The Ring of Winter

Thirteen

The Batiri warriors were close enough for Artus to see the fury in their yellow-tinged eyes and the glint of the fading sun off their razor-sharp spear tips.

Unflappable even now, Negus Kwalu lifted a single locust from the small leather box at his waist and raised the twitching insect high over his head. “Defend Ubtao’s great city against the creatures of this village.” With Batiri arrows darting around him, he gently released the locust toward the goblin line.

A dark curtain shot up between the Batiri and their intended victims, a wall that moved toward them with astounding speed. Balt had been running too hard to even slow down. He plunged into the curtain, his wickedly curved scimitar slashing before him. The metal blade made it through, as did the general’s dinosaur-hide breastplate. The armor protected only a skeleton, though. The bones clattered to the ground in front of Artus, the skull snarling at him with yellowed teeth.

The single locust was now ten thousand, and the droning wall of insects devoured everything in its path. The first rank of goblin warriors died without even having a chance to scream. Nothing save the metal tips of their spears and their gleaming white bones remained. The plants that trailed into the village were devoured, as were the closest huts. The locusts destroyed the wooden bridge spanning Grumog’s pit and the supports for the gong standing beside it. Then the the insects scattered through the camp, swarming everything in sight.

Queen M’bobo emerged from her palace and stood framed in the doorway. “Stand and fight!” she cried. An instant later she retreated, a dozen locusts crawling in her blonde locks or latched onto her skin.

The totems shouted and moaned as the insects chewed into them. Wooden faces contorted in pain, the sentries could only creak back and forth ineffectually to dislodge their attackers. The goblins, on the other hand, scattered around the camp, frantically slapping the ravenous locusts away from them. The huts offered no protection, for their thatched roofs disappeared as quickly as the insects found them. A few goblins waved torches or flaming blankets, but the entire village would need to burn before this tack could be truly effective.

Artus lowered his bow. “Let’s go!” he shouted. “To the palace!”

Sanda and Kwalu followed the explorer into the camp. The locusts flew around them, but somehow knew not to attack the humans. Few goblins ignored the insects long enough to turn their spears or arrows upon the raiders. One unfortunate warrior, a young goblin with bright orange skin, fell to the ground before Kwalu, pleading for his life. Locusts clung to his back, and a hundred small wounds dotted his legs and face. The negus shoved him aside and raced toward the palace.

The Batiri that recognized Artus fled from him in terror. They called him “Grumog’s Bane” and “God Slayer,” as they scrambled out of his path. Perhaps that was why the goblins acted so strangely when they first spotted us in the bushes, Artus decided.

The trio had just reached the edge of the wide review area before the queen’s home when the double doors burst open and Skuld stepped onto the landing. A cloud of biting locusts covered the silver-skinned giant, but just as quickly the insects plummeted to the ground, dead. His skin, it seemed, was as poisonous as his disposition. Skuld leaped down the stairs, landing flat-footed in the dirt between Artus and the palace. Holding his arms straight out to his sides, the guardian spirit began to spin.

A funnel cloud formed swiftly, drawing in the locusts from all over the camp. That wasn’t all. What thatch and straw had not been destroyed by the swarm flew across the camp. Leaves, loose arrows, bits of clothing—all these shot into the whirling cloud. The few standing totems toppled, mouthing curses all the way to the ground. The doors of the palace slammed opened and closed. Across the village, smaller goblins felt the tug of the cyclone and anchored themselves to whatever was close at hand. If they screamed for help, no one heard; the whirlwind roared like a hundred wagons rattling at full speed over a cobblestone street.

Artus and Sanda clung together against the wind, while Kwalu merely planted his feet and closed his eyes. It was as if the negus had rooted himself into the earth. Leaves and sticks battered him, the whirlwind grew more intense, but still Kwalu remained unbowed.

Finally Skuld slowed, then stopped. Debris and dead locusts began to rain down upon the village like hail. “It is over, master,” the silver giant shouted.

