The Ring of Winter

Two

“It was horrible, Artus, simply horrible.”

Theron Silvermace’s features resembled a corpse’s more than a fifty-year-old man’s. His hair was bone white, and it cascaded in long, wild strands around his head. The skin hung in loose jowls from his cheeks. The jagged scar running across the bridge of his nose was a new wound, as was the pulped mass of one ear. Dark circles rimmed his sunken brown eyes, which only heightened the frantic look in them.

“The goblins were the worst of it.” Theron shuddered, then pulled the heavy blanket up to his chin and shrank back into the pillows piled behind him on the daybed. “Kwee, can’t you get that fire burning any higher?”

“I will try,” came the subdued response from the young man standing at the fireplace. The words sounded hollow and tinny in the cavernous room.

Artus swore silently. It was already as hot as a Flamerule afternoon in the study. He mopped at his brow with a handkerchief and tugged at the collar of his tunic where it was chafing his neck. After the cold evening air, this heat was brutal.

His discomfort was not lost on Theron. For the first time that evening, a tiny spark of mirth lit his eyes. “This heat’s nothing compared to the days in Chult,” he murmured. “Bearers dropping like coins into a collection plate on a high holy day. You sweat so badly the clothes rot off your back.” He looked almost wistful for an instant. “I’d suffer it again to get rid of this awful chill.”

“Maybe if you added my cloak to the blankets,” Artus offered, reaching for the heavy wool garment.

“No, no,” Theron said, then paused. “What was I—oh yes. The goblins …” The haunted look swept over his face again as he renewed his tale. “It was five days out of the station at Port Castigliar, on Refuge Bay. We were searching for the ruins of a lost Tabaxi city—”

“Mezro?” Artus asked.

Theron nodded. “The heat had claimed a few of the bearers, and Sigerth, the only one from the club brave enough—or foolish enough—to go with me, died from fever. I’m afraid that’s what’s got me now,” he noted without self-pity.

“The goblins came at night. My guide warned me about them—Batiri, he called the monsters—but we were supposed to be well away from their usual hunting territory.” Theron shook his head. “Maybe he wasn’t such a good guide after all. Anyway, they ate him first, so he got what was coming to him. The bearers went next.”

Now it was Artus’s turn to shudder. “Cannibals? Gods, Theron, I’ve never heard of an entire goblin tribe … not unless they’re realty desperate. Starving, I mean.”

“Not in Cormyr or the rest of the Heartlands, but Chult might as well be another world.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Chult was like another world. Kwee, you might as well give up on that. The fire’s not doing me any good.”

Kwee finished dumping an armload of wood into the huge fireplace. It was tall enough for a man to stand in without ducking and twice that in width. The blaze contained in this gaping maw cast a monstrously large shadow of the slight-framed man throughout the room. The darkness fluttered across a mummy stretched out in its glass sarcophagus, the dozens of shields and polearms hung upon the walls, the thick, embroidered drapes covering the glass doors, and the stunning self-portrait Theron had painted. The jewel-encrusted statue of a beautiful, fanged woman crouching opposite the fireplace was never touched by shadow. A light shone upon it no matter how dark the study became. No one knew exactly who the statue depicted—some ancient and long-ago abandoned demigod was the most common hypothesis. Theron liked the woman’s looks, so he refused to sell it to any of the collectors or museum curators who bid for it.

Kwee Chan Sen was right at home in the unusual surroundings of Theron Silvermace’s study. He was a native of the eastern nation of Shou Lung and had the rounded features, almond-shaped eyes, and night-black hair of those highly cultured people. He wore a silk patch to hide the eye made blind and milk-white by a barbarian arrow. His hair hung in a warrior’s topknot, an honor he had gained from five successful campaigns. Kwee had left Shou Lung four years earlier, when his uncle, the former minister of war, was executed for treason. He had joined up with Theron during a trek across the Hordelands; now he lived in the explorer’s sprawling home, a setting he found conducive to contemplation of his family’s disgrace.

