The Ring of Winter

Six

“Wake up, Artus.”

“Please, Pontifax, not again. I’m sorry. You have to know that by now.”

“Artus?”

The explorer rolled over and opened his eyes. The sunshine pouring in through the door blinded him momentarily, and he threw an arm up to block the light. “Oh , . . Ibn. Go away,” Artus croaked.

“No,” Ibn replied flatly. “This is not good.” He laid a hand on Artus’s shoulder. “To grieve, that is right, but to let someone’s death kill you, too …that is not the way of the world, do you see?”

“It is just for murderers to be killed,” Artus said through gritted teeth. The pounding headache that had been with him ever since he’d finished off an entire bottle of palm wine flared then, egged on by Ibn’s low voice and his own angry words, “I’m guilty. That’s all you need to know.”

“All I need to know is you’ve been in this hut ever since we buried Sir Hydel, drinking, but not eating, sweltering away in this little room.” Ibn picked up the longbow Theron had left for Artus, then began to batter the tin wall. The din was deafening.

“Gods!” Artus screamed, blocking his ears. “Stop that!”

Ibn paused long enough to say, “You’ll have to stop me yourself.”

Artus’s hand went to his boot, but his dagger was gone. In fact, all he had on was a short, ragged pair of breeches.

“I took the knife away a day ago,” Ibn shouted over the racket. “I knew sooner or later you might come to hurt someone—or yourself—with it.”

Artus looked up and saw the fiendish grin on the shopkeep’s face. The headache was forgotten in the rage that coursed through him. He tried to lunge, but succeeded only in tripping over the low table. Then the banging stopped. The room was once again filled with the sounds of his own heavy breathing, the chatter of birds and monkeys, and the hushed roll of the sea.

“You have tortured yourself enough,” Ibn said softly. “Come back to the world.” He dropped the bow, and it clattered to the floor. “If you don’t, I will send Inyanga here with a drum and a trumpet. He can play them both at once, do you see?”

After pushing himself off the floor, Artus used the sturdy table to pull himself to his feet. He wasn’t drunk; the palm wine had given him nothing but a raging headache and a queasy stomach. He never drank much anyway, only in fits of stupid desperation. And he was certainly desperate now. Eleven years of camaraderie, shared adventures and dangers, that’s what he and Pontifax had survived. The old mage had been more of a father to Artus than the brigand who’d sired him, more of a brother than the brutish lout he’d grown up with.

Even if Pontifax had brushed off the Curse of the Ring as he lay dying, Artus could not. Just at the point when the ring was almost in his grasp, someone dear to him had died. It was the same story as that of alt the other seekers who had paid for their quest with another’s life.

“I had dreams about him, Ibn,” Artus whispered. “Pontifax came here and forgave me. He was transparent and pale—like a ghost.” He rubbed his eyes, trying to ward off the growing ache. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Did Sir Hydel tell you what he wanted you to do?” Ibn asked. Artus was surprised by the serious expression on his face. “In the dreams, did he talk to you about the future?”

“I drank too much wine,” Artus said. “I hadn’t—”

“We take dreams very seriously here,” Ibn noted. “Maybe it was the wine … maybe not.”

Artus frowned as he watched the shopkeep look about the room, as if Pontifax’s ghost might have left footprints on the ceiling. “He told me I should go on with my quest,” the explorer said at last.

Ibn nodded in righteous satisfaction. “Then that is what you should do. I will help you get started again.”

“But what about the Cult of Frost?”

“They did not send anyone or anything else after you,” Ibn said. “I had the bearers set watches over the compound. Perhaps they think you are dead. Perhaps they know you are not and have given up.”

“No,” Artus said, “Kaverin can see through the eyes of the frost minions he conjures. He knows he killed Pontifax, but not me.” The explorer picked idly at the green tunic Theron had left him; he’d been using it as a pillow. “The elf who tried to kill me aboard the Narwhal and the woman who got off the boat and hired the guide, they were both working for him. Maybe he’s here himself.”

“Is what you seek important enough for Kaverin to come here himself? You said he hides in Tantras, shielded from danger by the cult.”

