was a quick-witted woman, and it was only a moment before the direction of this conversation became startlingly clear to her. She pulled a small sphere of pitch from her pocket and raised her hands. The spell she intended never came to pass, though. Skuld grabbed her hands and lifted her from the ground. With his other set of hands, he clamped her mouth shut. Her glasses clattered to the floor. “It is fitting for you to be punished, witch. You caused me great discomfort.”

Kaverin gestured casually to Phyrra. “She should be enough to cover most of the debt,” he said. Then he turned to the sorceress. “Sorry, my dear, but you were correct about the supplies. I cannot sacrifice them and hope to uncover my prize.” A frown crept across his thin lips. “It’s too bad you aren’t heavier, though. I would have preferred not to have lost Feg, too. It gets rather hot without him fanning me.”

Gently he nudged Feg off his shoulder, and the winged monkey sailed across the room to M’bobo. “I must insist on the right to use him to spy on my enemies, if the need arises,” Kaverin noted.

M’bobo nodded absently, caught up as she was in pampering and cooing over the bat-winged ape. For its part, Feg seemed thoroughly disgusted by the whole situation.” The monkey cast a longing look back as M’bobo left the room.

Balt called in a contingent of warriors, and they took the struggling mage from Skuld. Phyrra thrashed about, her eyes wide with terror. As she was carried from the room, her gaze fell upon the skulls lining the walls. She screamed, knowing she would become part of that grisly collection—just as soon as the Batiri had their dinner.

“Do be careful to keep her mouth closed and her hands bound,” Kaverin called after them.

When the commotion had at last died down, the stone-handed man turned to his new servant. “As I was saying before that costly interruption, we have one more task to complete before we can set off in search of this very important artifact.” He picked up Phyrra’s glasses and twirled them idly in his ebony fingers. “We must go down into the pit in the center of the village and see if your previous master is still alive.”

When Kaverin gazed through the glasses, the lenses made his lifeless eyes huge. He blinked and settled the spectacles on a table. “In a way,” he said, “I hope Cimber survived his encounter with Grumog, so we can present his corpse to the Batiri. It would be fitting to have his bones set on display in here next to Phyrra’s. She would have wanted it that way, poor girl.”

Nine

Artus held the torch up to the tunnel’s low ceiling. With his dagger, he probed the packed earth. It looked promising. A few hours of hard work and he might be able to loosen some of the larger stones, perhaps even bring the walls down. The trick would be blocking the passage without burying himself, too.

“We could help, you know,” Byrt offered brightly. “Wombats are constructed rather well for excavation. It’s our lot in life, really—a burrow here, a furrow there.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Artus murmured.

The wombats had been following him for hours, though they had little choice in the matter. Grumog’s tunnel had proved impassable, leading as it did to an underground lake. In silent frustration, Artus had returned to the pit and crawled through the hole Byrt had so helpfully widened during the battle. That was, after all, the only way left to explore.

Artus had done his best to keep the wombats at a distance. That proved simple with Lugg; the brown-furred creature trundled along, minding his own business. Byrt, however, was annoyingly curious and insufferably cheerful. He blurted out a constant stream of questions and inane comments. Still, Artus suspected a keen intelligence lurked behind those vague blue eyes.

“This isn’t the place for bringing the house down, you know,” Byrt offered, expression blank as ever. Artus, engrossed in studying the balance of stones in the wall, ignored him completely. The little wombat tugged on the explorer’s boot. “I don’t believe you heard me, old man. I said—”

“I heard you,” Artus sighed. He leaned back against the cool stone wall. “Look, I don’t have anything against you two, but I really don’t want anyone tagging along with me. I have important things to do.”

“As do we,” Byrt said sincerely. “We need to find a way out of this jungle. You actually don’t think we’re locals, do you?”

Raising one eyebrow, Artus studied the gray-furred creature. With all the other strange things he’d encountered in Chult, he had, as Byrt suggested, simply dismissed the unique duo as yet another example of bizarre local fauna. “If you’re not Chultan, what are you?”

Lugg opened his mouth to speak, but Byrt launched into a complicated tale of thievery and kidnapping on the high seas. The brown wombat shook his head and sat in the shadows, brooding.

“Where we’re from, Lugg was a passable second-story man,” Byrt began theatrically, “and I was a … well, let’s just say I made my living as a jack-of-all-trades. A year ago a ship out of the City of Splendors found our island—a happy little place off Orlil, just prefect for wombats. Lugg was burying some loot on the beach when the captain of this pirate ship came ashore. Thinking Lugg would make a wonderful addition to Waterdeep’s zoo, he grabbed the poor fellow. When I tried to rescue my comrade—as I am wont to do now and then, being the valiant sort—I was snatched, too.”

Lugg snorted. “There you go, rambling on again. That’s what got us into all this trouble, if you ask me. You don’t know when to be quiet!”