The Ring of Winter

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. …

“What I’d like to know, old man, is how you intend to replace the chunk of ear you took when you stole my earring. It was a present, you know—the jewelry, not the ear—so you absconding with it like that was really bad form.”

Kaverin gritted his teeth at the sound of the inane voice. “Haven’t you killed that chattering pig-bear yet?” he hissed.

M’bobo frowned. “We saving him for victory celebration. Fatten him up so all get a piece.”

With his cold, lifeless eyes, Kaverin took in the scene. Byrt slouched in a makeshift bamboo cage with wheels on the bottom. Palm fronds shaded the little gray wombat from the sun. A colorful, fragrant cornucopia of vegetables lined the cage’s floor, and a large gourd served as a chin rest while Byrt rambled on at Skuld. “If you had to take it—and I suppose you had your reasons—you could have asked,” he chattered. “Manners make the … er, what are you exactly, if you don’t mind me prying?”

The silver-skinned giant wisely paid the wombat no mind. He sat cross-legged, his back against a stout tree. To one side of the spirit guardian lay a jumbled pile of fist-sized stones; to the other was spread a mountain of silver triangles. Sweating goblins continuously hurried into the clearing with buckets of rock. After emptying these into one pile, they loaded up with silver and rushed off to distribute the earrings to every warrior in camp.

“Quiet, Skuld,” Byrt hissed at the top of his lungs. “Here comes your master. Don’t want him to know you’re giving away all the company’s trade secrets, the formula for the secret displacer beast sauce and all that.”

“Get that idiot out of my sight,” Kaverin rumbled. “And keep him away from me, if you want him to live till the victory feast.”

As M’bobo ordered two warriors to transport the still-chattering wombat to her tent, Kaverin moved to Skuld’s side. Mechanically, the silver guardian took a stone in each of his two right hands, then pressed the rocks between his palms. After muttering an ancient Mulhorandi incantation, he tossed a pair of newly made silver earrings onto the pile at his left.

“How many to go?” Kaverin asked, toeing the mound of earrings with one dusty boot.

“Two hundred or so.” Skuld blinked slowly and tried to shake off the pall of boredom that had settled over him. “How many more goblins will we need, master? Let me use my magic for more than changing stones to enchanted silver, and I will conjure a hundred ensorceled gunstones, more powerful than the one your foe used to stun the dragon turtle. We can level all of Mezro, lay waste to—”

“Which is exactly why we need the Batiri troops more than your explosives,” Kaverin corrected. “Don’t worry, Skuld. You will be my most potent weapon in the conquest of the city.” He lowered his voice and leaned close to the silver giant. “But we need the goblins as spear-fodder, to keep the Tabaxi mages and warriors occupied so you and I can destroy them from a safe distance.”

“Hey, Kaverin. He not look so good.”

Kaverin turned to find M’bobo standing over the prone form of Lord Rayburton. The bara had his hands bound behind his back and his feet anchored to a boulder by a sturdy chain. He was asleep, though whatever rest he was getting was far from peaceful. He twitched and groaned, caught up in some terrible nightmare brought on by the horrible things he’d overheard the wolf-headed denizens describe in the queen’s palace.

Kaverin felt a smile make its way to his thin lips. “We must keep him alive for a few more hours,” he said softly. “Only until we can overrun the city and take control of the temple.”

M’bobo stuck out her bottom tip as she considered the comment. “Few hours?” she said at last. “We attack before sun goes away?”

“We have the earrings necessary to outfit all your troops,” Kaverin noted casually. “We have enough soldiers to defeat their army. We have Skuld. … Of course we attack before sunset.” He scanned the canopy for signs of the winged scout. “All I’m waiting for is the pteradon’s return, so we’ll know where to focus our initial charge.”

“But goblins hate sunlight!” the queen said. “We never fight wars in daytime!” She held her parasol like a shield against a slant of sunlight cutting through the palm fronds.

“That’s the best reason of all to attack now,” Kaverin said. “They’ll be expecting us to wait until nightfall.” At the queen’s worried look, he added, “Don’t concern yourself, Your Highness. I guarantee you the army will be ready for its victory feast by morning.”

“Maybe I’d better give pig-bear more plantains,” the goblin queen murmured, then wandered away.

