The Ring of Winter

Four

“And you write every night?” Quiracus asked amicably. He rested his pointed chin in one hand and looked thoughtfully across the table at Artus. “I’m almost afraid to hear what you say about the Narwhal in that journal of yours.”

Artus patted the thin book that lay closed before him. “Actually, I’m getting used to life aboard ship. I’m almost sorry we’ll be in Refuge Bay in a few days.”

The two sat in the ballista deck. Though it was night, the heat hadn’t subsided; the place smelted of sweat and unwashed clothes. Wan moonlight leaking in through the ports and the glow from a lantern atop the slightly swaying table gave the scene an eerie, otherworldly feel, but Artus had grown accustomed to the silent blackness of the lower decks at night. In a neat row all along both sides of the ship, men and women slept soundly, lulled by the rush of water along the hull. The tabletop, like Artus’s hammock, was suspended from the beams overhead.

Behind the first mate, the weapon Artus had been assigned to tend in case of attack hulked in the near-darkness. It was like most of the engines aboard the ship, a type of giant crossbow meant to hurl bolts the size of a man. The weapon fascinated Artus; its simple, graceful design clashed intriguingly with his knowledge of its destructive potential.

In the past few days, Quiracus had paid Artus many visits, and they’d discussed the ballistae and a dozen other topics. The elf seemed genuinely interested in striking up a friendship, almost as if he were trying to make up for Captain Bawr’s strangeness and Master Nelock’s outright hostility. Artus welcomed the camaraderie, especially since’ the crew tended to stay well clear of him for fear of attracting the boatswain’s wrath. The first mate boasted a ready wit and an uncanny knack for avoiding all the right subjects. He’d even given Artus a few fragments of ancient elven tales for his journal, though he was a dreadful storyteller.

“I never tire of life at sea,” the first mate offered. He stood and peered around the ballista to get a better look at the water. The breeze blew his golden hair back from his pointed ears. “I mean, just take a look at the moonlight glittering so brilliantly off the water—”

The first mate paused, then pushed his head farther out the port and glanced up at the moon. Cursing, he pulled himself back against the ballista. “Battle stations!” he bellowed. “Man the ballistae! Ready the starboard side for firing!”

The words echoed in the confines of the deck, rattling everyone from their slumber. With amazing speed, the men and women leaped from their hammocks and set about winching back the powerful metal bands that launched the bolts. A few of the younger boys ran along the deck, stowing the hammocks, lighting lanterns, and clearing cups and plates from the tables. Others began to pull the heavy lances from their storage piles, stacking them atop those same tables, which had held the sailors’ dinner not so long ago.

“What’s going on?” Artus asked as the first mate pushed past, heading for the stairs to the quarter deck.

As if in reply, the Narwhal listed heavily to one side. A lantern smashed, spilling its flaming oil across the deck. Before the fire could spread, two sailors doused it with buckets of sand. The plaintive groan that filled the air could be heard even over the shouted orders, the clatter of metal plates, and the clacking of the ballistae as the crews cranked and loaded them. It was the hull crashing against something large and solid.

Artus, like many of those around him, struggled to his feet. The first mate laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Come with me,” the elf said. “I think you’ll be of more value to us on the quarter deck.”

As be hurried to the stairs, Artus didn’t notice the first mate stop to retrieve his journal from where it had fallen to the deck. Quiracus slipped the wyvern hide-bound book into the pocket of his baggy cotton pants. “Wait for the order to fire!” the first mate shouted to no one in particular, then rushed to the stairs himself.

The scene on the quarterdeck was even more chaotic than below. In a half-dozen places, sailors lay in heaps, broken limbs jutting out at ridiculous angles from their bodies. They had obviously fallen from the rigging when the Narwhal listed. Pontifax leaned over one unfortunate woman. Two men held her down as the mage reset her dislocated shoulder. Other sailors scrambled for the pikes strapped to the masts, ready to repel any boarders.

Off the starboard bow, an island had seemingly risen from the sea. The dark, rocky mound was almost half the length of the Narwhal. Gorgeous patterns of silver glittered all along the gentle curve of its sides, broken in places by trailers of seaweed. A sharp ridge ran along the center, leading to another, smaller mound—

Artus gasped. It was a head!

