The Ring of Winter (27 page)

When Artus caught up with Kwalu again, the negus was fast approaching the far end of the clearing. He seemed unaffected by the incident, unfazed by the gruesome death he had nearly met. “You knew Sanda was going to do that,” the explorer said. “Take over the triceratops, I mean.”

“No,” Kwalu answered. “I was not thinking of her bara power. I am glad she did.”

“Yeah, I’m glad too.” Artus shifted Sanda’s weight on his back. “Kwalu, if you didn’t know she was going to use her power… .”

The negus patted the small leather box at his hip. “I have a power of my own, Artus.” He let the comment stand, refusing to elaborate even after the explorer asked him directly. All he would say was, “Perhaps you will see me use it against the Batiri. They captured me unprepared to call upon Ubtao the time your friend, Theron, found me a prisoner in their camp. Never again.”

At the edge of the clearing, Sanda began to stir. “It was unfair of you to make Artus carry me by himself, Kwalu,” she murmured sleepily.

“I do not think he wanted to share the burden,” the negus noted. “He did not ask my aid, so I assumed he enjoyed the task.”

Artus had not asked for Kwalu’s help because the young man was royalty, and one simply didn’t demand that a prince stoop to manual labor, at least not in the Heartlands. That was the majority of the reason, anyway. Suddenly self-conscious, he shuffled his feet and shifted his bow from one hand to the other.

But Artus wasn’t the only one unsettled by the negus’s offhand remark. An uncharacteristic wave of embarrassment struck Sanda, and she hurried past both Artus and Kwalu, “We’d best hurry,” she mumbled. “It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

Sanda kept ahead of the others all afternoon. Only when they reached the outskirts of the goblin camp did she slow down enough for them to speak to her. By then, she had brushed aside whatever was bothering her. Though Artus was curious about her reaction, he let the subject rest until a more convenient time.

Kwalu immediately took up a position at the base of a tree. He detached the dinosaur skin from the bone frame of his shield and rolled the thick hide up into a bundle, which he used as a makeshift camp chair. The frame he folded and hid in the leaves. With his club resting across his knees and one hand on the leather box at his belt, he sat motionless, watching the camp and counting the war banners staked outside the huts and tents.

When Artus went to take up his own position, Sanda held him back. “Unless the goblins spot us and raise an alarm, don’t even think about starting a battle,” she whispered. “If a sentry gets too close, try to drag him into the bushes before fighting in the open.”

It seemed like common sense to Artus, but he nodded politely, as if the bara’s orders were full of useful revelations. Before she turned away, he said, “When Kaverin shows himself, watch where he goes. He knows we were spying on him from T’fima’s hut, so he might have moved your father from the queen’s house.”

Sanda paused and took Artus’s hand. “Just stay out of sight until the warriors get here. If they arrive before sundown, we’ll storm the main building. If not, we’ll fall back into the jungle and come up with another plan.”

Stealthily Artus moved through the undergrowth, settling for a post a few yards from Kwalu. He sat with his longbow at his side, the arrows planted tip-down in the ground near his feet. This was an old army practice Pontifax had taught him upon returning from the Tuigan Wars. The Cormyrian archers had used the time-saving trick to good effect in their battles with the barbarians.

The goblin camp was much the same as Artus had seen it last. A few guards hid in the shadows of Queen M’bobo’s two-story palace. Others squatted in the doorways of various huts or lounged against the leering totems stationed throughout the camp. Artus grimaced when he saw the wooden totems; their screeching alarm rang fresh enough in his ears for him to dread disturbing them again.

One thing had changed in the Batiri enclave. In many places, tattered, sagging tents were staked out next to the huts. Artus could see warriors fast asleep under these dirty bivouacs, piled together like dozing lions. Their spears had been planted outside the tents, much in the same way the explorer had planted his arrows—point-down and ready for quick use. Banners marked with crude symbols announced which clan occupied each part of the camp.

The sun was fading fast, and there was still no sign of the Tabaxi warriors King Osaw had promised or Kaverin himself. Without knowing precisely where Rayburton was hidden, it was pointless to charge into the camp; Artus patiently bided his time by counting the goblins and learning their clan symbols. Sanda didn’t share the explorer’s patience. As dusk began to settle on the camp, she climbed a nearby tree, perhaps for a better vantage.

