James Lowder - The Harpers 05 - The Ring of Winter

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The Ring of Winter
Book 5 of The Harpers series
A Forgotten Realms novel
By James Lowder
A ProofPack release
Scanned by an anonymous scanner
Proofread and formatted by BW-SciFi
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: October, 1st, 2005
Prologue
The creature had sixteen eyes, and all of them stared hungrily at the man in the center of the circular
room. The would-be victim's name—though the creature could not know this— was Artus Cimber, lauded
throughout Faerun as an explorer, historian, and seeker of adventure. At the moment, Artus was crouched
in front of a short stone pedestal, appraising with a practiced eye the silver statue that rested there.
With slow, careful movements, the explorer circled the pillar. He held an ancient dagger before him, the
gem in its hilt casting a soft radiance over the statue. The dagger had been given to him four years past by
the centaurs of Tribe Pastilar in Lethyr Forest, a reward for recovering the chieftain's sacred staff of
judgment. Magical light was just one of the weapon's strange properties. And at the moment, the bared
blade was the only thing preventing the creature from dropping down on Artus, for the hunter's mind was
agile enough to recognize such an unusual threat.
"There's no evidence the ring was ever in these ruins, Artus. Perhaps it would be best if we dusted
ourselves off and went our way."
Artus glanced up at the lone entrance to the chamber just as a white-haired head appeared around the
crumbling stone doorjamb. "Well," the older man asked mildly, his breath turning to steam in the frosty air,
"what do you say we head for camp?" His mouth was set in a vague smile, and his bushy white brows hung
like clouds over eyes the color of sapphires.
"Come have a look at this, Pontifax," Artus murmured, his attention instantly drawn back to the statue.
"It's Mulhorandi from the looks of it, and very, very old, too."
A frown of concern crossed Pontifax's face, and he stepped into the room. "Mulhorandi, you say? For
Mystra's sake, don't touch the thing until you've examined it under better lighting. You know what happened
to Grig of Armot when he bought that blasted magical model of a Mulhorandi pyramid at the magefair. Still
trapped inside, don't you know. Why, his own son—also named Grig, I believe . . ."
Without breaking off his narrative of the elder Grig's unhappy fate, the white-haired man lowered a sack
full of less spectacular artifacts recovered from the ruins, then hefted the stump of a torch. The wood burst
into flame, filling the circular chamber with light. On the ceiling, the creature tried to shrink back into the
shadows. Finding none, it froze, hungry yet frightened by the dagger Artus wielded.
"Pontifax," Artus whispered, "it's absolutely priceless. I've never seen its like." He stood transfixed by
the artifact, his gloved fingers held perilously close to its surface.
The glittering silver statue stood about two feet tall. The figure, despite the extra pair of arms extruding
from its sides, was human and clad in the sandals and loincloth still favored by the natives of Mulhorand. A
simple circlet rested upon its brow, as if to make up for the utterly bald pate. Around the statue's base, a
series of complicated picture-glyphs marched in a regulated line.
"Can you read what it says?" Pontifax asked, leaning close. "Maybe it'll tell you why a Mulhorandi statue
is sitting in the basement of a ruined keep here in Cormyr."
Artus shook his head. "The glyphs are older than any I've seen. I could make a guess, but . . ." He
sheathed his dagger in his boot and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I think you were right about this being
magical, though. The silver isn't tarnished in the least."
At that instant, Pontifax's lower back decided to voice a painful complaint. He straightened with a groan,
just in time to glimpse a dark shape dropping quickly and silently from the ceiling high above. "Artus!" he
cried.
Sir Hydel Pontifax had been a soldier forty years past, and a mage-for-hire for much of the time since
then. His mind knew, therefore, that he should shield Artus from the first assault. After all, the younger man
had his back to the attacker and was still resting in a crouch, a terrible position to launch any kind of
respectable defense. Sadly, Pontifax's body could only vaguely follow the orders his mind rattled off; he
took a single step toward Artus, but instead of shielding him, the mage knocked his comrade into the pillar.
A colorful curse half-formed on his lips, Artus felt his shoulder strike the stone pillar and that stone give
way just slightly. It was enough. The silver statue tottered on its base, then toppled. Had Artus's reflexes
been as dulled as Pontifax's, he might have saved himself a great deal of trouble. Yet Artus was still a
young man, just over thirty-five winters old. His mind told him to save the priceless statue from harm, and
his hands did just that.
As the multi-eyed creature slammed into Pontifax, the statue touched Artus's skin. A flash of silvery
light filled the room. The explorer could only hope that he'd broken the artifact's fall, since the flash left his
eyes useless and the statue had somehow slipped from his grasp. He didn't bother to grope about for the
lost artifact, though. What concerned him more was the sound of a scuffle going on close at hand.
"Pontifax?" Artus asked, stumbling to his feet.
