The Ring of Winter

Fifteen

Ras Nsi’s home stood at the heart of a very mobile and spectacularly effective logging operation. For miles in every direction, his slaves tore up the Chultan landscape. Elementals summoned from the Plane of Earth—mighty creatures of stone and dirt that could move through the ground as easily as men walk upon it—used their stony hands to uproot trees of every sort. Behind these hulking brutes, gangs of zombies trailed with lethargic steps. The undead slaves dragged the trees back to waiting caravans and bundled the massive cargo onto sledges. Finally, dinosaurs of various species dragged the trees back from the camp and moved them along a wide road toward the coast. In ports all along Refuge Bay ships waited to take the precious wood north.

The sound of trees splintering and crashing to the ground filled the air, along with the shrieks of the birds and apes and other tree-dwellers routed by the destruction.

The whole camp stank of decaying flesh, shattered wood, and overturned earth. Zombies were constantly being crushed by the elementals or the dinosaurs or the falling trees. Just as quickly as they fell, the walking corpses were replaced by newly risen dead. Overhead, vultures and other flying scavengers circled. As soon as the crews moved far enough forward, they would swoop down to claim whatever carrion had been left behind.

In this way, over hundreds of years, Ras Nsi had created the broad, blasted plain upon which Artus and Lugg had found themselves that morning. The scar never seemed to heal. The bara’s crews were too efficient for that.

In the center of this chaos sprawled Ras Nsi’s palatial home. The building resembled many of the stately houses so common in Faerûn’s wealthier cities. Four towers capped in spires marked the corners of the huge structure, and a low wall surrounded the courtyard spreading before its front entrance. Arrow loops and stained glass windows dotted the white stone in patterns that appealed to the eye in a dozen subtle ways. Banners floated from poles atop the towers, their bright colors making them stand out against the sun-bleached sky like brilliantly plumed birds. From an open upstairs window, the gentle music of a string quartet lofted upon the hot, humid air.

The entire estate—grassy courtyard and all—was borne upon the backs of two dozen monstrously huge, long-dead tortoises. It was the job of these unfortunate skeletal creatures to keep the estate moving through the jungle at a steady, creeping pace, just ahead of the elementals and the zombies and the falling trees. The gentle swaying of the house was apt to bring fond memories of time at sea, to those who enjoyed such things.

Yet Artus wasn’t remembering his days aboard the Narwhal as he stood in his newly clean clothes, framed by a large window in Nsi’s audience hall. No, the former Harper was thinking on the injustice of the place—the enslaved dead men, the massive destruction of the jungle. “And you do this all for the betterment of Chult?” he asked coldly, turning back to the outcast bara.

“For the betterment of Mezro” Ras Nsi corrected. “In the end they are the same, but you must see that Ubtao chose the citizens of Mezro as his messengers in the world. The rest of the Tabaxi—” he dismissed them with a wave of his hand “—savages. It was their kind that drove Ubtao back to the heavens four thousand years ago.”

The bara paced nervously back and forth before a velvet-lined throne, his boots rapping an unsettling rhythm on the polished floor. Like the rest of the room, the chair was imported from the North—from Suzail, in fact. He caught Artus studying the furnishings. “I do a great deal of business with Cormyrians, Sembians, and other northern merchants. Occasionally they send me gifts.”

Fine crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Oak tables and chairs brought from the Dales filled the center of the room. The audience hall was very much like a dozen Artus had visited in Cormyr. Only the painting that hung over the large fireplace was different, surprising. In garish colors, ghastly blues and greens and grays, it depicted men and women being pulled into a grassy mound by bloodless hands. If the rest of the hall was meant to soothe visitors from the North, the painting was intended to remind them of their host’s power.

“I control the Refuge Bay Trading Company, which owns the Narwhal,” Ras Nsi said proudly. “That’s how I knew who you were—well, one of the ways.”

Artus was suddenly glad Lugg was fast asleep in the shadow of the cold hearth. He was finding it difficult to hide his growing disdain for the bara, and he was certain the wombat wouldn’t be nearly as diplomatic. “I still don’t see bow this is helping Mezro,” the explorer noted.