Artus nodded. “Kaverin is wary, but he’s no coward. If he thought the goal important enough, he’d most certainly come.” He grimaced and added, “The cult members will kill anyone who stands in their way. That’s why I can’t tell you more. I don’t want to endanger you more than I already have.”

“Perhaps I should send word to the Harpers. They might dispatch—”

“No!” Artus snapped. “Leave the Harpers out of this, Ibn… . Please.” He stumbled a few steps forward. “How many days have I been in here?”

“Sir Hydel has been dead for five days.” Ibn slid a shoulder under Artus’s arm. “You need to clean yourself up and eat something. Then there is something I wish you to see and someone you should talk with. This will be good news. Do not frown so.”

Outside the tin hut, in the fresh air of the sunny afternoon, Artus realized how badly he smelled of sweat and spilled wine. He tried to move away from Ibn, certain he was offending the man, but the shopkeep seemed intent on helping him walk. Together they made their way across the compound to the large barrels of rainwater at the side of the supply depot. A bucket had already been drawn for Artus to use. Next to it lay a cake of soap, a silver straight razor, and a covered dish.

“This will settle your stomach,” Ibn said, lifting the round cover from a fist-sized lump of dark bread. “Do not ask what is in it.”

Artus sniffed the bread and wrinkled his nose. It smelted distinctly like fish—was that a bit of tentacle peeking out from the bottom? “Er, thanks. I guess.”

“Eat the whole thing,” Ibn chided. “That is the only cure for the pounding in your head.”

Ibn headed back to the depot, leaving Artus to wash up. The explorer scrubbed himself clean, then scratched at the thick stubble on his chin. With a sigh, he lathered up the soap and set to work.

As he scraped away his fledgling beard, Artus watched the activity on the white sand beach. Some of the men and women who worked as bearers in Port Castigliar manned long fishing poles. Others cleaned and prepared vegetables for the evening meal. A few small children raced after the long-legged sea birds that hugged the shore, sending them shrieking into the sky. With methodical care, Inyanga gathered driftwood and spread it in the sun to dry. The port’s inhabitants would use it for fires instead of chopping down the living trees nearby.

After rinsing his now smooth-shaven face, Artus sniffed at the bread again. Maybe they chop up the leftover driftwood and put it in here, too, he thought. The explorer took a bite of the roll. As he’d suspected, it tasted fishy. There were chewy bits, too. Squid, maybe. Or octopus. He refused to consider any of the more exotic possibilities. Yet, as Ibn had promised, the bread settled his stomach and drove away his headache.

Inyanga soon ran out of driftwood to gather and wandered to Artus’s side. “Have you seen the marker my father made for him?”

“No. Let’s take a look at it,” Artus said, steeling himself for the sight. When he took a step, he felt as if he were walking in thick mud. Obviously, the bread hadn’t countered all the aftereffects of the wine just yet.

At the edge of the graveyard, Artus paused. He knew where Pontifax was buried; he’d helped Ibn dig the grave himself. But there were two plots of freshly turned earth, not one.

“That is where we buried Kwame Zanj, the guide,” Inyanga said solemnly. “His brother Judar brought back his body yesterday. He loved the port, so he asked to be buried here.”

“What?” Artus sputtered. “The guide is dead? What about the woman who left the port with him?”

“She is dead, too,” Ibn said. The shopkeep had returned from the depot and stood behind Artus, a younger man at his side. “Judar says the party from the Narwhal was attacked by the Batiri, do you see? Kwame struggled home to his village, but his wounds were too serious. That is why I wanted you to meet this young fellow,” Ibn interjected, seeing the shock and confusion play across Artus’s face. “He wishes to become Port Castigliar’s guide, to earn money for his family just as Kwame did.”

The young man nodded his agreement. He was of slight build; that was obvious even through the flowing white robes he wore. Artus had read enough about the cultures of Chult to know that white, not black, was the color of death and mourning here. “Brave Kwame rests in the house of Ubtao now,” Judar said in a high, lisping voice.

“And the woman who was with your brother?” Artus pressed. “Did she die in your village, too?”