Kaverin Ebonhand appeared in the doorway. To one side he was flanked by M’bobo, to the other by Lord Rayburton. The bara’s hands were bound, and a gag filled his mouth. The braises on his face could have only come from a beating, but the wild, fearful look in his eyes told of far more terrible tortures.

All across the camp, the goblins were helping their wounded comrades and gathering weapons. None were willing to attack the humans that had brought the locusts down upon them, despite the orders M’bobo screeched from the palace door. When not a single warrior lifted a spear or bow against the intruders, she called for Balt to whip the soldiers into line. No one had the nerve to tell her the general was even less likely to jump to her command than they were. Instead, the tense and fearful Batiri gathered in a wide circle around Skuld and the humans.

“Put down your weapons and give yourselves up,” Kaverin shouted, holding one empty hand out in a gesture of peace. “You won’t be hurt—and the old man won’t be hurt any worse than he already has been—but only if you surrender right now.”

Artus raised his bow and fired, aiming for Kaverin’s heart. The arrow would have split that wellspring of evil in two had Skuld not been there. The guardian spirit flexed his powerful legs and leaped into the air, as high as the second-story landing where Kaverin stood. The arrow bit into his chest. With the feathered shaft sticking out of him. Skuld dropped back to the ground. He plucked out the arrow with one of his four hands and crashed it.

Smiling viciously, Kaverin said, “I wouldn’t have believed that offer either.” He curled his hand into a fist. “Give up now, or I’ll send Skuld after you. Either way, you’re dead, but Skuld will make what little time you have left truly horrible if he has to come get you. Mulhorandi tortures are among the world’s most painful, you know.”

Sanda drew her long-bladed knife, and Kwalu brandished his war club. For a moment, Artus hesitated. Then he dropped his bow. The barae looked at him, astonished.

“Showing your true colors at last, eh Cimber?” Kaverin gloated. Rayburton tried to run forward, but a stone hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Kill the two natives, Skuld. Save Cimber for me. I am, after all, a man of my word.”

The disappointment in Sanda’s eyes wounded Artus to the core, but there was no time to explain his plan—even if he knew exactly what to expect. The explorer reached into his pocket for one of the diamond slivers. The gem felt slippery in his sweaty fingers, but he gripped it tightly and held it up before him. He glanced at Skuld; the four-armed guardian was running toward him, gnashing his filed teeth.

Artus said the Tabaxi word for lightning.

The flash that followed blinded everyone who was looking at the explorer and drove the goblin circle back. It should have blinded Artus, too, but somehow his eyes were spared. Something to do with the enchantment on the gem, he decided later. At the moment, his mind was set on controlling the crackling bolt of lightning that had appeared in his hand.

The heat from the lightning washed over Artus in waves, singeing his hair and reddening his skin. Sparks snaked around his arm and slithered up to his shoulder. There was no pain—no serious pain, anyway—just an immense feeling of power. He turned the bolt in his hand, holding it like a javelin.

Skuld rubbed his eyes with the heels of two hands, holding the other set up to ward off attackers. When he took his hands away, he glared at Artus. “That cannot help you,” he snarled, then started forward again.

“Let’s find out,” Artus said. He hurled the lightning bolt.

In the instant before the bolt struck Skuld, a silver shield appeared in the guardian spirit’s hands. He held it before him, braced with both sets of arms. Then the lightning hit, and shards of silver exploded into the air. Skuld looked down in amazement to where the shield had been a moment earlier. Fingers had been blown off three hands, half the wrist from the fourth. The bloodless wounds glistened like polished glass.

Then Skuld’s gaze wandered from his ragged hands to his chest. The lightning had burned a gaping, charred hole right through him. Eyes wide with surprise, the silver guardian stiffened and fell backward. He lay there, twitching and gasping, his filed teeth making him look like a beached piranha.

“You’re next, Kaverin!” Artus pulled another of the diamonds from his pocket. At a word it burst into a bolt of lightning.

The goblins standing between Artus and the palace scattered, and Sanda ran forward. “Let my father go!” she cried.

Kaverin clutched Rayburton’s throat with one stone hand. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snarled, lifting his hostage off the ground and positioning him like a shield.