Slowly Ras Nsi unhooked the rapier from his belt and hung it over the back of his throne. “Money,” he said, a patronizing tone to his voice. “The more money I control, the greater network of servants, the grander things I can do for Mezro—once King Osaw and the others see the error of their ways and allow me to return to the city.”

The bara sank into the embrace of his throne. “By Ubtao’s blood, they were fools,” he chuckled. “I end a three-hundred-year-long war, save Mezro from destruction, and they banish me.”

“A war that lasted three hundred years?” Artus gasped.

“They sent you here without telling you of my great crime?” Ras Nsi asked sarcastically. His sun-bright eyes flashed. “They must be embarrassed by their foolishness, especially now that the city is in such grave danger.”

Ras Nsi began his tale. He stared into the green stone on his ring as he spoke, as if it were calling forth his memories of the ancient battles.

“The war started about eighteen hundred years ago,” the bara told Artus. “That was long before the wall encircled the city. We didn’t need sorcerous protection then. Mezro boasted the mightiest army in the world, and every Tabaxi who had the heart to be a warrior flocked to the city to prove his mettle.

“There was another large tribe of humans in Chult then—the Eshowe—and they were our sworn foes. They mocked Ubtao, worshiping the rain and the sun, calling upon local spirits for spells.” Nsi sneered and reached behind him for a short-handled spear hanging on the wall. Holding the broad blade toward Artus, he added, “But their local gods could not help them against our righteous armies. For three hundred years we fought, driving the Eshowe farther and farther into the wild parts of the jungle, the valleys where creatures from before time still dwell in dark caves.”

The bara tapped the spear against his palm, digging the sharp tip deeper and deeper into his bloodless flesh. The wounds healed instantly. “The Eshowe found just such a beast,” Ras Nsi said, his voice strained with excitement. “A creature as tall as the highest spire on the Temple of Ubtao, its body wrought of blinding smoke and choking fog. They made a deal with the creature, promising the souls of all the slain to its greedy stomach, for it fed upon bravery, and the Tabaxi were known throughout Ubtao’s jungle as the bravest of all men.” He sank the spear into the arm of his throne. “The Eshowe led the beast back to Mezro for a final, desperate attack.”

A look of sadness passed across the bara’s features, though his eyes still blazed with an infernal light. “They sacked the city before we could defeat them. Our homes, our fields—all burned. Just the temple and a few of the buildings in the city’s heart were left standing.” Ras Nsi sighed. “Of the seven barae, only I survived. The others all died crushing the Eshowe and the beast. We were the victors, but at a terrible price.

“For the next decade, I hunted the few Eshowe that survived the fight, tracked them with my zombies. I burned their homes and slaughtered their children. And each Eshowe warrior I killed was raised up to fight against his brothers.” He gestured casually to the weird painting. “That depicts the last of the Eshowe being killed. There are no more of them in Chult.”

Ras Nsi stated the gruesome facts with inestimable pride. Artus shuddered at the claim, his throat constricting. It was clear now the bara was blind to the horror of his actions.

“By the time I returned to Mezro, the legion of dead Eshowe trailing in my wake, Osaw had been made king, with Mainu and that bleeding heart T’fima serving as his most trusted advisors.” The bara scowled. “When they saw what I had done, they banished me from the city. ‘Your murderous ways are not honorable,’ T’fima proclaimed at my trial. They were fools, but I had no choice but obey. Osaw was the rightful king and leader of Mezro. I would have done anything to help the city, and they turned me away!”

The bara glowered for a moment, staring at the screaming men and women in the painting. “I warned them that other enemies would arise, that there was a void in the jungle hierarchy. I have watched the Batiri rise up over the last thousand years. The war Mezro faces now could have been prevented long ago, had they only let me wipe out the goblins, too. But now I will remedy that mistake.”

“Forgive me, Ras Nsi,” Artus began slowly, “but King’ Osaw did not send me to ask for your aid. I came on my own.”

Furious, Nsi jumped to his feet. “What?” he shouted, brandishing the spear before him. “They don’t want me back? Not even now?”