“No. The Batiri took her away to their camp,” Judar said, a tremor of fear in his voice. “She and the other one are surely dead now.”

“The other one?” Artus asked.

Judar looked down at the ground. “A flame-haired white man, tall and ill-tempered. Kwame asked me to search for him and the woman, but we found only the remains of their camp. It is a dishonor to our family that Kwame led the strangers to disaster.”

Artus pulled Ibn aside. “There’s something not right about this,” he said. “He’s describing Kaverin, but I just can’t believe that vermin is dead.”

“I can tell you this,” Ibn said. “I have met Judar once before, not long ago, and this one seems to be the same boy. He may be working for Kaverin, but you have no choice but to trust him if you wish to get moving, do you see? Without a guide you will be lost in the jungle.”

“And with a guide, I may be walking into a trap,” Artus concluded.

As Artus turned to Judar, the young man smiled obsequiously. “I will help you, master. I know the jungle for miles in every direction,” He cocked his head, and his large, pale eyes flashed strangely in the sunlight.

“Perhaps,” the explorer murmured. He looked past the others to the graveyard.

“If you do not go on,” Ibn whispered in his ear, “the Cult of Frost will have already won. Sir Hydel will have died in vain.”

That statement of common sense jarred Artus’s conscience. The despair he’d been wallowing in, the self-pity, fell back before the shocking realization he was doing his old friend a disservice by not moving ahead with the quest. “I have a map,” Artus said. “It’s in the hut. We can look at it… in a little while. All right, Judar?”

Without waiting for a reply, Artus walked toward Pontifax’s grave. Clean and white, its edges still undulled by rain, the headstone hunched before the dark mound. Ibn had carved a graceful scroll around the inscription: Sir Hydel Pontifax of Cormyr.

The explorer crouched down, feeling the sun pound down on his pale back and shoulders. The medallion’s chain seemed to drink in the heat, and soon it was stinging the back of his neck. He ignored the discomfort.

After a time, Inyanga appeared and crouched beside Artus. “It is a good marker,” Artus said, “but it’s missing something … and I think I know what it is.”

The boy followed at Artus’s heels as he crossed the compound to his hut. Inside, the explorer tore open Pontifax’s pack and scattered the mage’s clothes. It has to be here.

Artus told himself. Pontifax never went anywhere without it. Maybe it’s in with his spell components. … Ah, success!

Artus held up a small medal, made of the purest Cormyrian silver, with a lightning bolt engraved upon it. Around the edges wound the inscription: Order of the Golden Way. He handed it to Inyanga. “Sir Hydel was awarded this for his service to our king on a great crusade,” Artus said. “He was very proud of it.”

“My father can set this in the stone,” the boy said, nodding sagely.

“And I think I know what other words need to be written beneath it,” Artus added.

By sunset that evening, Ibn had set Pontifax’s medal beneath the scroll that held his name. Across the face of the white stone, he chiseled these final words: Healer & Loyal Friend. Artus could think of no better words to accompany his comrade to the Realm of the Dead.

The expedition set off into the jungle two days later—Artus, Judar, and six bearers. The guide went about his duties, trying hard to earn the explorer’s respect. The youth quickly proved his knowledge of the area, or at least the route Theron’s map delineated.

Artus missed Pontifax’s expertise as soon as he left Port Castigliar. The bearers spoke only their native Tabaxi, and Artus only knew enough of the tongue to struggle through the most rudimentary exchanges. Judar, who spoke fluent Common, was an amiable, if somewhat self-deprecating, conversationalist. He smiled readily and was quick to laugh, though his chuckling was coarse, as if he were amused at some obscene jest everyone else had missed. Artus found it hard to talk with him, so he ordered the guide to march in front once they got underway. Letting the young man set the pace meant he could watch him closely and scan the brush for signs of an ambush.

For the whole day, they followed a well-trodden path, where the vines and undergrowth had been chopped back or crushed underfoot by the local tribesmen. The few natives they passed on the road went silently on their way; the Tabaxi had seen such expeditions before—hunters of treasure or monsters or fame. Such parties offered little threat to the well-armed natives and were rarely interested in trading on fair terms. Artus didn’t blame them for their silence, not when ships like the Narwhal scoured the coast on behalf of operations like the Refuge Bay Trading Company.

