The Ring of Winter

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 clicked 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 Faerûn. 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 Faerûn.

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 Faerûn.

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.

“Well met,” he said as he arrived. The half-dozen men and women murmured their greetings over glasses of Tethyrian brandy. In more than a few faces lurked hints of knowing smiles. “Sir Hydel … if you don’t mind?”

“Any word on the medallion?” the mage asked as soon as they moved away from the others. He gestured to the silver disk. “I see you still have the dratted thing.”

The look of genuine concern on his comrade’s face lessened Artus’s irritation. “I’m stuck with it for now,” he replied. “Look, Pontifax, I wish you wouldn’t tell everyone about what happened. I mean, the curse on this—”

The mage looked genuinely hurt. “I am the very soul of discretion,” he said. “I could hardly call myself a good soldier if I ran off at the mouth about such things.”

“Then how did the Raephel and the other dwarves know about me growing? What about all the comments I’ve been hearing since I came in?”

“Ah,” Hydel said, clearing his throat. “I must admit I did tell an edited version of the story, leaving out anything about the curse. Replaced it with a misfired spell, you see. The story got quite a chuckle over lunch, if I do say so myself. Why, Lady Elynna even asked if I’d write it up for the society’s journal!”

“Congratulations,” Artus said, frowning. He wasn’t sure if it bothered him more that the mage had told everyone about the embarrassing mishap or that he would never get a chance to tell his own, much livelier version of the battle. “Any luck selling the artifacts?”

Hydel puffed out his chest. “I’ve secured an offer of three times the amount you estimated. The society will buy all the coins and the spearheads we took from the ruins, and the sergeant of the Royal Historical Office offered to buy everything else for the king’s personal collection.”

Removing a thin book bound in wyvern hide from his pocket, Artus took a seat at one of the nearby desks. He opened to a page filled with columns of items and numbers, then recorded the exact amount they’d been offered for each of the objects recovered.

“You’re not keeping anything from this expedition?” Hydel asked. “You usually take something as a memento.”

“I have this,” Artus said, holding on the medallion. “Skuld—that’s his name by the way—is reminder enough for me, thank you.” He clapped the thin book shut and buried it in a pocket. The journal was a prize stolen from the libraries of Zulkir Szass Tam, the undead ruler of Thay. No matter how many pages Artus filled, more appeared without ever adding to the volume’s weight or thickness. The book also opened automatically to whatever page he wished to see.

“Skuld?” the mage asked. His puffy eyebrows rose in shock. “You mean the dratted thing’s alive? Why, Artus, you should—”

A roar, followed swiftly by a chorus of astonished gasps and a few quite colorful curses, drowned out the rest of Pontifax’s suggestion. There was a mad scramble to get away from the miniature battlefield as the reason for the disruption—a fist-sized dragon wrought of lead and painted bright crimson—circled into the air. It screeched and dove back toward the miniature armies, a stream of liquid flame shooting from its jaws.

“Foul!” cried the owner of the Cormyrian infantry. The leaden soldiers were now only so much molten slag burning its way through the expensive Shou carpet. “I say, tins is really bad form!”

The other would-be general folded her arms across her chest. “Hardly, Jarnon. The rules clearly state …”

Sir Hydel glanced around the room, taking stock of the other members. “Looks like I’m senior,” he sighed. “Better settle this before the dimwits burn the place down.” The mage waded into the heart of the conflict and, with a casual gesture, cancelled the enchantment on the leaden armies. The remaining soldiers, which had scattered throughout the room to avoid the dragon, froze in place, dull metal once more. The rampaging wyrm screeched, then dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Artus shook his head. The Society of Stalwart Adventurers had been founded as a place for stout-hearted explorers and renowned world travelers to gather in camaraderie and share their findings. To be invited to join, a prospective member had to achieve some noteworthy feat and have it recognized by the society’s committee. Over their thousand-year history, though, the Stalwarts had been infiltrated by Cormyr’s wealthy. These men and women were often more pedigreed than brave. Their patronage financed the expeditions of the legitimate members, but they lessened the prestige of the society. Artus referred to these members as Warts, not Stalwarts.

It was at that moment, as Artus silently lamented the foolishness around him, that one of the most obvious Warts made the worst mistake of her life.