“Sanda, get back!” Artus shouted. He stepped forward and raised the lightning bolt.

“Throw it, Cimber.” Kaverin shook Rayburton like a doll. “Let’s see if those bolts destroy human shields as efficiently as they do mystic ones.”

A murmur from the milling goblins tore Artus’s attention away from Kaverin. In the locust-littered dust, Skuld was struggling to his feet. Shiny new silver flesh had replaced his missing fingers and mended his shattered wrist. A puckered scar marked the spot where the hole had gaped in his chest.

That wasn’t the only thing sending ripples of unrest through the mob, a fact Kaverin realized at the same time as Artus. “I don’t think they like you aiming a killing bolt at their beloved monarch,” Kaverin said. He moved in front of M’bobo, keeping Rayburton as his shield, of course. In his best Goblin, he shouted, “The raiders want to kill your queen!”

Fear held the Batiri in a strong grip, but their loyalty to their ruler was stronger. A few warriors moved to Skuld’s side, helping the four-armed guardian to his feet. Others closed ranks before the palace, blocking Sanda and Kwalu from the stairs. Without warning, an arrow flew from the mob, cutting into Artus’s shoulder. The explorer cried out and stumbled back. A steadying hand from Sanda prevented him from falling or dropping the lightning bolt.

Seeing Artus wounded broke the spell of terror holding the goblins at bay. They swarmed forward, ready to finish the work the lone archer had started. Kaverin’s howl of laughter could be heard even over the din of the Batiri charge.

Artus threw the lightning bolt at the ground. The explosion blasted chucks of earth and rock into the front rank and opened a wide pit in their way. It slowed the charge enough for him to follow Sanda and Kwalu into the mob of goblins standing between them and the jungle. The fighting was furious, but they cut and smashed a swath through the Batiri line. The trio raced into the jungle, bruised and bleeding, a horde of yowling cannibals on their heels.

Kaverin pulled Rayburton down the palace steps and hurried to Skuld’s side. “Follow Cimber and the others,” he snapped. “Make certain one of them stays alive long enough to make it back to Mezro.” As the silver-skinned giant turned away, Kaverin added, “And leave a trail along the way—just in case Cimber has any more tricks up his sleeve and you don’t come back.”

Skuld touched the shiny scar on his chest. “If this is the worst Cimber can do, he is a dead man.” He bowed and dashed into the jungle.

Frowning, Kaverin watched his servant disappear into the night. “I said the same thing myself a hundred times before,” he muttered.

Torches flared to life around the shattered village as the goblins set about the unwelcome task of gathering the dead and patching together their homes. M’bobo supervised the work from the palace steps, pointing out tasks with Balt’s scimitar. “We need more Batiri real soon,” she said to Kaverin. As if to emphasize the point, two young goblins tossed a locust-ravaged corpse onto a pile of bodies next to Grumog’s pit.

“Can’t you call in the other warriors?” Kaverin asked. He forced Rayburton to sit on the stairs at the queen’s feet. “You said there were hundreds of smaller Batiri villages all over the area.”

“They no come if we can’t promise chow or good pillage,” M’bobo replied. She pointed at the gory pile of bodies. “Hey! Hurry up and burn ’em. You want they should get up again?”

Kaverin’s flame-red eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “Get up again?”

After watching a warrior set a torch to the pyre, the queen said, “Yeah. Jungle full of walking dead. Sometimes Batiri get up if you don’t burn ’em quick. Sometimes they don’t, though.” She brushed aside the topic with a wave of the scimitar. “So, can you promise chow?”

“Of course,” Kaverin said smoothly. “If you gather enough warriors, I’ll promise you all the Tabaxi in Mezro. There should be enough humans there to feed your warriors for a whole year.”

Queen M’bobo licked her gray lips in anticipation and called for her runners.

Artus scratched furiously under the bandage on his shoulder. The arrow wound wasn’t serious, but the poultice applied by the Mezroan surgeons felt like nothing so much as ants crawling over his skin. “Look,” he said, “whatever his reasons, T’fima slid the gems into my pocket. I think he wants to help the city. He just won’t admit it.”