Artus stood his ground, keeping his gaze locked on the bara’s face. “I cannot speak for the king. I thought you might be able to help, that the reason for the rift between you and the other barae might be minor enough for us to reason it out. Even T’fima—”

“T’fima is no bara,” Ras Nsi snapped, tiny curls of fire leaping from his eyes. “He fell from grace long ago, when he first left the city. Ubtao stripped him of his powers.”

The house lurched to a stop. The sweet music of the string quartet, drifting down to the audience hall from somewhere else in the estate, ceased suddenly. So did the sounds of the logging camp. An unearthly wailing rang out, as if the zombies could sense their master’s fury.

Ras Nsi drank in the sound. He closed his eyes, let his head droop forward, and held his arms out at his sides. The hellish cacophony seemed to calm him, and when he opened his eyes again the angry fire had subsided a little. “Forgive me. I had thought myself beyond such disappointment,” he said coolly. “I had thought you a messenger of the king. I should have known better….”

Nodding absently, Artus murmured, “T’fima isn’t a bara? He doesn’t have the power to control the weather?”

“Osaw and the others have not held the ceremony to replace him because they do not know he lost his power,” Ras Nsi said. “As one of the original seven, my link to the city is far more vital than theirs. I could sense it when T’fima fell away from his duty. It was like he died.”

In the empty hearth, Lugg stirred and snorted awake. “Oi. What’s all the shouting about?”

“Time for us to go,” Artus told the wombat.

Ras Nsi nibbed his chin with one thumb. “Not just yet, Artus Cimber.” He narrowed his eyes until they were mere slits of light. “I know a great deal about you and this Kaverin Ebonhand who has taken up with the Batiri, but there is one thing I have not been able to discover. Tell me that, and I will transport you back to Mezro.”

“Perhaps,” Artus replied impatiently.

“Why did you come to Chult? What are you after?” He dropped the spear to the floor. With a thud, it stuck there.

Artus turned toward the door. “That’s a private matter, Your Excellency. Something that does not concern Mezro or Ubtao,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality, but we really should be going.”

“Are we going to ’ave to walk back to the city?” the wombat asked as he got stiffly to his feet. “We don’t even know where we are!”

“Lugg is quite correct,” Ras Nsi said, slouching back into his throne. “You will be days getting back to Mezro on your own. The battle will be quite over by then.”

“Then I won’t be able to help them fight the Batiri,” Artus said coldly. “Will you stand in the way of that just because I won’t answer your question?”

Outside, the sounds of toppling trees had resumed, and the string quartet had taken up their instruments again on the upper floor. Ras Nsi stood. “Of course you are correct,” he said. “You are fighting for Mezro, and I would be a fool to miss this opportunity to aid the city—even indirectly.” With a grand gesture, he swirled his sky-blue cloak.

Artus and Lugg began to fade, like the ghostly Pontifax that had haunted the explorer’s mind from time to time in the jungle. Before Artus disappeared, though, Ras Nsi said, “It’s the ring, isn’t it? The one Rayburton brought to Chult from the North? He always was afraid of people like you coming here to hunt for it.”

The bara didn’t need to hear Artus’s reply. The shock on the explorer’s face told him everything he wanted to know.

Artus and Lugg found themselves in the Hall of Champions, standing before the empty pedestal that might one day hold a statue of Ras Nsi. The place was deserted, save for the mute stone heroes, but far from silent. Sounds of a fierce battle came from the plaza. Shouted orders entwined with the screams of the wounded. The sharp clatter of steel against steel rose above the rumble of magical thunder. The fight for Mezro bad begun.

“By Tempus’s spiked glove,” Artus cursed and started toward the door, Lugg at his heels.

In the plaza and throughout the ancient city of Mezro, the scene was chaos, the noise almost deafening. Dozens of pteradons filled the sky, silver orbs clutched in their talons. The flying reptiles soared over the heart of the city on broad leathery wings. When they passed over a group of Mezroan warriors or an important building, they dropped the magical bombs Skuld had given them. The explosions that followed lit the twilight sky and momentarily drowned out the cries of the warriors injured by the blasts. Shards of the shattered buildings and cobblestone from the broken streets ripped through the air, adding to the growing league of the Tabaxi dead.