“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.

“Chult will be worse,” Artus murmured vaguely.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Artus shrugged and sat on the room’s sole, ragged bed. “You didn’t have to sleep on the floor. Consider yourself lucky.” He could hear the sounds of drunken snoring clearly through the wall, though that was less disturbing than the unpleasant human symphony they’d been forced to endure last night when their neighbor had been host to at least three women he’d rented for the evening.

Pushing that vivid memory from his mind as best he could, Artus pulled his notebook from his pocket. He opened to the pages he’d devoted to Theron’s wild tales of the goblins and the other monsters he’d encountered in Chult. Artus had hoped to assuage his conscience, bruised by the heated exchange with the sick man, by setting his old friend’s story down with the others he’d recorded. Along with his own adventures, he’d transcribed tales told to him by such notables as the great sage Elminster and Princess Alusair of Cormyr.

Unconsciously, he let a few pages flip past, until the book fell open to a section marked with a crude drawing of a harp contained in the arc of a quarter moon. Artus had never been much of an artist, but he’d attempted this rendering of the Harpers’ symbol in his enthusiasm just after joining the group. Their ideals were his ideals then—protecting the cities of Faerûn from danger; helping to maintain the balance between civilization and the wilderness; recording the stories of those who had passed before. It was all about freedom from fear and the right of everyone to live his life as he wished. Artus shook his head. Was I ever so ridiculously idealistic?

His contact with the Harpers had ended five years past, with the young explorer storming out of a council meeting in Shadowdale. He’d been assigned to monitor the activities of Eregul the Freestave, a powerful wizard who had thrown in with the evil Zhentarim. Even after Artus had witnessed the mage kill an innocent man, the council would not allow him to him challenge the renegade. Too dangerous, they had claimed, too likely to cause an open conflict with the Zhentarim, one the Harpers were not yet ready to fight.

But Artus was not one to bide his time. He went off in search of Eregul, ready to bring him to justice. In the end, though, he never had the chance to challenge the wizard. Stalking Eregul through the twisted streets of Zhentil Keep, he’d been captured by the Zhentarim, brought to the city officials as a spy, and tortured. It was Pontifax who eventually rescued him, not the Harpers. Artus had always assumed that, since he’d given no information about the secret organization to the Zhentish, the Harpers didn’t consider him a threat. That’s why they’d left him alone these past five years to pursue justice as he saw fit.

A sharp creaking brought the explorer out of his musings. “The door,” he snapped. Pontifax had magically barred both the door and the window, so the intruder had to be a mage of no small skill.

“Oh my,” Pontifax gasped. “Look at the bugs.”

The roaches and centipedes, so bold a moment before, were scattering. They tumbled off the table and the walls in their haste to find cover. Most raced for the cracks snaking across the plaster walls. Others went for the window, abandoning the Hanged Man for a safer home.

The door creaked fully open, and a huge scorpion skittered in. The thing was half the size of a man and as black as a zombie’s heart. Small patches of hair, drooping like a cat’s whiskers, covered its hide. Its tail curled behind it as it hopped sideways to clear the door.

Pontifax cursed. He’d drawn a small square of grayish ghoul flesh from his pocket; with it, he could paralyze anyone who entered the room, but only by touching them. He hadn’t counted on their foe being anything like this.

Artus, too, was at a loss for what to do. He stood little chance of killing the scorpion with his dagger before it stung him. He looked down at the medallion, but it remained dormant on his breast. Where was Skuld? Now that I need the spirit to help, Artus lamented to himself, he doesn’t appear. I thought the four-armed thug was supposed to protect me from danger.

“Do not fear my friend,” came a reedy voice from the hallway. “He will not harm you unless you attack him—or me.”