"Behind you, my boy," came the reply. "Seems this blasted creature wants us for dinner."
An animalistic growl followed, as did the sound of a body hitting the floor. Artus drew his dagger and
waved it before him. With his other hand he rubbed his eyes, hoping to banish the moving blotches of light
that clouded his vision. "Pontifax?"
No answer came, only the scrape of a heavy object being dragged across the dirty stone.
When Artus's eyes cleared, he saw that the room was dark save for the wan light cast by his blade. The
smoking stump of Pontifax's torch lay on the ground nearby, next to the toppled pillar. From there, a wide
trail of disturbed dust and rubble led to the doorway. Artus tensed for a confrontation, then took a step
toward the dark archway.
"Blasted creature," came Pontifax's voice from the hallway.
"Thank Tymora's luck, you're all right," Artus breathed. As he took a step into the hall, he moved to once
more sheathe his dagger. "How about a little light, my—"
It was not Pontifax awaiting Artus. The mage was laid out in a bloodied heap, his steady breathing rising
from his nose like puffs from a steam kettle. No, the multi-eyed creature squatted there, repeating Artus's
name with the voice of his old friend. Fortunately, Artus's dagger was still bared. The light it cast was
sufficient for him to get a very clear look at the stunningly ugly thing before it sprang.
Two legs and two arms radiated out from a round torso. Its skin was dark and smooth, as devoid of hair
as the silver statue's pate. Like its body, the beast's head was bulbous and bloated, with sixteen
heavy-lidded, evil looking eyes scattered about it. The source of its noiseless flight became clear the
moment it moved an arm; a thin, almost transparent membrane stretched from this appendage to its side.
The creature flaunted long, dirty claws and needlelike teeth.
Later, Artus would facetiously describe the beast as looking quite a bit like the animals made by street
entertainers in Halruaa, using gas-filled bags they called balloons. Actually, the thing was just very well fed,
having killed every man, elf, goblin, or orc foolish enough to wander into the depths of the ruined keep. And
it was fully intent upon adding Artus Cimber and Hydel Pontifax to that sad roster.
Using the same tactic that had worked so well on the elder man, the creature leaped at Artus in an
attempt to bowl him over. The explorer sidestepped the beast's lunge, then planted a vicious kick to its
stomach—at least to where he assumed its stomach to be. Anatomy aside, Artus knew he'd hit something
vulnerable from the almost-human groan the blow elicited. That noise, too, sounded like Pontifax. The thing
most likely picked the noise up when it clubbed the poor old fellow, Artus decided morbidly.
Keeping a wary eye on the glowing dagger, the creature stumbled to its feet. It crouched again,
preparing for another go at Artus.
"Just so long as my friend's none the worse for it, we can call this over right now," Artus said. "If the
statue's yours, we'll gladly leave it here." He hoped to see the glimmer of intellect in any of the sixteen eyes
squinting at him. He didn't.
They circled each other now. Arms outstretched, claws and dagger raised, they looked for all the world
like two young hoodlums dueling in a back alley in Suzail or Waterdeep or any other large city in Faerun.
Artus gave up hope that the creature might be intelligent enough to reason with when it started repeating
the words "none the worse for it" using his own voice. It was most unsettling.
Artus edged toward the door, hoping to catch another glimpse of his friend. He kept the dagger held
before him in much the same way a good priest presents a holy symbol to the forces of darkness.
This ploy was too much for the creature. To its limited intellect, it was obvious that the meal with the
glowing weapon was going to pilfer its food. Desperate at losing both victims, it let its hunger override its
fear. The cry the beast made as it lunged possessed no fragment of mimicked human speech, only bestial
outrage and fury.
Artus, too, made an inhuman noise as he choked back a shout of surprise. When the beast charged
forward, he planted one hand atop its head, breaking its momentum. With the other he planted his dagger up
to the hilt in the creature's chest. The force of the blow lifted the beast off the ground. Artus expected it to
shriek in pain or, perhaps, topple over. It did neither. It remained stock-still for an instant and looked at the
weapon embedded in its flesh, almost as if it, too, was surprised that the attack had done little except spill
some bluish gray blood.
Weaponless, Artus backed away, wishing he had struck at its stomach. The creature knew now it had
little to fear, and it grabbed one of Artus's arms with its long fingers. Dirt-encrusted claws tore five holes in
the explorer's thick winter coat and five bloody gouges in the skin below. With the flat of his palm, Artus
struck the beast in the forehead. Far from being blinded by the attack, the creature growled in anger. Its
eyes seemed as immune to damage as its chest. Teeth dripping with saliva, it opened its mouth-wide,
wider—and moved toward Artus.
"See here, you damned nuisance," Pontifax mumbled from the doorway. A glowing ball of light appeared
near the ceiling, illuminating the entire room.