“Here, old fellow,” an elfmaid drawled. “I hear tell Theron is back from Chult. Had another breakdown, don’t you know.” She detached herself from a small group of sniggering nobles and sauntered toward Artus. “It wouldn’t surprise me if his mind’s gone for good this time.” As an afterthought, she added, “Poor fellow.”

Fighting to hide his surprise at the news of Theron Silvermace’s return, Artus said coldly, “The only thing that could drive someone like Theron mad would be to spend too much time around the likes of you, Ariast.”

He turned his back on the woman. The eldest daughter of a family that could trace its roots back to the rulers of fabled Myth Drannor, Ariast prided herself on being haughty. She held the workaday members of the club in as little regard as they held her. Like many Warts, she gloried in any gossip that tarnished an older explorer’s reputation. Theron Silvermace, in particular, was a favorite target, especially after the crusty old soldier had suffered a mental collapse after escaping from a drow prison in the nightmarish underground city of Menzoberranzan.

“There’s no need to be so rude, Artus,” the elfmaid said, her sweet voice full of contempt.

Artus heard her stifle a chuckle. This will be trouble, he noted angrily. Ariast was known for casting cantrips on those who slighted her; the minor spells were mostly harmless, intended to embarrass the victim more than harm him. He turned to face her, hoping to give her pause before she made him belch or trip or laugh uncontrollably.

What he saw was not the pretty young elfmaid in the midst of an incantation, but the muscled back of a four-armed man standing well over seven feet tall.

“Skuld, no!”

He was too late. Before either Artus or Ariast could react, the spirit guardian grabbed the elfmaid by the wrists. “You will now know better than to harm my master, witch,” Skuld hissed through filed teeth. With a quick flex, he crushed both her wrists.

Ariast’s wail of pain brought the room to a standstill, but only for an instant. Within seconds, a dozen mages had launched spells meant to contain the spirit. Glowing spheres of blue and gold energy pelted the silver-skinned giant. A snaking band of light wrapped around him, then fell harmlessly away. Skuld’s laughter at the magical onslaught was like the jingling of his earrings, high and musical. He tossed Ariast aside like a broken doll and prepared to defend himself against two swordsmen who were moving warily toward him.

All this time, Artus tried frantically to make the spirit return to the amulet. He shouted orders. When that didn’t work, he clasped his hands together and hammered Skuld’s back. The spirit guardian did nothing to stop Artus, but he didn’t follow his commands either. It was only when Uther appeared at Artus’s side that Skuld paused.

“Please step aside, Master Cimber,” the butler warned. His slitted eyes were narrowed as he approached the spirit. He lowered his magnificent horns and prepared to charge. “I will take care of this ruffian.”

Skuld dropped his four hands to his sides, a look of surprise on his face. “You, a beast from the pit, call this little worm master?” The spirit looked at Artus and bowed respectfully. “I have underestimated you, O mighty one. Forgive this humble slave.”

That said, the spirit guardian faded into a silver cloud and flew into the medallion.

Swords found their sheaths, and mages carefully placed the components for spells back into their pockets. Uther calmly righted a table and went to help Ariast. “Hey,” one of the Stalwarts said to the butler, “that thing thought you were from the Abyss!”

Uther studied the man for a moment, then surveyed the chaos in the library. “There are times, sir,” he said blandly as he helped the whimpering Ariast to her feet, “when I myself am forced to wonder if I’m not a willing denizen of the pit.”

Artus was trying to avoid the angry glares and suspicious looks he was receiving from the other members, but it was difficult. To harm another Stalwart, even unintentionally, was considered highly improper. This would mean yet another conduct review by the president.

“Oh my,” Pontifax murmured. The mage was at Artus’s side, a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “If that Skuld character respects you because he thinks you’re mighty enough to command creatures from the Abyss …”

“Then he must be used to dealing with extremely powerful and unquestionably evil masters,” Artus noted. “Look, Pontifax, I think it would be best if I just went home and stayed there until Zin discovers a way to get this thing off of me.”

“Well, er, that might be for the best,” the mage said. He turned away from Artus. “It’s just, well, Theron Silvermace is back from Chult and …”

“And what?” Artus prompted.

Pontifax lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s asked to see you tonight, my boy. He says he knows where you can find the Ring of Winter.”