The city’s defenders met the airborne assault with balls of fire and sheets of arrows. In places, magical shields spread like umbrellas over the troops. The bombs exploded against the glowing barriers, filling the sky with fire. Mezroan warriors mounted upon huge butterflies sailed after the pteradons, spearing them with lances or tangling nets around their heads and wings. From time to time one of the reptiles dropped from the air. The creature always changed as it fell, reverting to a form roughly human, though brutish and armored with scales.

From the temple’s doorway, Artus could see little of the battle on the ground. Many of the Mezroan sorcerers had taken up positions around the sacred building’s single side. They wore the traditional tobe, but also half-cloaks colored in rainbow hues that continually changed. Some of the men and women huddled in tight groups, while others dealt with attacks from the air. A young woman with a mesmerizing pattern of blood-red lines drawn upon her face and arms wielded a long whip of sunlight. With it she battled a pteradon that was trying to fly close to the front ranks. Wherever the brilliant lash struck, it seared the lizard’s flesh, leaving its chest scarred and its wings ragged.

Beyond the circle of mages, a line of Tabaxi warriors stood against the goblin horde. They wore wild crowns of feathers and bands of silver and gold on their arms and legs. Dinosaur hide covered their chests. No armor protected their backs, only the tails of exotic jungle cats. There was no need for more than that; Tabaxi warriors never turned away from a foe.

The spearhead of the Batiri attack seemed to come from the northeast, the Scholars’ Quarter, well away from the river and any help Mainu could provide. For now, the Tabaxi seemed content to hold a front against the goblins, to keep them away from the temple and the Residential Quarter. Men and women fought side by side. They carried steel-tipped spears, war clubs ridged with sharp studs, and large, diamond-shaped shields. Tiny Batiri arrows stack out from those shields as thickly as trees stood in the jungle, but only a few shafts got past the wall of tanned hide. The warriors took their wounds stoically, but they fought with fury—as the hundreds of goblin corpses littering the plaza before them proved.

“That ghoulish bloke would ’ave a lovely time ’round ’ere,” Lugg said breathlessly. “Good thing no one invited ’im along.” He looked up at the explorer. “How are we going to find Byrt in all this?”

The question went unheard. “Look, Lugg, you might want to stay inside the temple. You’ll be safe there.” Artus scanned the assembled mages and warriors for some sign of Negus Kwalu or King Osaw.

The brown wombat stood a moment on the temple’s doorstep. The crash and clatter of the battle frightened him, but not enough to paralyze him into inaction. “Awright, Byrt,” he murmured, his beady eyes solemn. “If Artus plans to forget his promise, I’ll come to find you on my own.”

“Did you say something?” Artus asked. When he looked down, Lugg was gone. “Must have followed my word … for once,” the explorer noted with surprise, turning his gaze back to the ranks of sorcerers and warriors.

Finally Artus spotted a triangular platinum banner rising above the throng. He looked closer and saw a faint shield of light glittering in the gloaming, arched over the banner and the men gathered around it.

Artus pushed his way through the crowd, coming at last to a tight knot of warriors. “I’ve important news for the king,” Artus shouted, hoping to be heard over the din of lightning bolts and magical explosions.

A calloused hand reached through the throng and guided the explorer through the guards. “We thought we would never see you again,” Kwalu said. The negus wore his battle regalia, and had a wild look in his eyes.

“His Excellency was quite hospitable,” Artus replied, carefully avoiding Ras Nsi’s name. “You’re right about him being a madman, though. Where’s Sanda?”

“Alisanda has yet to return from her hunting expedition,” King Osaw said sadly. “We fear her captured.”

Kwalu frowned. “Never. She is too crafty to be caught by goblins; she knew they were preparing for war.”

A shiver of dread ran up Artus’s spine, but he reminded himself that worrying about Sanda would do her no good. If she were a prisoner of the Batiri, the only way he could help her, and the rest of the city, was to fight.

Briefly the king explained how the goblins had begun their assault a few hours ago, while the sun was still bright in the sky. Such tactics were unheard of, and while the Mezroans were not caught completely off-guard, they were surprised enough for the Batiri to push their way into the Scholars’ Quarter. The goblins must have used scouts or spied upon the bara magically, for they were staying far away from the river, out of reach of Mainu’s aquatic minions.

