The Ring of Winter (29 page)

The meeting with Mainu that morning was brief and extremely formal. It was also held underwater, at the bottom of the murky Olung River.

As King Osaw had told Artus, the Olung bordered Mezro to the west and south, curving gently through three of the city’s quarters. In many places the mystic defensive wall ran parallel to the river, in others right on top of it. The animals that made their home in or around the muddy water didn’t seem to notice. Hippos wallowed near the shore, watching kingfishers dive for minnows and other small fish. Turtles and crocodiles basked in the sun, rolling languidly into the water if anyone got too close. They sent ripples across the round leaves of water lilies as they submerged.

Such was the domain of Mainu. From a sumptuous court at the bottom of the river, she ruled the Olung for ten miles to either side of the city. The bara was undoubtedly the strangest Artus had met, and how he came to be in her presence proved stranger still.

Just after dawn, Artus had set off from the Temple of Ubtao. Lugg shied away from trudging to the river on such a sunny day; like goblins, wombats preferred to travel by night. At the riverbank, the explorer called out a ritual greeting and, dressed in his tunic, boots, and pants, waded into the water. After two or three steps, the bottom fell away. Artus plunged into the tepid river, gasping in a mouthful of muddy water as he sank.

After the panic subsided, he found himself breathing the stuff. Artus was used to it now, though the river had the same grimy quality as the air around the metalcrafters’ market in Suzail. The oddest thing was coughing, which he did frequently. With each hack, he sent a jet of bubbles swirling around his head.

Artus was trying his best to muffle just such a coughing jag when Mainu finally responded to his plea for aid on behalf of King Osaw.

Artus Cimber of Cormyr, she said, her voice flowing across his mind like the river’s gentle current, we are greatly saddened by this news. As we are loyal subjects of Ubtao and of King Osaw, negus negusti, we will do everything we can to help defend Mezro.

Mainu paused, her long hair floating around her like a veil of seaweed. She was a thing of the Olung, of that there could be no mistake. Her face and her body were nothing more than a more profound darkness within the murk of the river. She swayed and rocked with the current, held in place by long, thin fingers that gripped the throne with fierce strength. Only her eyes seemed out of place—bright and glowing like the sun.

The bara turned those golden eyes on Artus, who kneeled before her turtle-shell throne. We thank you for delivering this message, Master Cimber, and express our hope you will aid Mezro against the Batiri. If you do, we will afford you the honors due a warrior of Ubtao. The creatures of the Olung will bow to your wishes, and the waters of my river will do you no harm.

Artus kowtowed, touching his forehead to the carpet of flowing green leaves. The kind offer sent a wave of relief over him; the soldiers flanking Mainu’s throne were as awe-inspiring as any he had ever seen. A strange mix of human and lobster, the guards were girded in black shells, very much like a knight’s most impressive plate armor.

Their hands were massive claws, and their tiny eyes extended upon long stalks. You honor me with your kindness, great mistress of the Olung, Artus replied, just as Kwalu had coached him.

At a slight flick of Mainu’s chin, the lobster-men moved forward to escort Artus back to the shore. The explorer rose and bowed again. King Osaw thanks you, Mainu, as will all of Mezro when this war is over.

The mistress of the Olung took in Artus’s gratitude without expression. One thing before you go, Master Cimber, she said. Is this threat to Ubtao’s city great enough for the king to summon all the barae to the cause?

I do not know all of King Osaw’s plans, great mistress of the Olung, Artus replied politely.

Mainu nodded. Perhaps that will be your next task. Master Cimber, to contact the other bara, the one you have yet to meet. If you are asked to deal with the outcast, remember that he will do anything for Mezzo—and that is what makes him truly dangerous.

The lobster-men flanked Artus as he walked back to the bank. Once out of the river, the explorer found himself dry and the water miraculously gone from his lungs, though he coughed out river silt most of the way back to the temple. Kwalu met him at the temple door, a sheaf of battle plans tucked under his arm.

“What can you tell me about the seventh bara?” Artus asked as he and Kwalu entered the Hall of Champions. “I mean, Mainu mentioned something about an outcast. That’s who she meant, right?”

The negus stopped dead in his tracks. “As far as you are concerned, there are only six barae—my father. Lord Rayburton, Sanda, Mainu, T’fima, and me. The reasons why we do not speak of the other, not even his name, are too complicated to go into now. It should be enough that we do not want him in the city again.”