Sanda nodded her agreement, but Kwalu remained unconvinced. Since returning to Mezro a few hours past, they had been arguing the point—that is, when they weren’t catching an hour of desperately needed sleep or being attended by surgeons. Now the three crossed the moonlit plaza surrounding the Temple of Ubtao, bound for the council chamber to see King Osaw.

“It was only a guilty conscience that made him give you the lightning gems,” Kwalu noted sourly.

“We wouldn’t have escaped the goblin camp without them,” Sanda said. “At least they gave us a chance against Skuld.”

Kwalu ran his thumb over a chip in his war club. Somewhere in the jungle lay a goblin’s corpse with a corresponding dent in its skull. “Our own fighting skill freed us from the goblins, that and my father’s warriors. If they hadn’t arrived when they did, the goblins would have overrun us for sure.”

That was something Artus disagreed with strongly, but there was no more time to argue. The temple door stood before them. No guards or attendants flanked the portal, no torches set it off from the dark crystal walls of the weird structure. Somehow, though, an inner radiance lit the yellowish brown wood. The inlaid panels depicted men and women living within a labyrinth of vines. Around some corners lurked dinosaurs, around others gorgeous fountains and quiet pools. At the center lay the temple itself—Artus squinted and leaned closer. Three tiny figures, positioned just as he, Sanda, and Kwalu were, stood at the temple door. The explorer was never certain if his eyes had deceived him, for at that moment the negus pushed the temple door open.

The eyes of Mezro’s greatest heroes fell upon Artus as he entered the temple. Statues lined both sides of the long corridor, gigantic figures carved in glossy black stone. On one side of the door, a woman danced at the heart of an inferno, flames trailing from her hair and curling from her fingers. Across from her, a young boy held his arms to his side, soaring above stone clouds. Eagles swooped around him, talons extended, beaks open in joyous cries of war.

“These are the barae who have gone to Ubtao,” Sanda whispered reverentially. “The ones on the right side are the seven original paladins.”

As Artus followed her toward a darkened arch at the end of the hall, he glanced up at the other statues in the Hall of Champions. An old man held a hammer over an anvil, a razor-sharp spear tip in the making. Next to him a woman raced a jaguar along a stony path, both charging forward at full speed. Other men and women cast in equally fantastic poses looked down on him with steady gazes, unseeing yet full of understanding. There were empty pedestals farther up the hall, one on the right and a half-dozen to the left. These, Artus assumed, were reserved to honor barae who were still alive.

From behind one of these pedestals Lugg appeared. “You ain’t got ’im back, ’ave you?”

Artus stopped before the brown wombat. “No,” he sighed. “They stopped us before we could rescue Byrt or Lord Rayburton.”

Lugg hung his head. “That’s it, then,” he said mournfully. “Poor little Byrt’s for it now. They’ve probably cooked ’im up already.”

“Don’t give up hope,” Sanda said. She knelt down and scratched behind the wombat’s ear.

At the end of the hall, Kwalu paused. “The king is waiting,” he said.

The explorer couldn’t bring himself to tell Lugg he had little hope for finding Byrt alive, but from the look in the wombat’s eyes, it was clear he understood.

Kwalu, Sanda, and Artus passed through the arch together. The explorer was amazed at the audience chamber that lay on the other side. The arch had been dark, but color and light filled the room beyond.

The walls of the triangular chamber were made of stained glass, and even though the sun had gone down hours ago, light poured through the windows in boldly slanting rays. A mosaic covered the floor, depicting the entire city of Mezro. As on the main door to the temple, tiny figures moved on the mosaic, going about their business beneath the feet of the counselors. In the center of the room, where the mosaic temple stood, King Osaw sat in a huge throne. He was alone in the cavernous room.

The king regarded the negus, Sanda, and Artus with hooded eyes as they kneeled before him and told of the attack on the Batiri village. When they described how they had escaped back to Mezro, however, he covered his withered face with his hands. “Kaverin Ebonhand is coming to Mezro,” the king said. “He will lead the Batiri here and bring our city down around us.”