“I hear somethin’, I do,” the closest of the Batiri guards murmured. He was a short brute, even for a goblin, with one fang missing and a jagged gash across his face. He squinted in Sanda’s direction. The woman hung motionless and silent, only half-hidden by the brush. Raising his spear menacingly, the goblin started toward her. “What’re you there, hidin’ in the tree?”

Why doesn’t he call out the other guards? Artus wondered, grabbing his bow and nocking an arrow. He centered his aim on the guard’s throat; if the arrow struck true, it would stop him from crying out. The guard took another step forward, then another.

Just like when they captured me last time, Artus thought bitterly. Only there’s no spider to—

He let the arrow slide to the ground and pulled his dagger from his boot. Concentrating on the softly glowing stone set in the hilt, he whispered, “Come down.” In the leaves high above, something trilled a loud reply to the magical summons.

A monstrous spider crawled partway down the trunk toward Sanda. Like the thing that had knocked Artus from his hiding place when he’d first escaped the Batiri camp, this one was easily as large as a man. Hair as black as midnight stood up like a porcupine’s bristles all along its body and how they’d been spotted. And standing as they were, with their backs to the jungle, they couldn’t see the sad, phantasmal figure of Sir Hydel Pontifax behind them. The ghost hovered above the ground for a moment, hands held out to Artus. By the time the battle started, he had faded reluctantly into the growing twilight.

Thirteen

The Batiri warriors were close enough for Artus to see the fury in their yellow-tinged eyes and the glint of the fading sun off their razor-sharp spear tips.

Unflappable even now, Negus Kwalu lifted a single locust from the small leather box at his waist and raised the twitching insect high over his head. “Defend Ubtao’s great city against the creatures of this village.” With Batiri arrows darting around him, he gently released the locust toward the goblin line.

A dark curtain shot up between the Batiri and their intended victims, a wall that moved toward them with astounding speed. Balt had been running too hard to even slow down. He plunged into the curtain, his wickedly curved scimitar slashing before him. The metal blade made it through, as did the general’s dinosaur-hide breastplate. The armor protected only a skeleton, though. The bones clattered to the ground in front of Artus, the skull snarling at him with yellowed teeth.

The single locust was now ten thousand, and the droning wall of insects devoured everything in its path. The first rank of goblin warriors died without even having a chance to scream. Nothing save the metal tips of their spears and their gleaming white bones remained. The plants that trailed into the village were devoured, as were the closest huts. The locusts destroyed the wooden bridge spanning Grumog’s pit and the supports for the gong standing beside it. Then the the insects scattered through the camp, swarming everything in sight.

Queen M’bobo emerged from her palace and stood framed in the doorway. “Stand and fight!” she cried. An instant later she retreated, a dozen locusts crawling in her blonde locks or latched onto her skin.

The totems shouted and moaned as the insects chewed into them. Wooden faces contorted in pain, the sentries could only creak back and forth ineffectually to dislodge their attackers. The goblins, on the other hand, scattered around the camp, frantically slapping the ravenous locusts away from them. The huts offered no protection, for their thatched roofs disappeared as quickly as the insects found them. A few goblins waved torches or flaming blankets, but the entire village would need to burn before this tack could be truly effective.

Artus lowered his bow. “Let’s go!” he shouted. “To the palace!”

Sanda and Kwalu followed the explorer into the camp. The locusts flew around them, but somehow knew not to attack the humans. Few goblins ignored the insects long enough to turn their spears or arrows upon the raiders. One unfortunate warrior, a young goblin with bright orange skin, fell to the ground before Kwalu, pleading for his life. Locusts clung to his back, and a hundred small wounds dotted his legs and face. The negus shoved him aside and raced toward the palace.

The Batiri that recognized Artus fled from him in terror. They called him “Grumog’s Bane” and “God Slayer,” as they scrambled out of his path. Perhaps that was why the goblins acted so strangely when they first spotted us in the bushes, Artus decided.

The trio had just reached the edge of the wide review area before the queen’s home when the double doors burst open and Skuld stepped onto the landing. A cloud of biting locusts covered the silver-skinned giant, but just as quickly the insects plummeted to the ground, dead. His skin, it seemed, was as poisonous as his disposition. Skuld leaped down the stairs, landing flat-footed in the dirt between Artus and the palace. Holding his arms straight out to his sides, the guardian spirit began to spin.