The man who entered the room matched his thin voice perfectly. His legs were like stems, clad in loose-fitting white pants made of rough cloth. His shirt, which wouldn’t have fit either Pontifax’s bulk or Artus’s well-muscled torso, billowed around him like a sail. One sleeve was pinned closed where he was missing an arm. The other hung loose over a limb that looked like it belonged on a scarecrow. His features were sharp and angular, topped with a mop of unwashed gold hair resembling straw. His blue eyes glinted like sunlight on the ocean.

With his remaining hand, he pushed the door closed behind him. “I hear you gentlemen are looking for passage to Chult,” the stranger whispered.

Pontifax stuffed the gruesome spell component back into his pocket, but Artus neither sheathed his dagger nor straightened from his defensive crouch. “Who sent you?” the explorer asked warily.

Chittering, the scorpion took up a position in front of his master. The thin man patted the curve of its bulbous tail, carefully avoiding the wicked stinger. “I’m here on behalf o’ the Refuge Bay Trading Company,” he said. “Now, put away your dagger, good sir, or you’ll be upsetting my companion here. Neither o’ us would be too pleased with the results if you got him too riled.”

Warily Artus stuck his dagger into the tabletop. It would be easier to retrieve there if a fight broke out.

“I don’t begrudge a wise man his precautions,” the stranger said, gesturing to the knife. The gem in the hilt glowed faintly, even in the sunlight. “I just can’t abide open threats.”

“Who told you we need passage to Chult?” Pontifax asked.

“Well, you gentlemen put word out, did you not?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “The trading company happens to have a ship anchored out o’ port, ready to be on its way to Refuge Bay. The cost isn’t light, but then, we’re talking about a fine lady o’ the sea, a galleon what made this trip to Chult a dozen times and a captain what made it a dozen more.”

The discussion quickly turned to the cost, which was higher than Artus had expected and barely what he could afford. After a few terse exchanges—punctuated by the scorpion’s cluttering—the amount was decided. Pontifax counted out half the gold coins required and held them out for the stranger.

“Put them in a bag, if you please,” the thin man said. He gestured to his missing arm. “This was taken by pirates off Ioma. This—” he held up his hand, which was almost paralyzed into a fist “—is the unfortunate result o’ taking more than my share o’ the company’s money. That’s why they gave me the scorpion, you see?”

When Pontifax held out the money, the scorpion scuttled forward. It reached up with one huge claw and took the bag, then backed away.

“Just like a new set o’ hands,” the stranger said, laughing. The scorpion opened the door with its free claw and hurried out. “I’d better catch him before he spends all the money in the taproom.” He winked. “Kind o’ a ladies man, you know. Remember, the other half goes to the captain the moment you get aboard. A longboat will be waiting to take you to the Narwhal at midnight.”

With that he disappeared after his poisonous cohort.

Pontifax walked over to close the door, but stopped short and cursed. “The blasted wards I set upon the door are still in place,” he hissed. “Somehow he and his pet strolled right through them.”

Pulling his dagger from the tabletop, Artus said, “Use this to jam it shut. No insult intended, but that’ll probably slow down any intruders in this place better than your magic.” He slumped onto the bed. “Besides, a dagger won’t do me any good in a fight here, not with things like that scorpion running loose in the halls ”

He tugged at the medallion. “I wonder why Skuld never showed himself.”

“Obviously you were never in any serious danger.” The mage closed the door and plunged the dagger through the wood, into the jamb. “Perhaps the scorpion’s poison bad been removed.”

Pontifax set about the tedious task of checking and re-checking the three packs they’d stowed in the corner near the window. When he shifted the first, a mangy rat turned its beady eyes to him, then scrambled across the room to a hole in the floorboards.

“Artus, I should make you go through every shirt in these packs looking for unwelcome stowaways. I was against staying here in the first place, and we’ll probably get a horde of fleas in our breeches for the bother… .”

Artus didn’t hear a word of his old friend’s diatribe. He’d settled back against the wall, absorbed in his journal once more.