“But—”

Kwalu turned on his heels and strode off toward the archway. “Perhaps we can discuss the matter after we drive Kaverin and the Batiri back to the jungle.” The negus glanced at Lugg, who was curled into a ball in front of one of the statues, snoring. “I must report to my father. If you want to wait here, I will inform you of our plans for troop placement when I’m done.”

The wombat snorted awake. “Well?” he demanded. “What are you doing to get Byrt back?”

Artus traced the name of one of the fallen barae with his finger. “We are going to wait for the Batiri to attack us,” he sighed.

“But they might kill ‘im before then! Poor Byrt!”

“Look, I didn’t say I agreed with the plan, but I’m not in charge here.” The explorer paced to the next statue. “In fact, the more time I spend in the city, the more certain I am that I wouldn’t want to be.”

The brown wombat scuffed back and forth. “With all these barae about, you’d think they could just fly in and grab the two of ‘em from Kaverin.”

Artus snorted. “If the barae could get along, they might be dangerous,” he said. “T’fima won’t help because he’s pouting about the wall, and there’s another bara the king and the others won’t call because he did something they won’t talk about.”

“What other bara?” Lugg asked. “If there’s someone else ‘anging about with magical powers, the king should bury the ‘atchet and let ‘im in for the scrap.”

Shrugging, Artus moved on to the next statue. “Kwalu wouldn’t tell me his name.” He paused and looked at the six statues on the right side of the hall. These were the original barae, the ones chosen and empowered by Ubtao himself. But one of the pedestals was empty. “The seventh bara,” Artus whispered. “Gods, he must be powerful if he was one of the first.”

His eyes flew from one statue to another, taking in the magical gifts of the fallen barae. What did Ubtao give to the last of the original paladins? Artus wondered.

A passage from King Osaw’s book, The Eternal History of Mezro, came back to him then: The one the god chooses is granted some magnificent power. Ras Nsi, one of the first seven raised up by Ubtao, was granted the power to muster the dead….

Artus ran down the right side of the hall, checking each statue. Tabiaza … Anzi… Zimwa. “That’s it,” he said, joining Lugg before the empty pedestal. “Ras Nsi.”

“No!” Kwalu shouted. The negus raced from the archway toward Artus, but it was already too late.

A pool of darkness opened beneath the explorer’s feet, and he fell. For a time—he couldn’t tell how long—all light and sound disappeared from the world. He moved through a void so absolute he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t dead.

At last he tumbled back into the world, landing with bone-jarring suddenness in the center of a wasteland. All around him the ground was broken and barren. Charred stumps of trees littered the land for miles in every direction. The sound of wood cracking and trees crashing to the ground drifted in from the distance, while vultures wheeled in the sky overhead, waiting patiently for their bounty. From the stench of rotten meat that filled the air, Artus was certain there was plenty of carrion to be had.

“Oi, get off me,” came a muffled voice.

Artus rolled and found Lugg pinned beneath him. The wombat was covered in soot and dirt from the blasted ground.

“Where are we?” the explorer asked. He adjusted the bandage on his shoulder and struggled to his feet.

“Maybe we should ask them poor sots over there,” Lugg offered.

Coming toward them was a group of ten men. They moved with painful slowness over the broken ground. As they got closer, Artus drew his dagger. Human and goblin walked together. Their eyes were white and rolled back in the sockets. Cuts and scrapes and the steady working of decay had turned their faces into ghastly masks of death. Some were missing fingers or hands or whole arms. Others had twisted, broken bones jutting from their legs.

Zombies, Artus hissed. And from the way the undead goblins drooled at the sight of the explorer, he was certain they hadn’t lost their taste for living flesh.

Fourteen

Queen M’bobo stared mutely at the ten-foot-tall warrior standing before her. The hulking thing resembled the lizard men she’d seen near the Olung River—scaly skin, massively muscled limbs, and clawed hands and feet—though this beast lacked a tail. Its face was narrow, with a nose that jutted forward like a cutter’s bowsprit. Unblinking white eyes returned the goblin’s disbelieving gaze, and it moved its beaked snout silently. On one of its tiny, shell-like ears, a silver triangle dangled.

“Fly?” M’bobo scoffed. “It no look like it can run!” She shifted her lion-skin parasol to shade her face from the bright sunshine.