“It’s Aremag again,” Nelock shouted as he ran past, racing for the poop deck.

“I know,” Quiracus snapped. He hurried after the boatswain, Artus in tow. This uncharacteristic anger made the elf look oddly nefarious—his arched eyebrows knit together, his gold eyes flashing.

Captain Bawr stood at the starboard rail, a speaking horn held before her. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and her hair now framed her face in dark ringlets. Artus was struck again with the woman’s beauty, though uneasiness at her strange nature overwhelmed any other feelings her appearance stirred.

“We’ve paid your toll already this month, Aremag,” she shouted. “If you’ve damaged my ship, you’ll be the one to pay for her repairs.”

The monstrous turtle roared and slowly opened its blood-red eyes. The sounds coming from its gaping mouth at first seemed no more than unintelligible groans and rumbles, but as Artus listened, he discerned a pattern, a clear hierarchy of sounds and a rigid structure of word order. He had learned a few languages in his travels, but this was the first time he’d ever heard any of the tongues related to dragon speech.

Clearly the captain understood the dragon turtle’s words. When it stopped speaking, she pounded a fist on the rail. “Master Quiracus,” she said, tight reins on her anger, “have the ballistae ready to fire.”

“Already done, Captain,” he replied. When she glanced at him questioningly, he added, “I saw the silver pattern from its shell on the water right before we hit. The moon’s not bright enough tonight to make that kind of reflection. I knew we were near the turtle’s territory, so—”

“Fine,” the captain replied coldly. “That makes my decision easier.” Turning to the boatswain, she ordered, “Gather the men who were on watch tonight and put them in the ship’s boat. If Master Quiracus saw Aremag coming, they should have noticed him, too.”

“Some are wounded, milady,” Nelock said meekly.

“Where they’re going, it won’t matter.” She pointed to the stairs leading to the cabins. “Master Quiracus, get two empty chests from my cabin. Apologize to the ambassador, but assure him we’re handling the problem.”

The dragon turtle roared again, and Captain Bawr put the speaking horn to her lips. “I’ll pay your price,” she shouted, “but know the Refuge Bay Trading Company will be displeased. If you can’t be trusted to keep to the agreement we made months ago, our ships will take other routes to Chult.”

Artus sputtered a protest, but it was Nelock who spoke first. “Milady,” the boatswain said, “the crew might not take kindly to this—sacrificing some of their own to buy safe passage. They might even mutiny.”

“They’ll be glad it wasn’t them I chose, Master Nelock,” she snarled. Her skin had begun to take on a reddish hue. “Our ballista fire would bounce off Aremag’s shell. We can’t outrun him. Our only choice is to pay him the ten men and the treasure he demands. Do you want to be in the ship’s boat with those unfortunate men when it’s lowered into the water?”

Nelock backed away, shaking his head. He bumped into Artus, then turned and cursed. “Why are ya standing—” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “I should have known.”

“Why isn’t this man at his post?” the captain asked. She had reverted back to her demure appearance, though her cheeks still held a rosy blush.

“Master Quiracus told me to come on deck,” Artus stammered.

“I did no such thing, milady,” the first mate said. The elf was carrying the two small chests he’d retrieved from the cabins below. The burden wasn’t heavy, but his face was pale and his voice quavered as he stepped forward. “He must have deserted his post. He’s done it before.”

“Put him into the boat with the others,” the captain ordered flatly. “If the surgeon notices you taking his friend away and objects in the least, send him along as well.”

Artus’s head swam, and he looked to the first mate for some kind of explanation. The elf was moving toward him, a small sheet of bone-white parchment held before him in his left hand. Nelock grabbed Artus from behind, pinning his arms back. “Sorry,” the boatswain whispered, “there just ain’t no other way.”

Skuld appeared in a flash of silver light. The guardian spirit towered over the apelike boatswain, laughing at the terror in the sailor’s eyes. He knocked Nelock senseless with a single fist to the top of the head. As the petty officer crumpled at Artus’s feet, Skuld turned toward Master Quiracus. The elf hesitated for an instant, looked at the paper he held in his hand, then ran for the stairs.

