The Ring of Winter

Three

The ship’s boat struggled along in the open water outside the sheltered harbor at Baldur’s Gate. The wind had picked up at sunset, and the waves were tipped with the slightest caps of white. The eight-man crew didn’t seem to mind. They strained against the oars, making good speed despite the rough seas.

As arranged, Artus and Pontifax had met the longboat at midnight, on the southernmost pier, closest to the ocean. The Narwhal, it seemed, was anchored outside the port. Artus took this as a bad sign; had the ship been engaged in strictly legal activity, it would seek the safety of the harbor, not shun it. Despite her registration to the Refuge Bay Trading Company, the Narwhal was in all likelihood little more than a pirate ship.

“Yer looking a little anxious,” taunted Nelock, the only officer aboard the ship’s boat. He had the look of a wild ape about him. His hairy arms hung out of his sleeves as he lounged at the boat’s prow, his thick features locked in an expression of extreme ill-humor. “Could it be yer beginning to think we’re taking ya out far enough to dump yer bodies where no one’ll find ’em?”

The thought had occurred to Artus, but he’d dismissed it. The notion was a surprise to Pontifax, however. The old mage blanched, his sudden distress made clear to everyone by the light of the full moon overhead.

“Hardly,” Artus said, leaning back against one of their packs. “You could have robbed us on the docks. Two more bodies found in the harbor wouldn’t cause a stir, not in a port as big as Baldur’s Gate.”

The crew’s barking laughter rang out over the open water. “Awright,” Nelock snapped, “stop yer yapping and put yer backs to it. If the captain hears ya making a racket rowing up to the ship, she’ll have the lot of ya under the cat-o’-nine-tails.”

Silence fell upon the ship’s boat, fear of the Narwhal’s captain clamping down on the sailors like a vice. Artus and Pontifax thought better of testing the boatswain’s warning. They rested patiently in the stern, watching the dark shape of the ship grow larger and larger.

As the company agent had said at the Hanged Man, the Narwhal was a galleon. Such vessels were rare in Baldur’s Gate, since ships meant for peaceful trade dominated the ports of the Sword Coast—cogs and caravels and dromonds that mainly skirted the coastline. Not only was the galleon larger than these, it was obviously constructed with more aggressive ventures in mind. At regular intervals, black squares broke the wide stripe of white paint that ran the length of the hull. As the ship’s boat drew closer, Artus noticed the holes looked like missing teeth in a giant’s smile. He knew, however, that behind each port stood a heavy ballista capable of firing iron-shod spears or bags filled with shrapnel or even more ingenious projectiles.

A few lights winked furtively aboard the tri-master as Nelock guided the small boat to her side. Two crewmen hustled to the task of fastening lines to the bow and stem as the apelike officer pulled a whistle from under his heavy coat and blew a series of four notes. Instantly, a hatch opened halfway up the Narwhal’s hull. A lantern appeared, then a blond sailor peered out of the entry port.

Warily, Pontifax eyed the line of steep, water-slick steps cut into the ship’s side. He’d never been particularly dextrous, and this obstacle appeared potentially dangerous, even to the most agile of sailors. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to stay in this fine craft until you haul it up to the deck.”

The officer pushed past the old mage and, by way of an answer, started up the twenty boarding steps at a run. He paused partway up. “It wouldn’t be wise to keep the captain waiting, gentlemen,” he warned, then continued up the steps.

Placing a hand on Pontifax’s shoulder, Artus whispered, “You can always use a spell to fly to the deck or climb up the side like a spider,”

“Bad idea all around,” the mage grumbled. He placed one foot tentatively on the first step. “Magic shouldn’t be used to shield oneself from the little challenges of life. It won’t win us any respect from the crew, either.”

A wave rocked the ship’s boat, knocking Pontifax off his feet. The crewmen could have broken his fall, but they didn’t. The white-haired mage crashed to the deck. There he floundered about in his heavy robes like a game fish until he became thoroughly entangled in a coil of rope. And still the silent crewmen sat and watched, smirks twisting their faces.

Artus helped his friend out of the rope’s grasp and pulled him to his feet. “Look, Pontifax, you—”

“Be a good soldier and get out of my way,” the mage rumbled. After pausing for a moment to straighten his robes, he cast a withering look at the crewmen. They received the glare with lazy, indolent faces. Pontifax murmured something as he stepped up to the boarding ladder, his fingers moving in an arcane pattern.

Only Artus seemed to notice the mage was casting a spell. Probably to help him keep his footing, the explorer decided.

Artus watched his friend struggle up the hull. The rolling ship did its best to dislodge the boarder, heaving up and down in the choppy seas, but the mage gamely made the entry port. With a sigh of relief, Artus followed.

The blond elven sailor with the lantern gave Artus a hand and pulled him into the portal from the top boarding step. “Welcome aboard the Narwhal,” he said, holding the lantern high so it would cast its light evenly over the newcomers’ features. “I am Master Quiracus, the ship’s first mate, You’ve already met Nelock.” He gestured with the lantern at the hairy officer. “He’s the boatswain.”

