The Ring of Winter (5 page)

“I am going to make myself some tea,” Kwee said softly as he crossed the room. There was a strange, frightened look on his usually serene face. “You should take some, Theron. Perhaps it will expel the fever.”

“Tea,” Theron scoffed. “Better bring me some brandy instead. How about you, Artus?” When the younger man shook his head, Theron said, “Bring him one anyway.”

After Kwee was gone, Theron pushed himself up on the daybed. “Odd, but he doesn’t like to hear about the goblins,” he said. “He’s fought barbarians and orcs, and all sorts of weird Shou beasts, but these stories really unnerve him.”

Artus was certain it was the effect the goblins had wrought upon Theron that was disturbing to the loyal Kwee, but he said nothing. Instead, he asked, “How did you escape?”

“As I said,” Theron murmured, “they did in the guide and the bearers. Me and some poor fellow from a neighboring village—a chief’s son named Kwalu—they were saving for a sacrifice to some … thing they worship. Grumog, they called it. I used to hear its roars echoing up from the pit—did I tell you this god-thing lived in some underground cavern? No? Well the goblins intended to toss me and this Kwalu fellow into the pit at the center of their village. We were to be sacrifices to that horrible beast… .”

Theron’s eyes glazed, and Artus sat back to wait. It had been this way all evening: fits of relatively lucid discussion, followed by periods in which Theron lapsed into silence or incoherent babbling. He’d been at the older man’s side since arriving an hour ago. It had taken until an hour before that to settle the sizeable bill for damages to the society’s library and healers for the unfortunate Ariast. She’d recover from the guardian spirit’s attack—eventually. Fortunately, Hydel had volunteered to write the necessary apology-disguised-as-a-report for the society president. Things would be smoothed over, but at the cost of more than a third of the money gained from their last expedition.

“Snow,” Theron muttered. “I never in my life thought snow would save me in the jungle.” Artus turned sharply to find Theron staring at him. “That’s what saved me from the goblins and whatever it was they worshiped.”

Is he rambling again? Artus wondered. Snow in the jungle, in the middle of the hot season? But when he looked at the bedraggled explorer, Theron’s eyes were clear. “Can you be sure they didn’t move you to a mountain village?” Artus asked.

“When I escaped I was nowhere near the mountains,” Theron snapped. “I’ve been through more jungles than you’ve been through taverns, so I know what I’m talking about.”

“Someone with an incantation to control the weather? They’re common enough.”

Theron smiled. “Oh, it was someone with magic all right, but no damned spell. It was the Ring of Winter.”

“Just because it snowed doesn’t mean the ring’s there,” Artus sighed. Obviously a fever dream had granted this delusion about the ring. He rose slowly. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave? I’ll call Kwee and—”

“Don’t be such a dolt!” Theron bellowed. The sudden exertion left him coughing. He slouched back on the pillows and caught his breath. “Sit down and listen to this, then tell me the ring isn’t in Chult.”

Artus did as he was told, surprised to see the Theron of old spring to the fore so strongly. “Go on.”

“I was standing in the center of the village, tied back-to-back with the chief’s son,” Theron said. “The goblins were milling around before sacrificing us. Then it started to snow. Not just a little dusting or some freak blast of cold, but a real blizzard. In minutes, the whole area was blanketed. The goblins were frightened out of their wits. They scattered, some to grab weapons, others to hide in their huts until the blizzard blew over—which wasn’t for three entire days. No spell can do that.”

“So it’s some artifact. That still doesn’t prove that the ring—”

“Patience,” Theron warned. “A man and a woman charged out of the bush and cut us free. Then the goblins who hadn’t scattered fell upon us.” He pointed to the scar across his nose. “I got this in the brawl, but we pretty well sent the little monsters packing. Before I could thank the people who’d rescued me, they were gone, taking that Kwalu fellow with them. They left me a pack with a map, food, and supplies—enough for me to make it back to Refuge Bay. I tried to follow them. Kept moving north, but somehow I got turned around. Really lost.”

“Did they say anything?” Artus asked. “Who were they?”

“Oh, I knew one of them quite well, though he had no way of knowing me.” He closed his eyes. “I can still see him, charging toward me with a knife in one hand and a shield in the other. Artus, it was Lord Rayburton. He’s alive somehow, living in Chult. That statue in the club is an amazing likeness.”