“Impossible,” Kwalu snapped. “The wall hides the city. Even if he wanted to, Kaverin could not find us.”

“Why do you think the silver-skinned one let you return here, untouched?” Osaw asked. He turned clear eyes to Artus. “This Kaverin is a clever man. If, as you have told me, he seeks immortality, he will raze the city to find the secret of the barae. Lord Rayburton must have told him how he has lived so long.”

Sanda leaped to her feet. “Father wouldn’t reveal our secrets, even if Kaverin tortured him.”

“There is no disgrace if he did, Alisanda,” the king replied, motioning for her to sit. “Your father is a wise man, but he feels pain like anyone.” He looked distractedly at the mosaic. “Right now, I miss his counsel greatly.”

Tapping his wax club on the floor impatiently, Kwalu said, “There is no danger to Mezro. Even if this scoundrel finds the city, he won’t be able to pass through the wall.”

King Osaw smiled, a mixture of warmth and patronizing acceptance for his son. “As always, Negus Kwalu, your courage makes you believe yourself invincible. You will find that no wall can stand against every foe.”

Finally Artus spoke up. “When they were captured, both Byrt and Lord Rayburton wore the earrings that neutralize the wall. Kaverin or Skuld will certainly figure out how they work, given time.”

“Then we must prepare for war,” the king concluded. “Kwalu, you must bring the citizens together to stand against the Batiri.” The negus nodded his agreement, and Osaw turned to Artus. “You, Master Cimber, must go as my messenger to Mainu, the bara who controls the river that borders the city to the south and west. Tell her Mezro has need of her and explain the threat. If she can promise to hold the Olung River against the Batiri, we can focus our defenses to the north and east.”

Artus touched his forehead to the floor, then stood. “Of course, Great King. I shall go at once.”

“Sleep first,” Osaw said. “But only until dawn. You must not appear ragged to the bara of the river. She loves pomp and ceremony more than anything in this world.”

Sanda stood, too. “I will go into the jungle and search for one of Ubtao’s Children, a beast that will be worthy of fighting for the city.”

“Take a dozen warriors with you, Alisanda, and do not go far,” the king commanded. “You will be needed to defend the city.”

Osaw stood, ending the audience. Artus and the others left the king pacing across the mosaic, hands clenched behind his back.

In the entry hall, Sanda offered an abrupt farewell. “Wish me luck.” That said, she headed for the door.

“Wait!” Artus shouted. He rushed down the hall to her side. “I wish I were going with you.”

Sanda looked deeply into Artus’s eyes, then suddenly dropped her gaze to the floor. “Remember what I said about spending time with mortals. That applies to you, too, Artus.”

In silence Artus watched Sanda leave. When the explorer turned around, he found Kwalu watching him. The negus had a mask of casual disinterest on his face, but the odd look in his eyes told another story. “She would not be so blunt if she did not care for you,” he said simply, then turned back to the archway. “I am going to a meditation chamber I’ll meet you here at dawn.”

“For what?” Artus asked.

“I will school you in the etiquette of Mainu’s court,” the negus offered over his shoulder.

Just before Kwalu disappeared under the arch, Artus said, “Where are you going? I didn’t see any door leading out of the audience chamber.”

“There is only one door inside the temple.” Kwalu pointed at the darkened archway. “It takes you anywhere you wish to go, to any of the thousand rooms Ubtao built for his followers.”

After the negus had gone, Lugg trundled out from behind a pillar to sniff at the archway. “If we have to wait ’ere till morning, I wonder if this thing leads to any kitchens ’ereabouts?”

Artus stared at the empty pedestals, wondering which of them was reserved for Sanda. “I think I’ll just go to get some rest,” he said.

At the door to the plaza the explorer paused. He’d never find his way back to his quarters alone, not through that maze of alleys. Besides, it wasn’t really fair to leave the wombat on his own. “Why don’t you come with me, Lugg. I know a park that has some interesting shrubbery, if you’ve a taste for that sort of thing.”