It was also clear the Batiri objective was the Temple of Ubtao, for they never launched any attack that might seriously damage the building. Even the pteradons directed their bombs away from the temple. “We have used that against them,” Osaw concluded. “If we know they will not harm the temple, we can make it the locus for our army. They dare not direct killing magic against us here, and our warriors are capable of striking ten times for each goblin arrow loosed.”

“What about Kaverin?” Artus asked. “And Skuld? I’m surprised that silver monstrosity hasn’t shown himself yet.”

Kwalu jerked a thumb toward a circle of ten mages. They stood arm in arm, heads bowed in fierce concentration. “We have not seen Kaverin Ebonhand, but our best mages have the silver one trapped,” he noted proudly.

“Skuld is a being of such immense magical strength that the sorcerers could sense him coming toward Mezro,” the king added. “The moment he entered the city, they conjured a powerful cage of energy and sent it after him. He got no more than a dozen steps into the Scholars’ Quarter before they captured him.” Osaw bowed his head. “We have not had need of the spell in hundreds and hundreds of years, not since the Eshowe led a thing of darkness out of the jungle to strike us down… .”

The king’s words trailed off, and Artus turned to the circle of mages. Capturing Skuld may have been easy for them. Holding him prisoner was obviously a different matter. Sweat beaded upon their brows, and many of them gritted their teeth in concentration. One man, his short beard white with age, swayed where he stood. A boy helped to steady him, whispering encouragements to the exhausted mage.

Suddenly, shrieks of pain and horror went up from the sorcerers, underscored by a peal of triumphant laughter that rang out over the din of battle. At the far edge of the Scholars’ Quarter, a silver-skinned figure grew larger and larger, until at last it towered over the libraries and schools. Skuld looked down at the chaotic streets and laughed again, his filed teeth glinting in the twilight.

The ten bars of energy around the giant had expanded to contain him. Each of Skuld’s four hands grasped a snaking bar, wrenching it first this way, then that. He tried to twist them apart, smash them, even bite them to pieces, but nothing seemed to work. His laughter turned to shouts of rage. Cursing, he grabbed one bar with all four hands and shook it violently.

This time only one member of the sorcerous circle cried out—the white-bearded old man. As Skuld battered the band of energy, the mage quivered and quaked. A thin line of blood snaked down his arm, a line that matched the fracture in the hissing band of light in Skuld’s grip. When the bar broke, the mage’s arm snapped. The bone jutted out like a spear tip, but still he kept his place, held up by the shoulders of those to either side him.

“I can help against Skuld,” Artus said, “maybe even stop the goblin attack, but I need to get to Ras T’fima. Can the army spare a flying mount to take me to his camp?”

“There’s no need for that,” Kwalu said. “Hard to believe, but T’fima came to help us.”

“He’s here?” Artus shouted. “Where?”

“Near the Residential Quarter,” the king said. “He’s guarding the old people and children until they can—”

The explorer bowed perfunctorily and raced away. King Osaw and Negus Kwalu watched Artus until the crowd of warriors swallowed him. “Perhaps he will be able to convince T’fima to do more than shepherd children tonight,” Kwalu said bitterly. “We need his power over the weather if we are to drive the Batiri out of Mezro. I don’t know why he came back if he did not plan to use the powers Ubtao granted him.”

The king shrugged. “Mezro inspires odd loyalties, and not all of them are grounded upon worship of Ubtao.” He looked back to where Artus had disappeared into the throng. “Have faith in that, if Artus cannot sway T’fima, he may be able to discover some other way to aid the city.” Osaw nodded. “Yes, I think that very likely indeed.”

Arrows rained down around Artus as he charged behind the Mezroan lines, toward the Residential Quarter. The warriors’ shields protected the army from the shafts fired low to the ground, but the mages could keep their magical barriers over only the most important people in the rear ranks. This left the land in between the sorcerous protection a prime target for the Batiri archers, who fired blindly over the front ranks in hopes of hitting someone.

The growing darkness compounded the danger. If you lit a torch, an archer could aim for the light. If you tried to move about in the dark, you were likely to shatter an ankle in one of the holes opened by the pteradons’ bombing raids or slice apart an arm or leg on a weapon dropped by a wounded warrior. Still, the darkness wouldn’t be a problem for long; from the red glow to the east, Artus guessed that the goblins had set fire to the crops farthest from the river. The blaze would spread quickly, lighting the night with its hellish radiance.