“What!” Artus yelped. Now he was certain Theron had imagined it all. Rayburton must have died over a thousand years ago. “It can’t be. In your panic your mind must have played a trick on you.”

A crafty grin crossed Theron’s face. “I’ll admit I suspected that, too, but the old boy left me some hard evidence.” Stiffly he reached under the daybed and retrieved a crumpled, weatherstained scrap of parchment. “This is the map they gave me. You’ve read Rayburton’s original journals more often than anyone else in the society. Look at the handwriting.”

Artus gasped. It really did look just like Rayburton’s unique scrawl—the odd, seemingly random dots over some letters, the missing punctuation. “Have you checked this with the original?”

“I had Kwee take the map to the society’s library and compare it to his journals. It’s his writing. There’s no question in my mind.” Theron watched Artus carefully. “Put the two together: Rayburton is still alive, after more than a thousand years. He appears just as it begins to snow in the jungle… .”

Artus’s silence was all the agreement Theron needed to hear. They both knew the legendary powers of the ring; that would explain both the mysterious storm and the length of Rayburton’s life.

With a trembling hand, Theron gave the map to Artus. “I won’t even try to talk you out of going,” he said, “though you’re a fool to go anywhere near that jungle. I told you about Rayburton and the ring because I knew, some way or another, you’d find out for yourself they were there. There’s only one thing I’ll ask of you… .”

But Artus wasn’t listening. His mind was already racing ahead with plans for the expedition—supplies he’d need, money to pay for expenses, transportation to Chult. A boat from the Sword Coast would be better this time of year than an overland haul, but even the trip to the coast would take a lot of time. Perhaps there was a way to fly. Hydel knew quite a few mages—

“Artus, this is very important!” Theron had struggled out from under the blankets. He had Artus by the shoulders and was shaking him as hard as he could. “I want you to contact the Harpers. You’ll need their help in this. The matter’s too big for you alone.”

“Absolutely not,” Artus said bluntly. “I’ve had nothing to do with the Harpers for five years, and they’ve had nothing to do with me.” He turned up his collar to reveal a small silver pin bearing the harp, moon, and stars symbol of the secret organization. “I wear this because it might come in useful for getting out of a tight spot with some local government friendly to the Harpers. Otherwise it means nothing to me. I’m surprised the local members-in-good-standing haven’t tried to take it away from me by now.”

Theron sighed raggedly. “They haven’t taken the pin away because they still feel you could be a very useful agent,” he said. “And that’s why I sponsored you as a member in the first place. You shared the group’s idealism once. Now—”

“Now all I care about is finding the ring,” Artus finished. “I know that’s what you think, but you’re wrong. I want the ring to right all the wrongs: the Harpers only talk about fighting.”

The young explorer grabbed his cloak and tossed it over his shoulders. “Look, Theron, the Harpers aren’t an option for me any more. And there’s no one at the club beside you and Pontifax I’d trust in a tough spot. You’re too sick to go back, but I’ll ask Pontifax. I’m sure he’ll go.”

As Artus headed for the door, Theron said, “You’re right. The society’ll be of no help to you now. It’s too rife with foppery. But the Harpers—”

His features obscured by the dancing shadows from the fire, Artus turned to face his old friend. “I know you’ll tell the Harpers about this … for my own good, of course. But I’ll be gone by morning. Even this city’s fabled web of Harper agents won’t be able to close on me that quickly.” His voice was full of cold resolve, but for an instant that icy tone cracked. “Good-bye, Theron. You’ll be the first to see the ring when I return.”

“Take care of yourself,” Theron said, but the steady thud of Artus’s boots was already echoing back from the hallway.

Kwee returned to the study a moment later. “So it is as you had feared. He refused to alert the Harpers?”

Theron nodded. “I hope this wasn’t a mistake, Kwee. The only thing I can do now is let the Harpers know. They’ll alert the few agents they have in the South. Maybe they can help him.”

The window blew open suddenly, and the heavy drapes ballooned up, borne on the cold wind whipping into the room. “It wasn’t this windy when I let Artus out,” Kwee noted as he ran to close the window.

“Carefully,” Theron hissed, sliding a dirk from under the daybed’s cushions.