Nelock pulled a battered felt cap from the pocket of his heavy coat. He raised the hat facetiously at Artus, then Pontifax. “We’ll be fast friends by the time a tenday’s out.”

Frowning at the sarcasm, Master Quiracus said, “No need to be discourteous, Nelock.” He ignored the startled look on the boatswain’s face. “I’ll take these gentlemen to the captain. You snap to it and supervise the stowing of the ship’s boat. Take their gear and pile it near the mainmast until the captain decides where to put them.” He turned from the portal and strode into the darkness of the ballista deck.

Artus and Pontifax hurried to keep within the glow of the lantern. The deck was a cramped, crowded place, smelling of sweat and sea salt. Huge ballistae hunched before the ports, a ready store of ammunition close at hand.

Hammocks slung from the deck-head beams near each siege engine held snoring, muttering sailors. Though he could not see the entire deck, Artus figured there to be at least one hundred men in this part of the ship alone.

The first mate took the steps leading to the upper deck two at a time. When he made to do the same, Pontifax slipped again and fell back against Artus.

“That spell you cast in the ship’s boat couldn’t have worn off already,” Artus said.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Before you climbed into the ship you used a spell to give yourself steady footing.”

The mage snorted. “Hardly.” Lowering his voice, he said, “I cast a little incantation on the lazy dogs who enjoyed my difficulty. For the next few nights, they’ll be dreaming of nothing but slightly overweight mages dropping on them from great heights.”

“Hurry along, gentlemen,” the first mate called from the top of the stairs. “Captain Bawr is awaiting us on the poop deck.”

A cold wind blasted over the quarter deck, limning the rigging with ice and setting the masts to creaking. That didn’t seem to affect the sailors, who went quietly about their work. Toward the bow, Nelock and a handful of crewmen secured the ship’s boat. Others climbed the rigging to vantages high up the masts. From the activity, it appeared to Artus the watch was changing.

“Whatever you do,” Quiracus warned as they made their way to the rear of the ship, “be sure not to challenge the captain’s word. Go along with whatever she says.” He flashed them a warm smile. “If there’s a problem, I’ll do what I can to straighten it out later.”

Artus steeled himself as they climbed to the poop deck. The captain sounds like a real terror, he thought. Luckily, though, the first mate seems friendly enough.

“Captain Bawr, these are the two gentlemen you were expecting.”

In his mind, Artus had created his own Captain Bawr—a tall woman with cold eyes and a lantern jaw. Her clothes would be coarse, the sword at her side polished brighter than any smile she could muster. A widow’s knot would hold her hair tight. A perpetual air of disdain would lurk in her stance and her movements. Maybe she would bear a scar or two from mutineers—all of whom she would have sent to a watery grave.

“Welcome aboard my ship,” Captain Bawr said, her sweet voice like the whisper of an owl’s wings. She held out a dainty hand, gloved in kidskin against the cold. “I hope the authorities did not present too much of a bother to you in Baldur’s Gate.”

Pontifax shook her hand without pause, but Artus stood astounded by the petite beauty before him. She looked almost ghostly in the moonlight, her oval face brightened by an alluring smile. A red cloak, its hood capturing her dark ringlets, hung to her waist. Below that, a white skirt trailed down to silken hose and shiny black shoes. Her blue eyes sparkling with a hint of mischievousness, Captain Bawr reached out and took Artus’s hand, which dangled limp at his side. “I’ll take your silence as a compliment… .”

“Artus, milady. Artus Cimber.”

Pontifax stifled a groan. They’d agreed not to give their real names on this voyage, but Artus was obviously too smitten to catch himself. No use bothering now. “And I am Sir Hydel Pontifax,” the mage huffed, shooting Artus a gruff look. He removed a small purse from his belt. “This is the rest of the fee agreed upon by the company agent in port.”

The captain smiled and gestured to Master Quiracus, who took the purse. As the first mate silently counted out the coins, Captain Bawr asked, “What do you do, Sir Hydel, when you are not traveling?”

“I have studied the arts, both medical and sorcerous. I’ve made my living plying both.”

The first mate looked up sharply. “A doctor? That’s a nice bit of luck, eh Captain?”

The look on her face made it clear the captain had little interest in doctors or mages. When she turned back to Artus, though, a tiny spark rekindled in her blue eyes. “And you, Master Cimber?”

“I, er, mostly travel, milady,” he stammered. “I’ve been a scribe and an explorer and a historian.”

Her pouting frown made it clear Captain Bawr found that answer even less interesting than Pontifax’s. “Ah, how … mundane,” she managed at last. “And why are you seeking speedy passage on a ship like the Narwhal, Master Historian? Did you mistakenly record the name of a king’s bastard in a chronicle? Perhaps you’ve run off with some money from an abbey.” She held up one slim-fingered hand. “I know, you misspelled a wealthy and influential merchant’s name in a town record and you’re now running for your life. It would have to be something that inconsequential, I’m sure.”