Kaverin slumped against the boulder anchoring Lord Rayburton in place. He watched the pale nobleman toss in his sleep, shredded by unseen claws, bitten by ghostly, venomous fangs. Kaverin’s soul had been so blackened by hate and obscured by his lust for power that he did not pity Rayburton, though he realized how horrible the bara’s nightmares were. The sight of the tortured prisoner only goaded him on. The shared pain reminded him of how desperately he needed to capture the Temple of Ubtao and become an immortal. Only then could he avoid the ghastly fate the Lord of the Dead had in store for him.

Sleep tugged at Kaverin’s weary mind, too, and for an instant he nodded off, just long enough to again hear the corrupt voices of the denizens. He jerked awake and tried to push the fearful images from his mind, but they wouldn’t be banished. He hurried off to set the army in motion, hoping that the blood of Mezro would wash the Realm of the Dead from his mind, that the screams of the conquered Tabaxi would drown out the insidious, hellish voices of the denizens—if only for a little while.

Artus was astounded by how fast Lugg could run. As the explorer charged through the wasteland, the wombat hustled along at his heels. Lugg even found the breath to mutter curses as he ran; Artus could only wheeze and gasp like a fractured tea kettle.

“That’s all,” the explorer whispered, falling to his knees. An hour of running was enough, his exhausted limbs shouted. The rest of his cramped body was inclined to agree.

Looking nervously over his shoulder, Lugg came to Artus’s side. “They’re pretty far back now, but they ain’t stopping.”

That was the trouble with zombies. You might be able to run from them easily enough, but as long as they could see you, they’d follow tirelessly. And so this pack of ten had done for the past hour. After sizing up their chances of defeating the shambling creatures, Artus and Lugg had bolted toward the distant tree line. The long-dead humans and goblins had lumbered after them, groaning and waving their arms stiffly.

“I need to rest,” Artus said. “Just for a moment.” He let himself slump to the ground.

Lugg pawed uneasily at the dirt. Like the rest of the area, the soil here was as lifeless as ash. “Yeah, awright,” he murmured. “Not too long, though.”

The wombat watched the zombies. The dark figures moved steadily on the flat terrain, occasionally stumbling over the few dead tree stumps standing in their way. The dead men walked only in a straight line, it seemed. That would be the key—put something between you and them, something they couldn’t clamber over. Lugg scanned the area. A few more stumps. Some shallow pits here and there. No, there wasn’t anything that would serve, not close at hand.

The tree line remained distant, as if it were receding as quickly as they could run toward it. Apart from the squawking of the vultures wheeling ominously overhead and the groans of the zombies, the only sounds came from those faraway trees. Wood split and palms toppled noisily. If anyone in the hidden logging camp had heard Artus’s calls for help, they’d chosen not to answer. Not that Lugg blamed them. If he didn’t like the explorer so well, he’d wish himself well out of this jam, too. The worst part about it was the sun. Lugg hated being caught outside during the day more than anything.

“Come on, then,” the wombat said, squinting fiercely. “We’d best be off again.”

“Right,” Artus mumbled. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wobbled and he collapsed back to the ground like a felled oak.

“This is worse than watching after Byrt,” Lugg said truculently. “Like bloody children, the both of you.” He nudged Artus with his snout, but got only a grunt for a reply. Narrowing his eyes, he bared his teeth to nip the explorer into action.

Fortunately for Artus, he chose that moment to roll over. “Are they close?”

“Too close for my ’appiness,” the wombat grumbled.

With a grunt, the explorer pushed himself to his knees. The zombies had closed the distance to their prey by half, but that still left a comfortable enough lead for Artus and Lugg. They started off again toward the tree line, the wombat trundling at a steady pace, the human staggering like he was undead himself.

Artus pulled his hood over his face. The breeze blowing across the plain was hot and smelled of smoke and decay. “How long can you keep up this pace, Lugg?”

“As long as it takes before I’m off the menu for that lot what’s following us.” The wombat glanced back at his companion. “As long as it takes for us to get back to rescue Byrt.”