The creature turned its head just in time to see an azure bolt flash from the mage's stubby fingers. The
blast of arcane energy did not strike the beast and paralyze it, as Pontifax had intended. No, the bolt
swerved violently around its target and struck Artus in the chest. But it did not paralyze him either.
With a shudder, Artus began to grow.
In moments, he was twice his normal six feet. In an instant more, three times that height. He had to drop
to his side to avoid the roof, and still he continued to grow.
Needless to say, the creature was suitably flustered. Its viselike grip broken by Artus's rapid change in
size, the beast tried to clamp its jaws down on him. All it got for the attempt was a mouthful of wool-lined
leather. Gagging, for Artus's clothing also continued to expand, the creature rolled about the floor. At last it
spit out the shredded garment. Without pause, it clambered over Artus's legs and dashed past Pontifax. The
magical dagger, dislodged by the creature's haste, clattered to the floor.
"Make me stop before I bring the roof down," Artus shouted, his voice rumbling through the room. His
head was propped uncomfortably against one wall, his feet just short of the other. He stopped growing just
before his heels touched stone.
"Thanks," the explorer murmured. "Now, can you see about getting me down to normal height before
that thing comes back with its friends and family?"
"I didn't stop your growth, Artus, just as I didn't cause it. The spell I cast was aimed at the beastie, not
you, and it should have frozen him in his tracks. This shouldn't have happened." Pontifax rubbed his chin, a
frown on his jowl-heavy face. "Let me come around and take a look at you."
The mage squeezed through the space between Artus's feet and the wall. His frown was matched by
the one on the younger man's face, though Artus's was four times larger. Hydel walked slowly from one
end of the room to the other, studying the unfortunate giant. "Ah, there's the culprit, I would imagine."
He pointed at the gaping hole in the front of Artus's coat, where the creature had bitten through. There,
dangling on a fine silver chain, was a medallion emblazoned with the image of a bald, four-armed man. The
silver disk gave off a wan white radiance, even in the direct glare of Pontifax's conjured globe of light. "You
touched that Mulhorandi statue, didn't you?"
"Oh no!" Artus opened the collar of his coat and tried to remove the chain. It wouldn't budge.
"Leave it alone, Artus."
"But we can't leave me—"
"I need to think about this for a moment," the mage said. "Now, be a good soldier and stand down." His
command had a biting edge, one gained from years in the Cormyrian army. Though the young man's frown
deepened, he did as he was told.
Pontifax nodded and studied the medallion for a time. "Does it burn where it touches your skin?"
"No."
"Tingle?"
"No."
"Hmmmm." The mage steepled his fingers and stared at the silver disk. Then he stepped forward,
murmured a few words of magic, and grabbed the medallion's edge. Nothing happened.
That experiment complete, Pontifax dusted a patch of floor and sat down. "The statue itself is gone, so it
must have transformed somehow. I don't think it's got a curse on it, so the chain probably won't constrict
until it strangles you or some such grisly thing. Still, the enchantment's not altogether friendly. It must have
warped my spell somehow, just to make you grow."
Artus examined the medallion. "At least that little stunt frightened away the creature."
Pontifax nodded. "As I said, I don't think the thing's cursed. Still, it would be best if we found a wizard
more familiar with Mulhorandi magic before we try to remove it."
"And my size?"
"Will probably be back to normal in a little while, so be a good soldier and wait it out." He paused,
considering his next question carefully before asking it. "Has the possibility crossed your mind that there
might be another curse at work here?"
"The Curse of the Ring is a myth, Pontifax," Artus snapped. His brown eyes narrowed and darkened,
taking on the color of a hard-packed earthen road. "You should know that by now. We've been hunting for
the Ring of Winter for almost ten years. If rumors of the curse were true, you'd think it would have caught
up to us by now."
Silence hung heavy in the chamber. Ostensibly they had come to the ruined keep, set in the rough
foothills of northwestern Cormyr known as the Stonelands, to recover artifacts. Whatever ancient coins or
jewelry, vases or artwork they found would then be sold to King Azoun IV for a sizeable profit. Yet the
driving motivation for Artus's trek to the desolate and dangerous ruins was the Ring of Winter. Over the
past decade, the search for that almost mythical band of metal had become the motivation for the young
man's entire life.
All that was known for certain of the ring had been gleaned from ancient histories. It had been forged
by a mage of staggering power at a time when the countries that now make up the continent of Faerun
were little more than scattered villages. Throughout the ages, men and women had hunted it, for it was
rumored to grant unbelievable powers to the person wielding it. Exactly what those powers were varied
from legend to legend, but every account agreed upon two things: the Ring of Winter contained the magical
might to bring an age of ice down upon Faerun, and the ring granted immortality to anyone who wore it.
"The 'mythical' curse, as you call it, has caught up with everyone who has ever hunted the ring,"
Pontifax ventured at last. "Someone beloved of the man or woman who hunts the ring died. Princess
Alusair lost her one true love a few days after deciding to search for the ring." He unfurled one stubby
finger.