The jungle itself was lush and ominous. Creatures called to one another or warned others off with shrieked claims of territory. The cries were sometimes low and rumbling, sometimes high and piercing. It often proved easier to locate an animal by sound or scent than by sight, so thick was the vegetation.

In the high canopy, dark shapes sailed gracefully from branch to branch, tree to tree. Once, Artus saw a child-sized ape, its dark face ringed by a wild frill of white and yellow fur. The creature hung over the road, suspended from a branch by one impossibly long arm. As the company approached, it bared blood-red fangs and snarled. This was only so much show, for it soon fled higher into the tangle of vines and branches. Artus noted with awe that the ape’s back was covered with bristling spines.

The heat drained the life from the party like a massive leech. Artus was hit hardest, though he found unexpected relief in the tunic Theron had left for him. The hooded garment proved to be woven of some magical thread. It kept his body cool and remained unsodden by sweat.

So it went, with the trail becoming more and more overgrown, more and more difficult as they traveled. As dusk called a halt to their sixth tedious day on the winding trail, they set up camp at a crossroads, drawing the tents and foodstuffs from the fifty-pound loads each bearer carried. The cost of the supplies and the wages for Judar and the bearers had taken what little money Artus had left. As the explorer watched the freed slaves struggle with the heavy burdens, he wondered if one day he might be working at the port to earn his way back to Cormyr. More likely, it he failed in this venture, he would be dead. If he succeeded and the ring was half as powerful as the legends told, he’d have no need of a boat to carry him back home. Some claimed the ring gave a man the ability to fly. Others said it had been enchanted in such a way that its wearer need only wish to be someplace to go there.

Artus had managed to keep to himself for much of the trip, but it proved impossible to avoid Judar that evening. The guide came to him as soon as the meal was finished and the watch set. “You are not a talkative man,” Judar observed, more a question than a statement.

Quietly, Artus ran his dagger along a sharpening stone. The light from the gem in its grip cast long shadows across his face, making him look quite dangerous. “I just don’t have anything to say to you, Judar.”

The guide pursed his lips. “I… I have heard about the death of your friend,” he began tentatively. “I am sorry. I just lost my brother, so I know what you feel.”

“Perhaps.” Again Artus scraped the blade along the stone. “We’ll be at Kitcher’s Folly by tomorrow night, if I read the map right.”

“If we keep up this pace, we will have time to make camp at the statue before the sun sets.”

“And the trail ends there?”

Judar paused. “You know it does, Master Cimber. The map says so.” His expression darkened. “I know you do not trust me. A man who has assassins of ice trying to take his life should trust no one.” To Artus’s suspicious look, the guide replied, “The bearers told me about it. Don’t think I could have been in camp a day without hearing of such fantastic things.”

“You’re right. I don’t trust you,” Artus warned. “But if you can figure that out, you should be wise enough to leave me alone.”

Judar abruptly stood. “When the trail ends, you will need to trust me, Master Cimber.” He laughed coarsely, eyes flashing in the firelight. “I do not mean to mock, but you will get nowhere in the jungle without trust.”

Artus watched as the guide went back to his tent. My first impression was right, he decided. There’s definitely something dangerous about him.

A swarm of finger-long mosquitoes settled over Artus, and he used the hood of his cloak to scatter them. He retreated from the night, dagger and sharpening stone in hand, for the refuge of his tent. The netting kept the larger insects out, but, as always, a small army of pests had invaded the tent in his absence. He killed a few, which sent the others scrambling for the doorflap.

For much of that night and all the next day, Artus pondered his dilemma. With Kaverin and the cult after the Ring of Winter—for there could be no other reason for their presence in Chult—he could trust no one. Neither could he accept the story that Kaverin was dead. The stone-handed murderer had escaped greater threats than goblin cannibals before. He was crafty and resourceful—resourceful enough to plant a spy in Artus’s expedition, just as he had set the elven first mate aboard the Narwhal against the explorer.