Calmly Kaverin Ebonhand patted the lizard-thing’s shoulder. “Skuld stumbled across this fellow when he was tracking Cimber and the others back to Mezro,” he said. “There are only about one hundred of them nearby, but I think they’ll make excellent scouts and useful front-rank troops.” He rattled off a long series of guttural clacks and rumbles, then gestured to the nearest tree.

The scaly giant tilted its head like a curious parrot, growling deep in its throat. Bowing to Kaverin and the goblin queen, it lumbered to the nearest tree. The creature used its claws like the crampons on a mountaineer’s boots and swiftly climbed hand-over-hand to a spot high off the ground. There, just below the canopy of leaves, it held one arm out and screeched long and loud. Then it let go of the rough bark.

M’bobo fluffed her golden locks and watched in impatient silence, waiting for the brute to plummet to the ground. But the creature did not fall. It hung in the air as if suspended by thin wires. Kaverin smirked, reminded of the actors he’d seen portraying gods on the stage in Tantras, hanging from the rafters by complicated harnesses. Yet no actor could match the amazing feat the lizard-scout performed next. Its form blurred, skull melting into a beaked head with a rudderlike crown, legs shriveling to thin stalks ending in talons. While its body stayed the same length, the creature suddenly sported leathery wings at least eight feet from tip to shoulder. Again the scout shrieked. It floated forward, then folded its wings and crashed up through the canopy. Only the silver earring distinguished it from the other pteradons cutting through the afternoon sky as it sailed away.

Kaverin sighed in satisfaction. Once Skuld had reported Mezro was hidden behind a magical wall of confusion, it had proven easy to discover the key to breaching it—the triangular earrings both Rayburton and the wombat wore. Now the invasion seemed to be only a troublesome, potentially bloody inconvenience. With the earring Skuld had taken from Byrt, the flying scout would be able to pass close to Mezro and take stock of the preparations. As he and the queen walked through the camp, Kaverin decided the Mezroans could never muster a defense equal to M’bobo’s ever-growing horde.

Goblins from all over the area had swarmed to the queen, and more were filling the camp with each passing hour. The Batiri throughout Chult recognized M’bobo as their leader, though most lived in large hunting groups that rarely saw the monarch. Now all these disparate clans, each hundreds of warriors strong, were crammed together, huddled out of the daylight beneath makeshift huts or massive tents wrought of dinosaur hide.

Fights were frequent and savage, so much so the goblin camp resembled a gladiatorial arena more than an army outpost. Almost everywhere, pug-nosed Batiri wrestled and poked and punched. Fingers and hands were often claimed as trophies, but the goblins rarely killed each other. When a goblin died, the body wasn’t butchered for food, but left to rot in the sun. This might have been a show of respect, but Kaverin suspected the Batiri simply understood the smell of fresh carrion quickly attracted dozens of scavengers—hyenas and small carnivorous dinosaurs, vultures and wolf-sized rats. All these dim-witted creatures proved easy targets for the goblin spearmen and archers.

Kaverin and M’bobo passed one group of Batiri as they brought down a two-legged dinosaur that had been drawn to the camp by the stench of corpses and refuse. Each warrior was missing an eye, a wound that proclaimed him a member of the Gouged Orb Clan. The one-eyed savages used their spears to keep the creature at bay, holding its long neck and snapping jaws away from them, while others pelted the beast with stones and arrows. The dinosaur toppled, and the goblins swarmed forward to club it into unconsciousness. Kaverin could not help but notice the warriors of two other clans standing in the shadows of their tents, waiting for the battle to be over so they could lay claim to the prize.

“If we don’t hurry, the army may well destroy itself,” Kaverin announced, moving briskly away from the impending scuffle.

M’bobo shrugged and idly twirled her parasol. She was quite a sight with her beautiful blonde locks tumbling over her armor wrought of human bone, a delicate parasol in one hand, a battered scimitar in the other. With practiced disinterest, the queen surveyed her rowdy subjects. They all bowed at her passing, even stopping their fistfights long enough to show deference. “They do what I say,” she offered at last. “They love me.”

Hardly reassured by the proclamation, Kaverin rubbed his tired eyes and let the subject drop. The sooner they attacked, the better. And once Mezro was in his cold stone hands, he would find a way to rid himself of the queen. Perhaps the end of the war will find M’bobo with a Tabaxi spear in her back, Kaverin mused. It won’t matter who throws it, just so long as the goblins think the weapon belongs to Mezro’s defenders. …