“How dare you!” Captain Bawr snarled, leaping at Skuld.

The winsome woman abruptly transformed into a creature more reptile than human. Spiny ridges covered her skull, and red scales ran along her crocodile’s snout. Her mouth was like a crocodile’s, too, wide and gaping and filled with jagged teeth. Bawr now had the muscled arms and legs of a mountain dwarf. She’d torn through her pretty shoes and hose, but her blouse and flowing skirt still hung in tatters from her leathery body. She might have been truly terrifying but for the absurdity of those dainty clothes.

She sprang for the guardian spirit’s throat, but he caught her in midair with one of his four arms. Bawr tore at the silver limb with her claws and struggled to clamp down with her powerful jaws. Skuld watched disinterestedly as the creature razed metallic slivers from his arm. As fast as the inhuman flesh fell to the deck, the wounds healed over.

“Master?” Skuld asked, lifting the snarling creature higher off the wooden planks.

“Gods, Skuld, just get rid of her,” Artus cried.

The spirit leaned back and heaved her over the side. The lizardlike thing that was Captain Bawr tumbled through the air, then splashed into the sea near the dragon turtle’s head. Aremag twisted around slowly and gulped down the thrashing creature. After smacking its lips, it bellowed at the boat.

“The dragon turtle wants nine more men,” Skuld noted helpfully. He folded both sets of arms across his chest. “Shall I gather them up for you, O mighty one?”

A small circle of sailors had gathered around Artus and Skuld. Since the captain had never kept a personal guard, assured as she was of her own powers of self-defense, no one took up the challenge of avenging her death. If Artus had the might to do away with the unpredictable captain, perhaps he should have command of the Narwhal.

“Well,” one of the sailors said, “that monster won’t wait all day. If we don’t give it what it wants, it’ll sink us for sure.”

Pontifax arrived then, the blood of the dead and wounded spattering his tunic. “Do you have any spells that could help us?” Artus asked.

“Against that thing?” the mage replied. “Only if you want to make it really angry.”

Casually Skuld held out a hand. In his palm rested a silver globe the size of a large apple, perfectly round. Mulhorandi picture-glyphs girded the ball—men with the wings and heads of hawks, women with the features of cats, and many other strange creatures. As Artus looked at them, they began to move in stately procession. “This will not kill the dragon turtle,” Skuld noted, “but it will breach its shell.”

“And the ballistae will do the rest,” one of the crewmen shouted. “Shall I pass the word to prepare for firing?”

Artus snatched the globe from Skuld’s hand. “Tell the men to hold their fire until this thing, er—”

“It will explode, master,” Skuld whispered. “All you need do is throw it at the beast.”

”—until this thing explodes,” the explorer said. He glanced up and saw the guardian spirit was actually smiling, an odd sort of pride in his eyes. “The men will know what to aim for after that.”

The dragon-turtle swam closer to the ship. The waves caused by its slow, relentless movement caused the Narwhal to bob like a child’s toy boat on bath night. “Once the fighting starts, we’ll want to put some distance between us and the turtle. One of you men take over as boatswain.” Artus pointed at a brawny half-orc with a broken nose. “You’ll do for now.”

The crewmembers scattered to their tasks, leaving Artus alone on the poop deck with Pontifax, Skuld, and the three young sailors manning the ship’s massive wheel. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” the mage asked as Artus stepped up to the rail.

“Not in the least,” he replied, then threw the silver globe with all his might.

Aremag must have suspected a doublecross, for he tried to dive away from the small missile. He was too large for such a demanding maneuver, however, and the globe flew with magical speed. Skuld’s weapon struck the turtle’s shell directly over a leg. The explosion sent a flare of light into the night sky and a rumble of thunder over the ceaselessly churning sea. Fragments of shell, sharper than any sword, sliced through the air, tearing through sails and cutting the rigging. Those men and women unlucky enough to be hit by the shrapnel would never know how the battle turned out.

“Fire!” Artus shouted.

Captain Bawr had kept a strict chain of command to handle such battles, but it had disintegrated with her death. Most of the officers were hiding, afraid of both mutineers and the dragon turtle. Yet the crews manning the engines had bested pirate ships and vessels from the royal navies of five countries. When they saw the bloody breech in Aremag’s shell, they knew what to do even before Artus’s shouted order.