Yet the guide was right in one thing: Artus would need someone to help him navigate through the jungle. No tribesman had passed them in two days, and the trail had all but vanished beneath a carpet of twisting vines and decaying leaves. The canopy had closed completely overhead, plunging the expedition into a twilight broken only infrequently by slants of pale sunlight. They had passed beyond the lands traveled by any but the very brave or the very foolish.

Artus found himself checking their heading more and more with his dagger. The centaurs of Tribe Pastilar had not only enchanted the weapon to give off a perpetual light, but it could also be used as a compass. By holding his dagger flat in his palm and speaking the centaur chieftain’s name, the blade pointed due north. The dagger also allowed him to control spiders—a very real danger in the forest where the centaurs dwelled—but Artus had only had cause to use that particular enchantment once, in the aptly named Spiderhaunt Woods.

“We are at the end of the trail,” Judar shouted from the front of the line, startling Artus out of his reverie.

At a word from the explorer, the bearers lowered their packs to the ground. They sat as one, silently rubbing sore muscles. Up ahead, the narrow trail opened onto a weed-choked clearing. In its center, bathed in the light of the dying sun, stood Kitcher’s Folly.

The statue was a twelve-foot-high bust of Sir Ilyber Kitcher, an explorer from Scardale who had come to Chult a few hundred years ago. Decades of rain and sun had dulled the features, but enough of the face remained for Artus to see what a sour-looking sort Kitcher had been. His wide eyes looked sternly out from under bushy brows. A drooping mustache hung over a suitably grim mouth, lips drawn into a thin line of resolve.

“So this is the infamous Kitcher’s Folly,” Artus whispered. He ran a hand along the statue’s base, over the dulled inscriptions carved into the stone.

Armed with limited supplies and even more limited wits, Sir Ilyber Kitcher had decided to traverse the unmapped land of Chult from east to west, starting in a small port he’d named after his rich Uncle Castigliar. At the sites of notable discoveries and battles, Kitcher planned to erect monuments to his bravery and fortitude. His funds being nowhere near as restricted as his other assets—thanks largely to Uncle Castigliar—the statues were to be of the magical variety. Upon a traveler’s mere request, they would recite the tale of Kitcher’s glorious victory, as well as provide useful information about what local fauna to eat, which animals made the best trophies, and so on.

Only one statue had been erected in Kitcher’s name. The intrepid explorer had blundered upon a nasty conflict between two warring Tabaxi factions. Instead of skirting the battle, he ordered a mage in his party to draw the attention of the chiefs. He would end this petty bickering, as was his duty as a civilized man. Needless to say, the only thing the magical fireworks attracted was a rain of spears and arrows from both armies. The Tabaxi had miraculously lost track of their own argument in the face of this new and obviously powerful adversary.

Fortunately for Kitcher, two men escaped to tell the tale. In gratitude for the spot of beach named after him, his uncle later paid a small group to sneak into the jungle and erect a statue to the explorer, though one that would do nothing but mutely decry the death of a would-be great man. It soon after became known as Kitcher’s Folly.

The bearers had gathered around the statue, talking quietly amongst themselves. “They have heard this is the head of an evil giant, buried here long ago by Ubtao to keep strangers out of his jungle,” Judar translated.

Artus glanced up at the rapidly darkening sky. “Well it’s too late to move on tonight, especially since we lose the trail after this.” He pulled Theron’s map from his pocket. “We head southwest from here, through swampland, if the map’s right. We can’t do that in the dark.”

The bearers returned to the packs and hoisted them to their shoulders. “Stop!” Artus cried in Tabaxi. Fear beginning to show on their faces, the natives paused. One of them began to talk excitedly to Judar.

From the little Artus could understand of the exchange, the bearers wanted to move on until the sun set completely, to put as much distance between them and the statue as possible. Judar’s face told his feelings on this much more clearly than his words; he was petrified at the thought of moving farther into the jungle.

At last the guide turned back to Artus. “If we do not move on,” he hissed, “the bearers will turn back right now. They will follow the trail home and leave us here.”