"Her lover was killed by bounty hunters trying to return her to her father," Artus scoffed.
"A curse uses many agents," the mage countered. "What of Gareth of Waterdeep? He lost his whole
family, every single person who could carry on his name." He unfurled another finger, then two more. "And
there's Kelemvor Lyonsbane. He thought he'd found the ring, but all he'd discovered was a deceitful ice
creature that showed him a simple band of gold and killed most of his friends. And then there's—"
"But what about that dark-hearted bastard, Cyric?" Artus interrupted.
Pontifax started, then made a gesture meant to ward off evil. "For the sake of your soul, Artus, watch
your tongue." He glanced around the chamber nervously. "I'll concede the argument about the curse, just
don't mention him again."
Cyric of Zhentil Keep had once been a questor for the Ring of Winter, like the others Pontifax named.
Yet tragedy had not befallen Cyric. Far from it. During the Time of Troubles, in which the gods were cast
from the heavens for their transgressions of cosmic law and made to walk Faerun in mortal avatars, Cyric
had been partially responsible for the destruction of three powerful evil deities. He had then claimed the
right to take their place in the heavens, and he resided there still, Lord of the Dead and Master of Strife,
Murder, and Tyranny. To take his name in vain was to invite swift and terrible retribution.
"Sorry, old friend," Artus said. "I should know better than to talk about the ring when we seem so very
far from finding it." Gesturing to the mage's bloodied forehead, he added, "I hope that looks worse than it
is.""Oh, the beastie did me little real harm—" Pontifax touched the lump on his head and winced "—apart
from this egg. It'll take a few days to heal, that's all. Hopefully, that's more time than you'll take to shrink
back to size."
Artus mumbled his agreement and settled in for a long wait. "Wounds and disaster all around," he
muttered. "As usual."
One
Patrons' pipes and the small, poorly stoked fireplace on the northern wall worked together to create a
haze that hung heavy in the Black Rat. Daylight crept into the tavern through two grimy windows, casting
long, dark shadows. Regulars of the Rat could tell the time of day by watching those lines of darkness on
the pegged floor, but on cloudy days even the barmaids were hard-pressed to tell morning from night
without opening the door.
For all its murk, though, the Black Rat offered more genuine hospitality than any other tavern near
Suzail's waterfront. The smell of meat simmering in the kitchens, the sounds of unhurried conversations and
friendly laughter, the sight of sailors and teamsters, artisans and noblemen sharing tables without
complaint—all these were quite common. Fights were few, and those few were ended quickly and without
bloodshed by the soldiers who frequented the place, the Purple Dragons of King Azoun IV. It was even
rumored Azoun himself visited the Black Rat from time to time, his royal identity hidden by the guise of a
commoner.
Artus Cimber was reasonably certain Azoun was not among the half-dozen men and women in the
tavern this particular morning. The frumpy, redheaded barmaid who seemed to live in the taproom was
chatting amicably with a pair of sailors, twins in fact, from a Sembian merchantman. A few tables away, a
man wearing the holy symbol of the God of Justice picked at a meager breakfast; Artus knew him to be
Ambrosius, a paladin of high standing in the church of Tyr. Counting Artus himself, that left one other.
"Please sit still and stop looking around. Master Cimber," the sixth occupant of the taproom said. "I
cannot be held accountable for any mishaps that might result from your fidgeting." He chicked his tongue.
"After all, we wouldn't want to repeat that unhappy incident from the ruins. The owner of the Rat would not
take kindly to a giant crushing his tables and chair to splinters, don't you agree?"
The man sitting across the table stared fixedly at Artus. His face was caught up in a look of casual
disinterest, though his green eyes revealed the excitement he felt at examining the Mulhorandi pendant. He
turned the silver disk over and over in his brown-skinned hands.
"Well, get on with it, Zintermi," Artus sighed. "Go ahead and blow us up."
The man nodded, brushing off his friend's ill humor with a practiced air. He'd known the explorer for
almost twenty years, from the time Artus had entered the House of Oghma as a student. The boy had
taken readily to the subjects Zintermi taught—the history and lore of Faerun. Sadly, though, he'd lacked the
discipline necessary to become an instructor himself. "Close your eyes, Master Cimber," the scholar said.
"This should take but a moment."
Zintermi untied the silken cords holding his sleeves closed at the wrists, then rolled the sleeves to his
elbows. Gingerly, he took a vial of powder from the pocket of his black vest, then unstoppered it and poured
the contents onto the fat tallow candle that flickered between him and Artus. With a hiss, puffs of gold,
white, and black smoke rose over the table.
"Grant me the knowledge I seek, great Oghma." Zintermi lowered his voice to a powerful bass rumble.