“Hey! Look out there!”

A pteradon swooped low over the front rank of warriors, too fast for anyone to land a solid blow with spear or club. The birdlike reptile opened its beak in an angry squawk—just enough for Artus to get a hold on its lower jaw.

The fin radiating back from a pteradon’s skull was very much like a ship’s rudder, so when Artus yanked the raider’s head down, it lost control of its flight. That, coupled with the explorer’s weight, made the flying lizard spin out of the air. Together Artus and the pteradon rolled across the cobblestones. Talons scraped at the explorer’s legs and stomach, while the creature’s wings buffeted his face and arms. Before the pteradon could think to bite his fingers off, Artus wisely let go of its beak. By that time, the two were so tangled together that they continued to tumble across the plaza as one.

That, was a fortunate thing, since the pteradon finally lost its grip on the bomb it had been clutching in one taloned foot. The silver egg bounced once, twice, then exploded. Artus didn’t see the burst of flame, but he heard the roar and felt the wave of fire and barrage of cobbles that struck the pteradon. He understood in that instant why the Mezroan warriors favored dinosaur-hide armor; the flying lizard wrapped angrily around him shielded him from the blast.

The pteradon itself was not so well served by its hide. The blast sent a fragment of the pavement through its skull. It took four warriors to drag the thing’s limp corpse from atop Artus, even with him straining against its bulk from below.

“Was anybody hurt?” the explorer puffed as he climbed out from under one ragged wing. He looked around. A few injured warriors were being helped away, but they were still walking.

A young boy stared at the explorer in awe. “Nobody was hurt too bad,” he said. “You bounced enough times for everyone to run.”

Artus rubbed his shoulder. The scuffle hadn’t done much good for the arrow wound he’d gotten at the Batiri camp. “Have you seen Ras T’fima?”

“I can take you right to him,” the boy shouted happily. Lifting a small, round shield of studded leather over his head, he hurried away. Every few steps he looked back, to be sure the explorer was still with him.

They found T’fima near the edge of the maze of buildings and alleys that made up the Residential Quarter. The boy took one look at the mage, nodded to Artus, and ran back toward the temple. T’fima was as volatile as ever, shouting instructions at anyone who got close and gesturing broadly with his fat-fingered hands. Bits of gravel clung to his tightly curled hair, and dirt covered his tobe.

A small army of old people, wounded warriors, and very young children flooded past T’fima on their way to their homes. It would be safer for them there, since the goblins would surely get lost in the twisting, turning streets. In case any Batiri got past the contingent guarding the district, a handful of warriors were passing out clubs and daggers to the people who could wield them. Artus had no doubt the goblins would be in for quite a surprise if they ventured into the narrow lanes.

T’fima himself had a globe of blue light caught between his hands. He lifted it gently over his head, as if it were wrought of some fragile crystal, then let it go. The globe floated there until the sorcerer pointed toward a group of one-eyed goblins massing for an attack. With a high, shrill whistle, the light flew toward the Batiri. It struck them, but didn’t explode or burst into flames, as Artus had expected. The globe splashed over the first dozen goblins like soft summer rain. After the shock wore off, the stunned cannibals laughed and raised their spears.

In a show of contempt, T’fima turned his back on the Batiri and went about directing the defense of the Residential Quarter. Artus drew his dagger and moved to intercept the goblin pack before it could take advantage of the sorcerer’s bravado.

Yet as soon as the Batiri took a step forward, blue light began to leak from their empty eye sockets. Their leader tried to shout an order, but only magical radiance poured out over his black tongue. He seemed to choke on it, dropping his spear to clutch helplessly at his throat. The others never got the chance to shout. Before they could open their mouths, they burst like overfull wineskins, their corpses disappearing in a flash of blue before the first drop of blood hit the ground.

Artus grimaced at the gory sight, but could not fault the sorcerer for effectiveness. The goblins the globe had missed retreated, leaving the Mezroans to continue their work.