The heavy thud of twenty-five ballista arms shooting forward and the hiss of as many huge bolts slicing through the air came to Artus’s ears. He saw the dragon turtle roll in pain. Seven heavy lances had found their mark. The iron tipped missiles dug deep into Aremag’s flesh, turning the water crimson. Most of the other bolts struck the shell and bounced harmlessly away. One well-placed shot blinded the turtle’s left eye.

A shout went up on the Narwhal as the dragon turtle screamed. The ballistae fired again, though all but one of the bolts struck harmlessly against the thrashing giant’s shell. The dragon turtle had taken enough of a beating to retreat, but not without a parting shot. Just before it sank, Aremag inhaled sharply, then breathed out a cloud of scalding steam.

The shrieks of the sailors closest to The starboard rail replaced their victory cry. The steam poured into the ballista ports, searing the skin off the men caught in its wake. In a few places, ropes sizzled and broke. A yardarm, suddenly cut free, fell to the deck and crushed a midshipman. Skuld shielded Artus and Pontifax from the blast, then disappeared into the medallion. From the rail, Artus stared out at the churning, bloody sea, waiting for the turtle’s return. Pontifax, his back to his friend, looked out over the carnage on the quarter deck. “I’d better see if I can help anyone down there,” the mage said.

Artus turned and came face-to-face with Quiracus. The elf slapped the piece of parchment he’d been carrying earlier over the medallion, then lashed out at Artus with a right hook. The blow landed on the explorer’s jaw, sending him backward over the rail.

No silver hand emerged from the medallion to save Artus from this fall. Only his own quick reflexes stopped him from plummeting into the sea. He gripped the edge of the rail with one hand, his fingernails digging furrows into the wood as he slid. Quiracus reached out, intent on loosening that tenuous grip, but Pontifax tackled him. The mage easily bowled the slender elf off his feet, then hurried to help Artus. Puffing at the exertion, he pulled the explorer back onto the deck.

“Where did he go?” Artus snouted.

“I don’t know,” Pontifax said. “But we’ll find him sooner or later. Not many places to hide on a ship.”

Artus slumped back against the rail, then lifted the medallion. The silver disk was completely hidden by a thick layer of hardened white paste.

“I saw Quiracus hit the medallion with that parchment,” Pontifax said. “It looks like some sort of magical damper. Unless we can find a way to get it off, I don’t think we’ll be seeing Skuld again for a while.”

Artus looked at the medallion, then dropped it back onto his chest. “Good thing we’re just a couple days out of Refuge Bay. Whoever is trying to kill me knew enough to get Skuld out of the way first.”

Concern filled Pontifax’s eyes. “What makes you think they’ll stop once we get to Chult?”

“Here, let me quote a bit for you: ‘I have discovered that the Cult of Frost is led by that blackguard Kaverin Ebonhand.’” The man chuckled. “So I’m a blackguard, am I? How perfectly melodramatic.”

Quiracus dropped to his knees in the center of an intricately woven Turmish carpet. It was as expensive and as gaudy as the rest of the trappings in Captain Bawr’s cabin. “Please, you’ve got to hide me. Cimber will kill me if he finds me.”

Kaverin closed the small book bound in wyvern hide. “I am wondering, my fine elf, whether you have served me well enough to merit sheltering.” He tapped one finger on the book. Like the rest of his hand, the digit was solid jet-black stone, though it moved like one of flesh and blood. “True, you recovered this lovely volume from my vaunted foe. The book, in turn, will tell me everything Cimber knows about our mutual grail. And you did neutralize the guardian of the medallion for us by slapping that parchment over it.”

He paused and bowed to the mousy woman sitting in the corner of the cabin. “Plaudits to you, my dear Phyrra, for that wonderfully simple magical damper. The guardian never knew what hit him, as the saying goes.” A frown tugged at the corners of Kaverin’s mouth. “Sadly, Cimber does know what—or more precisely who—hit him. Since you could not kill the blithering dolt, he can identify you as his would-be assassin. That is really quite troublesome, Quiracus.”