"For I have sought truth and recorded it in your name, bound the past for all to study and captured the
fleeting lives of great men on parchment. Allow me the blessing of understanding, that I may exalt it in the
transient world of mortals, that I may show others the light of reason, that—"
"That I may drone on forever," Artus grumbled. He gave his former teacher a withering look. "I'm not a
yokel at a county fair, impressed by smoke and chanting. If you haven't caught on yet, Zin, I'm really
worried about this thing. It may be cursed!"
Artus noticed then that the other patrons of the Black Rat were staring at him. Magic certainly wasn't
uncommon in such establishments. It was often in taverns and hostels that traveling mages did their best
business. From the frightened looks on their faces, he assumed they had heard him mention a curse. No one
in Cormyr took such matters lightly.
Zin cocked an eyebrow. "We will need to continue this exploration out in the street if you don't keep
your voice down." He turned a suddenly smiling face to the barmaid. "Have no fear, my dear. The only
curse from which my friend suffers is occasional rampant stupidity."
Artus bristled at the insult. The others laughed, returning to their food and chatter.
"Now," the scholar said, slipping into the pedantic tone Artus always found incredibly annoying, "we
obviously need to discuss the importance of praying to Oghma before delving into such mysteries. As you
should know from your years—"
His hand held up to stop the lecture, Artus nodded. "As always, Zin, you're right. Go on with the
service." He slouched back in his chair. "Just wake me up when it's over."
The droning prayer resumed. Closing his eyes, Artus let his mind wander. He had nothing against
scholars like Zintermi; he actually respected the man quite highly. Much of what he knew about history,
myth, and archaeology he'd learned from the old man. It was Zin's sanctimony that always set him off, that
damned mile-wide streak of religious certainty. Artus was certain of only three things in his life: himself, the
trustworthiness of Sir Hydel Pontifax, and the importance of the Ring of Winter.
The problem was, the latter two certainties had begun to conflict in the past few months. Hydel had
been in favor of the quest for the ring ten years ago, when Artus had first decided the legends were true.
They had taken up the hunt eagerly, intent on finding the ring and using it for good causes. Neither wanted
the power the artifact granted in itself, but such power was necessary to fight the dark forces that were
always threatening to overwhelm the lands of Faerun.
Yet more and more often Pontifax was voicing strong objections to the hunt. He claimed Artus had
become blind to the reason behind the quest, that he was seeking the Ring of Winter merely to be the one to
find it after it had been lost for so long. Though he disagreed with that assessment, Artus knew the old
mage was right in one thing: searching for the artifact had become quite dangerous. The incident with the
statue had been the latest in a three-year-long string of misfortunes.
Artus frowned and counted off a few of the more major unpleasantries they'd faced because of the
quest. Let's see, first were the murder charges in Tantras, then the undead halflings in Thay, then the frost
giants north of Zhentil Keep. There's the Cult of Frost, of course. ... He sighed. For almost as long as Artus
had hunted the ring, Kaverin Ebonhand and his villainous Cult of Frost had dogged his every step.
"You are disturbing my rest, lackey of Oghma."
The voice was deeper than any Artus had ever heard, and it seemed to be coming from him. There was
also a rumble of feet on the pegged floor as three people ran for the door. Artus opened his eyes, only to
find Zin staring right back at him.
"Most unusual," the scholar said calmly. He saw Artus looking at him and pointed straight up.
There, above Artus, hovered the head and upper body of a ghostly silver figure—the statue come to life.
A snarl twisted the bald phantom's lips, revealing a row of glinting teeth filed to savage points. "Should I
tear the nosy one limb from limb, O mighty one?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Of course not!" Artus yelped. He glanced at the pendant banging around his neck. A trail of silver
smoke rose from it to the apparition.
The spirit snorted in derision, then tossed his head back and laughed, a move that made the interlocking
silver rings dangling from his ears bob and jingle. "Another dolt," he chuckled. "That is my curse, I suppose,
to be servant to idiots and dolts." With exaggerated deference, he placed the palms of both sets of hands
together and bowed. "If that is all, O master of men and beasts?"
The silver phantom disappeared without waiting for a reply.
"Yes . . . most unusual," Zin repeated. He casually rolled down his sleeves and retied them at the wrist.
"Can you tell me what that was all about?"
"It should be obvious, really. The statue you found was a housing for some sort of phantom servant. The
four arms make him a better guardian, more dextrous at menial tasks, and so on." The scholar pointed to the
medallion. "His name, I believe, is Skuld. The piece has an early forgemark from the city of Bezantur on it,
so I assume it to date from, oh, thirteen to fourteen hundred years ago. I wonder how it got to that ruin in
the Stonelands?"
Artus took a swallow from the mug set beside him. "So he's very old and has a cheery name. That
doesn't help me a great deal. What is Skuld supposed to do?"
Zin sighed. "Their antiquity makes the runes on the back of the medallion difficult to translate, but I
managed a few: protect, danger, and eternity."