Leaning against Kitcher’s sculpted face, Artus drew his dagger. He held his palm out flat so the blade could turn in his hand. After it had indicated north, the explorer pointed southwest. “That way, then,” he said to Judar.

“We must not!” the guide exclaimed.

Artus stared at the man for a moment. “We don’t have a choice. There’ll be danger in trekking through swamp this close to dark, but it can’t be helped, not if we want to keep the bearers. Besides, staying in a clearing like this might make us an obvious target for raiders.”

“But we—”

“But we what?” Artus asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is there a reason we need to camp here?”

Judar’s fear-filled expression softened. “N-no, master. It is just… the swamp is very dangerous. I know of many men who have died trying to cross it.”

“Well, you’d better prove to be a better guide than the ones they trusted,” Artus replied coldly. To the bearers he snapped, “Hurry up, then.”

They marched for a few hours more, until night and the jungle itself stopped them. Clouds of biting insects followed the expedition relentlessly. Artus soon found the exposed parts of his arms and hands covered with welts. He must have been bitten by a hundred mosquitoes; he couldn’t count how many more he’d inadvertently swallowed or inhaled.

The more immediate concern for the explorer was the terrain. The ground grew more and more soggy as they trudged on. Pockets of thin, watery mud lurked beneath the carpet of fallen leaves and vines, and it wasn’t long before everyone’s boots were covered in the fetid stuff. Judar had taken to testing the ground with a long stick, but the bearers were less methodical. Soon, their haste proved deadly. As night fell, one of the natives disappeared into a hidden sinkhole. Before anyone could react, the weight of the pack pulled him under, with only a swirl of disturbed mud to mark his passing.

Artus leaned over the edge of the small pool. His arms were soaked from reaching into the murky trap in a vain attempt to rescue the man. “That’s it,” he said, stunned. “We camp here.”

For a moment, everyone watched the leaves settle back over the mud. Then the bearers lowered their burdens and knelt around their fellow’s grave, bowing their heads. Their murmured prayer was lost in the calls of night-stalking birds and animals crying out a farewell to the setting sun. Finally one of them took a broad, verdant leaf. With a stick of charcoal he produced from his own small pouch, the bearer wrote his companion’s name. One by one, the others spoke a single word of praise for the drowned man, all of which were added to the leaf.

“Just like the tombstones in port,” Artus said. “They’re writing his introduction to Ubtao.” He turned to Judar, but found the guide crouching in the dirt. With his fingers he traced something on the ground.

Artus crouched down, too, his attention drawn away from the solemn ceremony around the pool. Judar ran his fingers around the deep imprint again and again. “It is a footprint,” the guide hissed.

Drawing his dagger, Artus held the glowing hilt over the print. It had been made by something very heavy. The tri-clawed foot had to be twice as large as a human hand. “What made this?”

“Ubtao Zazqura,” one of the bearers said. Their ritual complete, they had formed a silent ring around Artus and Judar.

“Ubtao’s Children?” the explorer translated. “These are dinosaur tracks?”

Trembling, Judar closed his eyes. “Most of them hunt during the day,” he said in his high, grating voice. “Most, but not all. We had better pray whatever made this print is sleeping right now.”

Once they had cleared a patch of ground large enough for the tents and built up a small fire, the expedition discovered many such tracks. Some were smaller than the first, most were larger. Judar and the bearers spent much of the night staring into the jungle, snatching up spears and clubs at every nimble in the darkness. Artus, too, watched, but not in fear. For years he’d heard tales of dinosaurs, huge, ancient reptiles that once bad roamed the entirety of Toril. Some claimed they were the ancestors of modern-day dragons. Other scholars dismissed such theories as nonsense, stating serenely that the great lizards were only mammoth, plodding brutes that had become nearly extinct thousands upon thousands of years ago.

Nearly, but not entirely.

Chult was the one place on Toril where dinosaurs still flourished, though the forbidding jungles kept all but the heartiest explorers from ever seeing one. Artus could hardly contain his excitement. He leaned against a tree trunk that night, lost in imagining how wonderful and intriguing the dinosaurs might be.

The next morning, he and the rest of the expedition learned only how terrible the elusive giants were.