“Give her a dagger!” T’fima was shouting as the explorer got close. He pointed at an old woman. “She couldn’t lift a club, let alone hurt someone with it. At least with a blade she might get lucky and blind someone!”

“Ras T’fima,” Artus said, placing a firm hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder.

Slowly the ras turned. “We have things to do here,” he rumbled. “Either give us a hand or get out of the way.”

“I want the Ring of Winter,” the explorer said, towering his voice just a little.

“And I told you before I don’t know anything about it!”

People had begun to turn toward the mage and the stranger. Artus glanced at the upturned faces. Fear held a tight grip over many of these people. It wouldn’t do to challenge their protector openly. “I know you aren’t a bara,” Artus whispered to T’fima, leaning closer. “The master of the dead told me. You’ve been using gem magic to keep yourself alive—just like your cat—and you used the ring to cause the blizzard that saved Kwalu.”

T’fima’s eyes got as large as full moons. Muttering, he slipped a hand into the pocket of his tobe. Artus was faster, though. The explorer grabbed the last of the diamond slivers and said the command word. A bolt of lightning appeared in his hand, illuminating the area with cold white light.

“I’m not your enemy,” the explorer hissed.

T’fima shook his head. “How can I be sure of that?”

Turning away from the sorcerer, Artus heaved the lightning at the distant goblin line. The bolt sizzled just off the ground. A few of the more observant Batiri in its path scattered before it struck. Two dozen charred corpses was all that remained of those that didn’t.

“I’ve hunted for the ring for a decade,” Artus said, forcing calm into his voice. “I’ve wanted to turn its power to good. Now there’s another reason for me to have it—to save Mezro, to rescue Lord Rayburton and Sanda and the others from the goblins.”

The sorcerer took his empty hand from his pocket and waved away three warriors who were obviously coming over to see what the argument was about. “And who’ll be there to rescue the city from you once you get the ring?” T’fima growled. “Rayburton couldn’t control it. That’s why he brought it here—he froze an entire village solid in Cormyr. Killed hundreds of people. That’s why he gave it to me to hide, so he’d never be tempted to use it again.”

Artus closed his eyes. The disaster Lord Rayburton had told him about—he had caused it! “Ancient history,” he heard himself say. “Besides, I’m not Rayburton.”

“I froze the jungle for miles around, made it snow for three days instead of the hour I had intended.” T’fima grabbed the front of Artus’s tunic. “Don’t you see? I could control weather once—that was Ubtao’s gift to me—and yet even I couldn’t bend the ring to a good cause!”

Artus pushed T’fima away. “The reason you used the ring was so Osaw and the others wouldn’t discover you weren’t a bara any longer,” he said. “If Kwalu was killed, they’d hold the ceremony to install a new paladin to replace him. Ubtao would have chosen two new barae, not one, and then they would have known.”

T’fima’s fury had returned, and his round form quivered in anger as he rumbled, “If they know I’m not a bara, then the Tabaxi outside the wall will have no voice in the councils. The wall will stay up forever, and they’ll be robbed of their heritage!”

A grating sound, like metal shivering into a thousand fragments, rang out over the city, and Artus spun around to see Skuld break through another of the bars on his magical cage. The guardian spirit rolled his eyes and snarled like a straight-jacketed lunatic.

“There’ll be nothing left of Mezro once he gets free,” Artus said. He pointed to Skuld, who was sawing away at another bar with a glowing fragment from the one he had just broken. “And if the Ring of Winter is here, the man who controls that monstrosity will have it.”

Ras T’fima bowed his head. “After I used it to cause the blizzard, I went to the temple and tossed it into the barado. No one goes in that room unless they’re electing a new bara, so I thought it would be safe…”

When T’fima looked up, Artus was already gone.

“Keep the children away from the arrows!” the sorcerer snarled at a wounded warrior who was distributing weapons. After the woman hustled the two toddlers away from the arrows, T’fima glanced toward the temple. A wave of sadness swept over him, since there were just six active barae, the only way for Artus to escape the barado once he’d entered would be to pass Ubtao’s test. If he succeeded, he would be the new bara of Mezro—and have the Ring of Winter. If he failed, Ubtao would kill him.

At the moment, Ras T’fima wasn’t certain which would be worse for the city.