"Eternity? You mean I'm stuck with this forever?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. The word is part of the inscription, but I can't fathom the context. Skuld reared
his bald head before I could get that far." The scholar buttoned his vest, then cleared his throat noisily.
"Gather your coat if you wish to keep it," he said.
Before Artus could ask why, the owner of the Black Rat stormed out of the kitchens. He was a big
man, with wavy black hair banging into his eyes. Artus might have wondered if the tavernkeeper could see
clearly, save that he headed straight for Zin. Grease and ale stains spotted the apron around his waist and
the shirt that partially covered his hairy chest. In one massive hand the Rat's owner held a meat cleaver.
The other was balled into a fist. "I don't mind magic in my place," he shouted, "but if you scare my
customers away, you're not welcome."
Sure enough, only the barmaid remained in the taproom. The other customers had wisely bolted for the
street the moment the spirit had appeared. The paladin's breakfast remained half-eaten, and the Sembian
sailors had spilled their drinks and toppled their chairs on the way out.
"Sorry for the commotion," Zin offered. He donned his heavy cloak and picked up his satchel. "The
money should cover any loss." Somehow, in all the confusion, he'd taken the time to leave a neat pillar of
silver dragons in the middle of the table. The coins more than covered the trouble. "Come, Master Cimber. I
should get back to the temple."
They left the Black Rat, the sour looks of both the tavernkeeper and the barmaid following them. A few
people stared as they left the place—most notably the Sembian sailors and a small group of gawkers they
had gathered around them. That crowd scattered when it became clear the Black Rat was not, as the
sailors had suggested frantically, going to be blown into the Inner Sea by a magical explosion or leveled by a
rampaging spirit. They looked vaguely disappointed.
It was getting close to highsun, and the streets near the docks and the marketplace were teeming with
people. Merchants hawked their wares from storefronts or from behind the handles of small carts. Servants
about their masters' business bustled from merchant to merchant, filling their baskets or their arms with
wares. Grubby children playfully chased dogs from houses and shops, or not-so-playfully flushed rats out of
food stalls. Overhead, gulls wheeled and shrieked. No one seemed to notice the chill winter air, though the
carts rattled more than usual as they bumped over the frozen ground. Only a choking snowfall would slow
business, and then only until the snow stopped falling long enough to be trampled into slush.
Zintermi of Oghma passed through the chaotic thoroughfares as if he were surrounded by an invisible
shield. No one bumped into him. No overeager merchants grabbed his spotless sleeves, trying to pass off
sawdust for powdered gryphon claw or some other exotic spell component. Even the children and dogs
seemed ensorcelled to steer well clear of the scholar in their scrambles.
Artus was not so fortunate.
In short succession he was buffeted by a portly woman carrying a sack of flour, a ragman's cart, and a
young boy running full tilt after a mechanical toy dragon that had escaped him. As he caught up, Artus
grabbed Zin by the arm and pulled him into a doorway. "What am I going to do? The mages I've seen tell
me they can't remove the enchantment."
"Skuld probably wouldn't let the enchantment be lifted," the scholar noted. "And I believe he has the
power to stop all but the most skilled mages, ones with expertise in Mulhorandi magic." For the first time,
his eyes took on a sympathetic cast. "Artus, I know of only one such—"
"Phyrra al-Quim?"
Zin nodded. "Even if you wanted to speak with her, she resides in Tantras now. The murder charges are
still pending against you there, are they not?"
"You know they are," Artus sighed, slumping against the door. "I wouldn't bother with Phyrra anyway.
That business with the Cult of Frost was just the end of a long feud. She hated me when we were both
your students. She thought you gave me too many breaks."
"I did," the scholar said flatly. After glancing at the bright highsun sky visible between the close-set
roofs, he added, "I really must get back to the temple. I can do a little research, but it will take some time
and some more prayers to Oghma." He smiled at the exasperated look that crossed Artus's face. "Don't
worry, though. Skuld may have a bit of an attitude, but I believe his purpose is to protect you from danger.
This unfortunate incident could actually work to your favor, just so long as you stay out of trouble until we
quantify the spirit's purpose and powers."
Artus watched Zintermi pass unruffled through the bustling, noisy throng. There were few men he
respected as much as the scholar, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to believe his hopeful prognosis.
Artus boasted many strengths and skills, but staying clear of trouble was not counted among them.
* * * * *
"Welcome back, Master Cimber. We've missed you."
The butler who served the Society of Stalwart Adventurers bowed his magnificently horned head in
deference to Artus. He took the cloak the young man offered, folding it gently over his arm. "Sir Hydel is
awaiting you in the library." With a red, clawed hand, the butler motioned for him to enter.
"Thanks, Uther," Artus said distractedly. He barely gave the butler's demonic features a second glance
as he hurried inside.