“We’ll get back to Mezro in time to save him,” Artus said sincerely. They had regained their earlier pace, loping forward at a good clip. “Byrt’s safe. I—”

The promise was lost on the breeze as Artus sank to his waist in a pool of loose ash and thick, gummy water. He thrashed about for a moment, but that only mired him more soundly. Stand still, his mind cried, though his limbs threatened to lash out frantically. The quicksand rose over his stomach.

Lugg skidded to a halt, still on solid ground. “Grab ’old,” he said. The wombat bowed his head and edged toward the explorer.

Artus warned him to stay back. The ash now covered half his chest. Its stench was overpowering, and the explorer had to fight to keep from gagging. Where the soot had splashed over his wounded shoulder, it burned like molten metal.

“I won’t let you sink like a scuttled boat,” Lugg said. He narrowed his beady eyes. “You won’t get out of rescuing Byrt that easy.”

Slowly Artus shook his head. “You need to have solid footing,” he said as calmly as he could. With slow, deliberate movements, he pulled an extra bowstring from his pocket then reached toward his boot for his dagger. That got him a mouthful of bitter ash, but he managed not to drive himself down too much deeper. As quickly as he dared, he tied the string to the dagger and tossed the blade toward Lugg. “Take hold of this with your teeth.”

The wombat did as told, grabbing the dagger in his mouth. When Artus wrapped the sturdy cord around his hand, Lugg began to back slowly away from the sinkhole.

“That’s it,” the explorer murmured, letting himself be dragged toward solid ground. “Just a little farther….”

Artus felt his foot bump against something solid—the ground, he hoped fervently. The ash was up to his neck, but it seemed at that instant it would get no higher. Then something grabbed the hood of his tunic. Artus thought a branch below the mire’s surface had snagged him, but as Lugg pulled him forward and the ash receded from his shoulders, he saw it was a skeletal hand, the bones and cartilage stained gray by the filthy water. He wanted to reach around to free himself from the ghastly thing, but he didn’t dare let go of the bowstring.

“Pull, Lugg!”

The wombat’s vitriolic reply was thankfully muffled by the dagger and his clenched teeth.

A second hand reached up from the muck, dripping fetid water. It reached around and tried to get a hold on Artus’s face. Bony fingers pressed into his mouth and nose and eyes. Suppressing a scream, Artus shook his head violently. The prodding hand slipped away, four thin scratches marking its wake. Finally it settled for a viselike purchase on the explorer’s shoulder.

At last, Artus’s feet found solid ground. He slipped and scrambled out of the quicksand, releasing the bowstring as he went. The skeleton clung to the explorer’s back like a desperate child, arms on his neck and shoulder, legs wrapped around his waist. It was little more than bones and tendons, with cracked ribs and twisted feet. The skeleton’s lower jaw was gone—a good thing for Artus, since the undead creature was trying frantically to bite him, rotten teeth scraping over his neck and back.

With the sudden release of tension on the line, Lugg lost the dagger and tumbled backward, snout-over-tail. He landed on his wounded side. “I wish I’d never left the island,” the wombat said mournfully.

When Lugg righted himself, he saw Artus grappling with the skeleton. The explorer had found his knife and was using the handle like a cudgel. He brought the blunted end of the weapon down on the creature’s skull, the blow sending a spider web of cracks through the gray bone. “Enough!” Artus shouted. “Enough!”

With its sharp, bony fingers, the skeleton clawed at Artus, tearing bloody ribbons from the backs of his hands. But the pain did not penetrate the fury clouding the explorer’s mind. Again and again Artus struck, crushing the weird life from the bones. Like a monstrous crab, the skeleton tried to scrabble backward into the mire, but Artus shattered its arm and pinned its legs in place with his weight. Another blow caved in its skull, and the skeleton clattered lifeless to the ground.

As Artus wiped the stinking water and ash from his face, the pack of zombies came toward him with slow, deliberate steps. He flipped the dagger around in his hand. Holding the blade out like the most mighty of enchanted swords, he stood. “Where is your master?” he shouted.

The decaying creatures shambled forward, moaning and clutching the air before them. They were close enough for Artus to see the glaze of starvation in their eyes. Still he did not move.

“We’d better get running,” Lugg said, hiding behind Artus’s grime-covered boots.