A funnel cloud formed swiftly, drawing in the locusts from all over the camp. That wasn’t all. What thatch and straw had not been destroyed by the swarm flew across the camp. Leaves, loose arrows, bits of clothing—all these shot into the whirling cloud. The few standing totems toppled, mouthing curses all the way to the ground. The doors of the palace slammed opened and closed. Across the village, smaller goblins felt the tug of the cyclone and anchored themselves to whatever was close at hand. If they screamed for help, no one heard; the whirlwind roared like a hundred wagons rattling at full speed over a cobblestone street.

Artus and Sanda clung together against the wind, while Kwalu merely planted his feet and closed his eyes. It was as if the negus had rooted himself into the earth. Leaves and sticks battered him, the whirlwind grew more intense, but still Kwalu remained unbowed.

Finally Skuld slowed, then stopped. Debris and dead locusts began to rain down upon the village like hail. “It is over, master,” the silver giant shouted.

Kaverin Ebonhand appeared in the doorway. To one side he was flanked by M’bobo, to the other by Lord Rayburton. The bara’s hands were bound, and a gag filled his mouth. The braises on his face could have only come from a beating, but the wild, fearful look in his eyes told of far more terrible tortures.

All across the camp, the goblins were helping their wounded comrades and gathering weapons. None were willing to attack the humans that had brought the locusts down upon them, despite the orders M’bobo screeched from the palace door. When not a single warrior lifted a spear or bow against the intruders, she called for Balt to whip the soldiers into line. No one had the nerve to tell her the general was even less likely to jump to her command than they were. Instead, the tense and fearful Batiri gathered in a wide circle around Skuld and the humans.

“Put down your weapons and give yourselves up,” Kaverin shouted, holding one empty hand out in a gesture of peace. “You won’t be hurt—and the old man won’t be hurt any worse than he already has been—but only if you surrender right now.”

Artus raised his bow and fired, aiming for Kaverin’s heart. The arrow would have split that wellspring of evil in two had Skuld not been there. The guardian spirit flexed his powerful legs and leaped into the air, as high as the second-story landing where Kaverin stood. The arrow bit into his chest. With the feathered shaft sticking out of him. Skuld dropped back to the ground. He plucked out the arrow with one of his four hands and crashed it.

Smiling viciously, Kaverin said, “I wouldn’t have believed that offer either.” He curled his hand into a fist. “Give up now, or I’ll send Skuld after you. Either way, you’re dead, but Skuld will make what little time you have left truly horrible if he has to come get you. Mulhorandi tortures are among the world’s most painful, you know.”

Sanda drew her long-bladed knife, and Kwalu brandished his war club. For a moment, Artus hesitated. Then he dropped his bow. The barae looked at him, astonished.

“Showing your true colors at last, eh Cimber?” Kaverin gloated. Rayburton tried to run forward, but a stone hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Kill the two natives, Skuld. Save Cimber for me. I am, after all, a man of my word.”

The disappointment in Sanda’s eyes wounded Artus to the core, but there was no time to explain his plan—even if he knew exactly what to expect. The explorer reached into his pocket for one of the diamond slivers. The gem felt slippery in his sweaty fingers, but he gripped it tightly and held it up before him. He glanced at Skuld; the four-armed guardian was running toward him, gnashing his filed teeth.

Artus said the Tabaxi word for lightning.

The flash that followed blinded everyone who was looking at the explorer and drove the goblin circle back. It should have blinded Artus, too, but somehow his eyes were spared. Something to do with the enchantment on the gem, he decided later. At the moment, his mind was set on controlling the crackling bolt of lightning that had appeared in his hand.

The heat from the lightning washed over Artus in waves, singeing his hair and reddening his skin. Sparks snaked around his arm and slithered up to his shoulder. There was no pain—no serious pain, anyway—just an immense feeling of power. He turned the bolt in his hand, holding it like a javelin.

Skuld rubbed his eyes with the heels of two hands, holding the other set up to ward off attackers. When he took his hands away, he glared at Artus. “That cannot help you,” he snarled, then started forward again.