The meeting with Mainu that morning was brief and extremely formal. It was also held underwater, at the bottom of the murky Olung River.

As King Osaw had told Artus, the Olung bordered Mezro to the west and south, curving gently through three of the city’s quarters. In many places the mystic defensive wall ran parallel to the river, in others right on top of it. The animals that made their home in or around the muddy water didn’t seem to notice. Hippos wallowed near the shore, watching kingfishers dive for minnows and other small fish. Turtles and crocodiles basked in the sun, rolling languidly into the water if anyone got too close. They sent ripples across the round leaves of water lilies as they submerged.

Such was the domain of Mainu. From a sumptuous court at the bottom of the river, she ruled the Olung for ten miles to either side of the city. The bara was undoubtedly the strangest Artus had met, and how he came to be in her presence proved stranger still.

Just after dawn, Artus had set off from the Temple of Ubtao. Lugg shied away from trudging to the river on such a sunny day; like goblins, wombats preferred to travel by night. At the riverbank, the explorer called out a ritual greeting and, dressed in his tunic, boots, and pants, waded into the water. After two or three steps, the bottom fell away. Artus plunged into the tepid river, gasping in a mouthful of muddy water as he sank.

After the panic subsided, he found himself breathing the stuff. Artus was used to it now, though the river had the same grimy quality as the air around the metalcrafters’ market in Suzail. The oddest thing was coughing, which he did frequently. With each hack, he sent a jet of bubbles swirling around his head.

Artus was trying his best to muffle just such a coughing jag when Mainu finally responded to his plea for aid on behalf of King Osaw.

Artus Cimber of Cormyr, she said, her voice flowing across his mind like the river’s gentle current, we are greatly saddened by this news. As we are loyal subjects of Ubtao and of King Osaw, negus negusti, we will do everything we can to help defend Mezro.

Mainu paused, her long hair floating around her like a veil of seaweed. She was a thing of the Olung, of that there could be no mistake. Her face and her body were nothing more than a more profound darkness within the murk of the river. She swayed and rocked with the current, held in place by long, thin fingers that gripped the throne with fierce strength. Only her eyes seemed out of place—bright and glowing like the sun.

The bara turned those golden eyes on Artus, who kneeled before her turtle-shell throne. We thank you for delivering this message, Master Cimber, and express our hope you will aid Mezro against the Batiri. If you do, we will afford you the honors due a warrior of Ubtao. The creatures of the Olung will bow to your wishes, and the waters of my river will do you no harm.

Artus kowtowed, touching his forehead to the carpet of flowing green leaves. The kind offer sent a wave of relief over him; the soldiers flanking Mainu’s throne were as awe-inspiring as any he had ever seen. A strange mix of human and lobster, the guards were girded in black shells, very much like a knight’s most impressive plate armor.

Their hands were massive claws, and their tiny eyes extended upon long stalks. You honor me with your kindness, great mistress of the Olung, Artus replied, just as Kwalu had coached him.

At a slight flick of Mainu’s chin, the lobster-men moved forward to escort Artus back to the shore. The explorer rose and bowed again. King Osaw thanks you, Mainu, as will all of Mezro when this war is over.

The mistress of the Olung took in Artus’s gratitude without expression. One thing before you go, Master Cimber, she said. Is this threat to Ubtao’s city great enough for the king to summon all the barae to the cause?

I do not know all of King Osaw’s plans, great mistress of the Olung, Artus replied politely.

Mainu nodded. Perhaps that will be your next task. Master Cimber, to contact the other bara, the one you have yet to meet. If you are asked to deal with the outcast, remember that he will do anything for Mezzo—and that is what makes him truly dangerous.

The lobster-men flanked Artus as he walked back to the bank. Once out of the river, the explorer found himself dry and the water miraculously gone from his lungs, though he coughed out river silt most of the way back to the temple. Kwalu met him at the temple door, a sheaf of battle plans tucked under his arm.