The explorer shook his head and reached into his pocket. The third of T’fima’s enchanted diamond slivers slid reassuringly into his palm. Carefully he raised the gem, ready to transform it into a lightning bolt. “No more running, Lugg.” He turned back to the zombies. “Where is your master?” Artus shouted. “Where is Ras Nsi?”

It was as if an invisible wall had suddenly been thrown up before the zombies; they stopped in midstride, throwing back their heads to wail in agony. The deafening, unearthly chorus rang out over the blasted plain. Then the zombies turned their wide eyes back to Artus and started forward again.

The explorer opened his mouth to shout the name again, but a gentle hand on his shoulder shocked the air from his lungs. “There is no need to call me, Master Cimber,” said a cool, soothing voice.

His reflexes had been honed by years of facing untold dangers and his nerves were frayed raw by the afternoon’s confrontations with the walking corpses. Without thinking, Artus slashed at the man behind him. The move was executed expertly, with the skill of a Shou ninja, and the enchanted dagger ran a razor-straight course across Ras Nsi’s throat. The knife had barely left its target before Artus fell back, rolling to a defensive crouch a sword’s length away. He brandished the blade before him in one hand, the diamond sliver in the other.

Ras Nsi ran the fingertips of one hand along the knife’s path—no blood, not even the slightest nick marked the steel’s passing. “A palpable hit,” he said quietly. “That would have killed most men. Will done, Master Cimber.”

The bara’s eyes glowed like red-hot steel, so brightly that Artus found it difficult to look him in the face. The rest of his features were soft, even decadent—a weak chin hidden by a neatly trimmed beard, a pate as bald as a vulture’s egg, a flat nose that only emphasized the man’s inexpressive mouth. But those fiery eyes told Artus any weakness he saw in Ras Nsi was illusory.

Nsi did not wear the tobe so common in Mezro or the rougher, more basic garb of the Tabaxi villagers. He was clad handsomely in cotton trousers, a loose-fitting brocade shirt, and the flowing blue cape of a Cormyrian nobleman. His high leather boots were spotlessly polished, and the rapier hanging at his hip glinted in the sunlight. A ring on his left hand held a small triangular gem, as green as the hills of the Dalelands in spring. Artus felt his thoughts being drawn into the stone, just as he had when staring at the walls of Ubtao’s temple. He shut his eyes tightly and focused on his anger.

Holding the palms of his hands together, Ras Nsi bowed. All the time, he kept his fiery eyes on the explorer. “You have found the lost bara of Mezro. Your weapons are not needed.” When Artus sheathed the dagger and slipped the diamond sliver back into his pocket, the bara asked, “Your traveling companion—is he the one known as Byrt or Lugg?”

“Lugg, thank you very much,” the wombat said sourly.

Artus glanced at the zombies that had been trailing him.

The ragged pack had thrown themselves to their knees. Even now they bowed to Ras Nsi, their pitiful groans filling the air. Artus turned back to the bara. “How do you know who we are?” he asked warily.

Ras Nsi smiled. “Do we have to play that game? You may take it for granted that I know a great deal. Not everything, but—” he held his hands apart in a mock embrace “—I would be Ubtao if I knew all that transpired in the jungle. I am merely his most ancient and humble servant.”

“If you know so much, Master Nsi,” the wombat said, fearlessly stepping up to the bara, “then ’ow about letting me know if Byrt’s still kicking about.”

The zombies cried out when Lugg said their master’s name, and Ras Nsi scowled. “Do not speak my name aloud again,” the bara snapped, small tongues of flame dancing from his eyes.

The wombat backed up a step, but did not look away. “Sorry—er …”

“Your Excellency,” the bara prompted. He rubbed his chin and studied Lugg for a moment. “Your fellow is still alive—as is Lord Rayburton.” Before Artus could ask how he knew, Ras Nsi added, “If you found me, you must know that Ubtao granted me the power to raise the dead. The power would be rather limited if I could not sense when something died in the jungle, don’t you agree?”

Artus straightened his grimy tunic. “If you know about Rayburton, then you know why I’m here.”

A strange, almost taunting smile on his lips, Ras Nsi said, “I have my suspicions, but dare not believe them.” He grabbed the edge of his cape and lifted it theatrically from his side. “But let us retire to my home, where we can settle this matter in the appropriate style.”

With a swirl of the bara’s sky-blue cloak, they were gone.