As Kwee reached out to fasten the window, a black-gloved hand grabbed him. The young man needed no weapons to defend himself; like many Shou warriors, he possessed deadly hand-to-hand fighting skills. Instead of trying to pull away, he anchored a firm grip on the attacker’s wrist and fell backward into the room.

The figure that tumbled stiffly in from the balcony was completely garbed in black, with a long cloak and heavy cowl hiding his features. The young Shou could feel the cold radiating from the cloaked man and quickly pressed his advantage. Before the assassin could stand, Kwee kicked him in the chest, then dropped to his knees and struck at the invader’s face with the palm of his hand.

The blow, which would have killed most men, only made a sharp cracking sound and knocked the assassin’s cowl back. Kwee didn’t know what he expected to see, but a man made completely of ice was not it. A spider web of fractures surrounded the spot where the blow had struck the ice creature’s forehead. Below this, two eyes burned blue-white in a rigid, expressionless face.

The moment of shocked surprise gave the assassin the advantage he needed. He lashed out with a rock-hard fist, shattering Kwee’s skull. The young Shou dropped to the floor with a grunt.

Theron pushed himself to his feet. The assassin stood slowly and began to walk toward him. A thin film of water now coated his rigid, icy face, running down into his clothes. His wet footprints stained the carpet as he came relentlessly closer. The heat from the fireplace is melting him, Theron realized. If I can keep him at bay long enough, the fire will take care of him for me.

The explorer dropped his dagger and grabbed a boar-spear from the wall, but the polearm was far too heavy for his fever-weakened muscles. The assassin knocked it from his hands with a single blow. It was clear the fire could never finish its work in time.

As the assassin closed its black-gloved hands around Theron’s throat, the explorer’s mind fell away, spiraling back to the goblin camp. He stood at the brink of a circular pit. Some monstrous creature bellowed in the darkness below, waiting for the savages to push him to his doom. Spears prodded the explorer, slicing bloody ribbons from his back. Without warning the air turned numbingly cold. Theron grew certain the snow had come to rescue him once again. “The ring,” he croaked. “Rayburton, use the ring.”

With agonizing slowness, the cold of the assassin’s icy grip became the final chill of death.

Artus had never been a patient man. That restlessness, combined with a healthy streak of irreverence, had dashed his mother’s hopes for his career as a teacher with the clerks of Oghma. It had also done in his position as a scribe for the royal court, a lucrative but incredibly dull job that could only promise him a foothold in better paying, but equally stultifying government service. The Harpers had tried to channel Artus’s restless energy into various short-term projects—ridding the road to Hilp of a band of cutthroat orcs, protecting dignitaries in the Dales from Zhentish assassins, and similarly routine tasks—but even those adventurous duties lost their intrigue after a few months.

Now, when Artus stood poised to once more pick up the trail of the Ring of Winter, that restlessness proved to be more painful than any torture.

He sat in a seedy room at the cheapest, most dangerous inn on the Sword Coast. That was quite a claim, but no one with any sense contested the Hanged Man’s reputation. Vermin, both human and animal, called the place home, feeding off the transient sailors and criminals who made the inn a more or less safe haven for an hour or a day or a month. Fights were frequent and deadly, the floor of the taproom having long ago been stained reddish brown with dried blood. The government of Baldur’s Gate sent notices to the Hanged Man from time to time, condemning the building or revoking their hostelry license; the owner of the inn, a huge half-orc with bad breath and a snoutlike nose, posted these official notices behind the bar. The wall was covered with parchment, but no one had ever come to enforce any of the edicts.

Wanted men were safer than soldiers or bounty hunters at the Hanged Man. It was for that reason Artus chose to stay there, overruling Pontifax’s strident objections; even the Harpers would likely steer clear of the inn.

As he had warned Theron, Artus had left Suzail within hours of learning the ring’s possible whereabouts. He’d taken only enough time to gather a few belongings from his rented room and track down Pontifax. The old mage had secured them fast passage from Suzail to Baldur’s Gate. They had flown much of the way on griffons. But when they could stand the freezing journey by air no longer, they covered the last fifty of the five hundred miles as part of a merchant caravan. In all, the long trip had taken but a few days.

“Gods, I hate this place,” Pontifax sniffed. He reached down to flick a thumb-sized cockroach that had just wandered boldly onto the table before him. The daylight streaming in through the broken window didn’t deter the bugs in the least. The roach hissed as the mage sent it spinning end-over-end across the room.