“What can you tell me about the seventh bara?” Artus asked as he and Kwalu entered the Hall of Champions. “I mean, Mainu mentioned something about an outcast. That’s who she meant, right?”

The negus stopped dead in his tracks. “As far as you are concerned, there are only six barae—my father. Lord Rayburton, Sanda, Mainu, T’fima, and me. The reasons why we do not speak of the other, not even his name, are too complicated to go into now. It should be enough that we do not want him in the city again.”

“But—”

Kwalu turned on his heels and strode off toward the archway. “Perhaps we can discuss the matter after we drive Kaverin and the Batiri back to the jungle.” The negus glanced at Lugg, who was curled into a ball in front of one of the statues, snoring. “I must report to my father. If you want to wait here, I will inform you of our plans for troop placement when I’m done.”

The wombat snorted awake. “Well?” he demanded. “What are you doing to get Byrt back?”

Artus traced the name of one of the fallen barae with his finger. “We are going to wait for the Batiri to attack us,” he sighed.

“But they might kill ’im before then! Poor Byrt!”

“Look, I didn’t say I agreed with the plan, but I’m not in charge here.” The explorer paced to the next statue. “In fact, the more time I spend in the city, the more certain I am that I wouldn’t want to be.”

The brown wombat scuffed back and forth. “With all these barae about, you’d think they could just fly in and grab the two of ’em from Kaverin.”

Artus snorted. “If the barae could get along, they might be dangerous,” he said. “T’fima won’t help because he’s pouting about the wall, and there’s another bara the king and the others won’t call because he did something they won’t talk about.”

“What other bara?” Lugg asked. “If there’s someone else ’anging about with magical powers, the king should bury the ’atchet and let ’im in for the scrap.”

Shrugging, Artus moved on to the next statue. “Kwalu wouldn’t tell me his name.” He paused and looked at the six statues on the right side of the hall. These were the original barae, the ones chosen and empowered by Ubtao himself. But one of the pedestals was empty. “The seventh bara,” Artus whispered. “Gods, he must be powerful if he was one of the first.”

His eyes flew from one statue to another, taking in the magical gifts of the fallen barae. What did Ubtao give to the last of the original paladins? Artus wondered.

A passage from King Osaw’s book, The Eternal History of Mezro, came back to him then: The one the god chooses is granted some magnificent power. Ras Nsi, one of the first seven raised up by Ubtao, was granted the power to muster the dead….

Artus ran down the right side of the hall, checking each statue. Tabiaza … Anzi… Zimwa. “That’s it,” he said, joining Lugg before the empty pedestal. “Ras Nsi.”

“No!” Kwalu shouted. The negus raced from the archway toward Artus, but it was already too late.

A pool of darkness opened beneath the explorer’s feet, and he fell. For a time—he couldn’t tell how long—all light and sound disappeared from the world. He moved through a void so absolute he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t dead.

At last he tumbled back into the world, landing with bone-jarring suddenness in the center of a wasteland. All around him the ground was broken and barren. Charred stumps of trees littered the land for miles in every direction. The sound of wood cracking and trees crashing to the ground drifted in from the distance, while vultures wheeled in the sky overhead, waiting patiently for their bounty. From the stench of rotten meat that filled the air, Artus was certain there was plenty of carrion to be had.

“Oi, get off me,” came a muffled voice.

Artus rolled and found Lugg pinned beneath him. The wombat was covered in soot and dirt from the blasted ground.

“Where are we?” the explorer asked. He adjusted the bandage on his shoulder and struggled to his feet.

“Maybe we should ask them poor sots over there,” Lugg offered.

Coming toward them was a group of ten men. They moved with painful slowness over the broken ground. As they got closer, Artus drew his dagger. Human and goblin walked together. Their eyes were white and rolled back in the sockets. Cuts and scrapes and the steady working of decay had turned their faces into ghastly masks of death. Some were missing fingers or hands or whole arms. Others had twisted, broken bones jutting from their legs.

Zombies, Artus hissed. And from the way the undead goblins drooled at the sight of the explorer, he was certain they hadn’t lost their taste for living flesh.