The children gathered across the street were another matter entirely. It was as if the youth of Suzail had
posted a schedule, for there were always at least six children loitering there, day and night. Some begged
money from wealthier members of the society, others picked pockets of adventurers and passers-by alike.
All the ragged urchins taunted Uther whenever he answered the door.
The butler had been handsome once, in a mundane sort of way. Some women found him attractive still,
though only those favoring a more exotic lifestyle. A spell, cast five years ago by a young dandy from
Waterdeep who'd had too much to drink and too little training in magic, had misfired rather spectacularly.
The dandy had, in a fit of unoriginality, decided to punish the butler for refusing to refill his glass by giving
him an ass's head, albeit temporarily. It hadn't quite worked that way.
Uther had suffered many indignities at the hands of the younger members of the society, and he took
this all in stride. He shrugged and went laconically about his business when it was discovered the dandy's
spell had made him rather resistant to any further magic, especially any aimed at restoring his mundane
good looks. The huge trust established by the dandy's family—the extremely wealthy Thanns of
Waterdeep—helped him adjust somewhat. Truth be told, though, Uther secretly enjoyed his new
appearance. To discourage gate-crashers, all he need do was narrow his slitted yellow eyes and arch one
wicked eyebrow. He'd never been forced to use the pair of twisted horns atop his head, the black claws
that capped his gnarled fingers, or the pair of fangs protruding from his thin lips. Their very existence was
enough to stop any brawl that broke out in the club's gaming room.
This particular afternoon, the butler was in high spirits. He placed Artus's cloak inside on a table. Then,
letting his breath puff into the chill air like a snorting bull, he snarled menacingly and took a half-dozen quick
steps toward the children. They dropped the sticks they'd been using as mock horns and scattered. Their
whoops of fright could be heard echoing from the alleys all around the club.
Uther smiled—a terrible thing to see—and turned back to the door. A thin man in a black, hooded cloak
was trying to sneak in through the open doorway.
"Are you a member, sir?" Uther asked blandly. He already knew the answer, but etiquette demanded he
not directly confront the stranger with his questionable conduct.
The hooded man stiffened, then leaped for the door. Etiquette neatly put aside, Uther dashed forward to
defend his post, grabbing the gate-crasher with one hand. The butler had the strength to match his
intimidating visage, though even he was startled to hear a crack when he clamped down on the fellow's
shoulder. The man didn't react as if his bone had been broken, but he was as cold as a frost giant's nose.
Spinning the intruder around, Uther was not surprised in the least to find his face hidden by the cloak's
sizeable hood. "You are either a very, very stupid thief or an amazingly bold assassin," the butler said. His
voice was now little more than a rumble. "Or, perhaps, an attorney of some sort. In any case, you're not
welcome here."
Without a word, the dark-cloaked figure slid out of Uther's grip and dashed away at a stiff-legged gait.
The butler watched him until he ducked down an alley a few buildings away. Satisfied that he had once
again deterred an unwelcome guest to the club, he securely bolted the front door.
Once inside, the butler noted with some amusement that Artus hadn't even got past the entryway. At the
end of the long corridor leading to the heart of the club, a young Cormyrian nobleman had cornered the
explorer. The man—or, more precisely, the half-elf—was just over six feet tall, with striking black hair and
gently pointing ears. In his hands he held a book and a long sheet of parchment. He energetically waved
them both in Artus's face as he spoke.
"All I want is for you to sign my petition," the nobleman said. His voice was high with enthusiasm, and it
rang in the otherwise silent hallway. "This dratted book of lies has branded my poor departed father
incompetent. Imagine the fourteenth Lord Darstan, berated by a commoner! I want the king to know the
Stalwarts won't stand for this sort of shoddy history, especially when it slights one of our ranks." He thrust
the book—A History of the Crusade Against the Tuigan—into Artus's face.
The explorer stared blankly at the massive tome. He was paying no attention whatsoever to the young
Lord Darstan's blathering, for he was undoubtedly on a rampage again about his father. The previous Lord
Darstan had led a disastrous cavalry charge during Azoun's crusade against the barbarians. All the histories
agreed upon that. The young half-elf would not be placated, though. He regularly roamed the halls of the
club, jabbing his petition into everyone's face, demanding they help restore his father's good name.
The half-elf was a friend and a powerful political ally, but even that couldn't ease the growing
annoyance Artus felt. "Didn't I sign this before, Darstan?" he asked irritably.
"Oh, that was a petition against that other book about the crusade. In that one, my father—"
Uther seemed to materialize at Lord Darstan's side. The butler clamped a clawed hand firmly over the
nobleman's head and lifted him from the floor. "Lady Elynna has asked you to refrain from circulating the
petition in the club, sir," the butler noted. He removed the book and the blank parchment from Darstan's
hands. "And since she is the president of the society, I'm afraid I must enforce her word. I do so with the
greatest regret, of course."