With one jet finger, Kaverin gestured to the creature crouched atop a lacquered cabinet next to the door. The thing resembled a small albino monkey, though it sported large bat’s wings and the talons of an eagle. It swooped across the room and landed on its master’s shoulder, then began to fan him gently with its leathery wings.

“This heat is almost unbearable,” Kaverin sighed. He wiped the sweat from his brow and from inside the collar of his loose-fitting white shirt. “At least, it would be if not for Feg.” The winged monkey chittered shrilly.

Panic shone clearly on Quiracus’s delicate elven features. He turned pleading blue eyes on Kaverin, whose face registered no emotion whatsoever. The first mate had seen dark, lifeless eyes like those before, but on a shark, not a man. Quiracus suddenly knew how Kaverin had come to be so infamous, how he could have committed crimes horrible enough to earn him the title “Butcher of Tantras.”

“Yes, weighing against all the good you’ve done for me is this botched assassination. And it is quite a heavy sin.” Kaverin closed his eyes to better enjoy the breeze tousling his red hair. “It has most certainly put Cimber on guard. He’ll be dangerous now, far more difficult to kill.”

From the corner came a coarse laugh. “He’s no match for you,” snorted Phyrra al-Quim. “Not with the spirit gone.”

Kaverin offered her a patronizing smile. “It is a good thing I will be the one to determine when we cross swords with Cimber, Phyrra. He could not have bested someone as bright as you for top honors at that school you both attended if he did not at least possess some native intelligence.”

A cloud of silent resentment settled over the young woman. She did her best to hide her emotions by hunching back into the shadowy corner, but Kaverin rarely missed such things. That petty streak will have to be frozen in her soul, he decided, but we’ll have time enough for that later.

“No, I’m afraid you’ll have to find some way to protect yourself, Quiracus. Our cover as Tantrasan ambassadors will keep Artus himself out of these cabins until we reach Chult, but if you’re found here—and Artus will make certain the crew searches everywhere for you—it might endanger our cover,” Kaverin concluded, making a halfhearted attempt to appear sympathetic. “That just won’t do, you see.”

Quiracus was on his feet, pointing at Kaverin with a trembling finger. “I swear I’ll tell him you’re here if you don’t help me. I—”

The elf stiffened, then crumpled to the floor. The bone handle of an ancient Mulhorandi dagger protruded from his back. “Thank you, Phyrra my dear,” Kaverin cooed. “He was beginning to give me a headache.”

The mousy woman retrieved the blade, wiped it clean on Quiracus’s shirt, then slid it back into her boot. Grabbing the elf under the arms, she hauled him to the other side of the small cabin. “Shall we dump him out the window?” she asked. Daggers of light flashed across the room as her round glasses caught and reflected the lantern’s radiance.

Kaverin pondered the point for a moment. “No,” he said at last, stifling a yawn. “Leave him for my nightly visitors. They’d love that kind of present, don’t you think? Perhaps they’ll go home early, as a show of appreciation.”

The stone-handed man tried hard to mask the apprehension in his voice, but couldn’t. He was getting sleepy, and that meant the emissaries of Cyric would soon arrive. “Perhaps if I read something from this enthralling book I’ll stay awake … for a while anyway.”

Kaverin sat down next to the lantern and opened Artus’s journal once more. Like his dark eyes, his angular features betrayed none of his feelings. His mouth was small and tight, with lips as pale and bloodless as the rest of his skin. Like an icicle, his sharp nose slashed down across his face from his forehead. The few who had ever touched Kaverin Ebonhand and lived often complained that forever after they suffered a chill where they’d come in contact with him. It wasn’t an icy cold so much as the clamminess of a corpse.

“Are we all comfy?” he asked mildly.

Deftly Feg hopped onto the perch loop standing nearby, fanning his master all the while. Across the room, Phyrra stuffed a towel beneath the elf’s corpse to stop the blood from spreading. Then she settled back into her shadowy corner and wrapped her thin arms around herself.

“Another page about me,” Kaverin exclaimed. His voice was high and full of excitement, like a child who had just been given a magical toy. “It says: ‘Pontifax and I have finally brought Kaverin to justice. As usual, though, he has turned even his punishment to his advantage… ’ ”