Artus recognized a rescue when he saw one, and he smiled gratefully at Uther before hurrying down the
corridor and into the maze of rooms that led to the heart of the club.
In a long dining hall, a small crowd of dwarves flipped gold coins at the fifteen chandeliers, trying to
make the disks land flat atop the candles, snuffing them out. The room was darker than one had any right to
expect; either the dwarves were very good at the game or had been at it for days. The ringing of coins as
they fell noisily to the floor, as well as the empty ale mugs and dirty dishes stacked haphazardly on all the
flat surfaces, suggested the latter.
"Well met, Artus," one of the dwarves shouted. "Nice to see you back to size!"
Artus groaned and hurried through the shower of coins. Pontifax had obviously been regaling everyone
with tales of their trip to the Stonelands and their misfortune with the statue.
The next room was filled with a tangle of exotic plants, so full, in fact, the walls and ceiling were
completely obscured. This was the work of Philyra, the ranking druid of the Stalwarts. She didn't
particularly like visiting the city and had created this riot of green as a hideaway. As Artus walked along the
narrow path between the tangles of vines and bushes, a blur of color caught his eye. The growl from behind
a frond-heavy plant made it clear the president's leopard had gotten loose again. The cat, like the druid,
favored this room above all others.
Making a mental note to send one of the servants to collar the harmless, if somewhat grouchy, beast,
Artus hurried on.
Through laboratories filled with bubbling, gurgling beakers of odd-colored liquids and sizzling arcs of
magical energy, tranquil halls lined with white marble pillars where various clerics quietly debated matters
both spiritual and mundane—through these and other more unusual rooms Artus passed. He'd never given
much thought to the design of the club; like many things in Suzail, it had been created largely through the
use of magic. If its architecture seemed out of the ordinary, its floor plan labyrinthine, then the builders had
merely succeeded in creating something new to Faerun.
At last he came to the library, the largest room in the club and the central gathering spot for both old and
new members. The high walls were fined with books and scrolls of every description, bound in every type
of leather or hide imaginable. Ladders reached the highest shelves. There was always at least one person
balanced precariously atop them, reaching for some desired tome. A winged monkey and a giant owl
fluttered through the air, carrying scrolls they'd retrieved for their masters. Memorabilia of the members'
exploits filled every other available spot on the walls—shields, swords, regimental colors, medals, and
plaques. There were trophies of rare beasts throughout the room, the most awe-inspiring being the red
dragon's head perched over the doorway. Its eyes seemed to watch the proceedings in the room with
eternal malevolence.
A magnificent thousand-candled chandelier dominated the ceiling, casting bright light throughout the
room. Its candles, brought from magical Halruaa, never needed to be replaced. On the ceiling around the
chandelier were painted portraits of four of the five founders of the society, each in a different, remote part
of the world. The fifth founder, and first president of the Stalwarts, was immortalized in a life-sized bronze
statue in the room's center, directly below the magical chandelier.
Artus's eyes were drawn to this statue of Lord Rayburton whenever he entered the library. Explorer,
historian, warrior, Rayburton had been all of these and more. Twelve hundred years past, when Cormyr had
been little more than a rough collection of wilderness outposts, he had blazed trails to the interior of the
Anauroch Desert and the heart of the Great Glacier. He'd been among the first Westerners to cross the
dangerous Hordelands to the ancient kingdom of Shou Lung. His books filled three shelves, and all of them
were classics in their field, the basis for a hundred other derivative works.
The thirty or so people in the library were divided into five clusters, with a few of the more studious
hunched over books in the far corners. The younger members mostly told tales of their adventures,
competing in both volume and exaggeration with everyone else in the room. One group had toppled a table
to clear room for a makeshift battlefield. They were reenacting an old skirmish from Cormyrian history with
tiny, enchanted soldiers wrought from lead. In the mock war, a line of ogres and orcs charged in a ragged
line toward an arrow-straight formation of miniature human infantrymen.
"There he is now," someone shouted. "A giant among us!"
"Better clear the room in case his body swells to fit his ego again."
Artus forced a smile and headed straight for Pontifax.
The older members of the club, white-haired and pompous, encircled Sir Hydel. Their discussion rarely
ranged to their own exploits—all were expected to know the merits of their elders in the society, so they
had no need to brag. The senior members discussed the glories of long-dead Stalwarts and the foolishness
of the youngsters. Artus knew their topic to be his own misfortunes even before he reached the circle of
comfortable chairs.
摘要：

TheRingofWinterBook5ofTheHarpersseriesAForgottenRealmsnovelByJamesLowderAProofPackreleaseScannedbyananonymousscannerProofreadandformattedbyBW-SciFiEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:October,1st,2005PrologueThecreaturehadsixteeneyes,andallofthemstaredhungrilyatthemaninthecenterofthecircularroom.Thewould-bevi...

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