The sweetness in her voice had transformed into an unmistakable malice. That was enough to break the spell that had fallen upon Artus. He bristled at the insults, squaring his shoulders and jutting out his unshaven chin. “I’ve seen a great deal of danger in the last two tendays, milady, and I do not take kindly—”

“The only danger you’ve ever faced, Master Historian, was your patron’s wrath at a bottle of spilled ink,” the captain drawled. She idly waved a hand and turned her back on Artus. “Quiracus, take the old man down to the orlop, where he’ll be quartered as surgeon for the voyage. Our ink-stained friend will be put in Nelock’s charge.”

“Wait a minute,” Artus snapped. “What do you mean ‘in Nelock’s charge?’ We’re not signing on as crew, Captain. We’re paying passengers.”

The moment the words left Artus’s mouth, his medallion began to glow with a brilliant silver-blue aura. At the same time, Captain Bawr spun around, her face contorted by an unearthly rage. She had grown at least a foot—or perhaps it only seemed that way to Artus and Pontifax. The captain’s pale skin had become a mass of blood-red scales, her eyes a pair of glowing blue embers. “Get them out of my sight, Quiracus,” she howled. “Now!”

With surprisingly strong hands, the first mate grabbed both men and hustled them off the poop deck. “Gods,” he cursed when they were well toward the middle of the ship. “I warned you about questioning her orders.” He glanced back to the aftcastle, where Captain Bawr paced back and forth like a caged animal. “I won’t be able to change her mind about the assignments, not after you openly challenged her.”

“Then we’ll leave the ship now,” Artus said firmly.

Pontifax nodded. “Right. We’ll take the next vessel to Chult. This won’t do for a man with my record of service to the Cormyrian army. I refuse to be pressed into service aboard this slave ship like a drunk waylaid in—”

Quiracus clamped a hand over the mage’s mouth. “My apologies, Sir Hydel, but you’re crew now. If the captain hears you mutter that kind of mutinous talk, there’ll be nothing in this world that’ll save you from her wrath.” He let Pontifax go, then smiled. “Besides, we’ll be under sail in an hour, so the only way back to the harbor is to swim for it.”

Artus walked stiffly to the mainmast, where the sailors had dumped their gear. “We’ll have to make the best of it,” he growled, pounding the sturdy wood with a fist. He tossed one of the packs to the mage, then hefted the other two himself. “I’m sorry about this, Pontifax.”

The withering look he got in return told Artus it would take more than a simple apology to assuage his old friend’s wounded pride.

“Cimber, need I teach ya the proper way to tie off the topsail halyards again?”

Artus jumped at the sound of Nelock’s voice. The boatswain had taken a special interest in harassing him, pointing out his most inconsequential mistakes and meting out ridiculous extra duties for any transgression. “No, Master Nelock,” he said, biting back his anger and frustration. It would do him little good to pique the apelike petty officer.

“Well ya done this all wrong,” came the expected response. After a moment’s pause, the boatswain barked, “Into the rigging, Cimber. I thought I heard a sail tear on the mainmast, so ya better check it for me.”

“Yes, sir,” Artus managed to reply.

The explorer dreaded the long, unsteady climb into the rigging. Luckily, much of the ice had melted away from the ropes after the first tenday at sea, so they weren’t as slick as they had been. The weather, in fact, was fast becoming balmy. Still, the brisk wind hissing into the sailcloth and the not-so-gentle roll of the ship made the duty quite dangerous for someone as inexperienced as Artus. Moreover, he knew the sail to be perfectly sound; unless the cloth had torn from top to bottom, the boatswain couldn’t possibly have heard it over the cry of the gulls, the creaking of wood and rope, and the roar of the Narwhal cutting through the waters of the Sea of Swords.

Tentatively, Artus climbed into the shrouds. The tar-soaked ropes were sticky on his bare feet, but he’d learned on his first day aboard the ship that his boots were not made for nautical feats. As he went, he scanned the huge sails of the mainmast—at least, he made a show of looking them over for tears. His mind was actually drifting in languid turns over the events of the last few tendays. First the cursed medallion, then Theron Silvermace’s news of the ring and the flight from Suzail. Now he was paying for the privilege of being a slave aboard a galleon. He’d been right about the ship being a pirate vessel, but he never could have guessed the rest of its past.

Artus had been told of the Narwhal’s short, but astounding history his first night aboard ship. The costly vessel had once flown the flag of Cormyr’s navy, but Captain Bawr had gathered a fleet of pirate ships together in the Inner Sea and taken her by force. Next she cut a deal with the villainous masters of Zhentil Keep, who provided her with the services of a group of stupid but extremely brawny giants. The monstrously strong creatures carried the Narwhal across the bulk of Faerûn, from the land-locked Inner Sea to the wide-open Sword Coast. Now Bawr alternated between outright piracy and high-paying cargo runs for the Refuge Bay Trading Company, carrying supplies to their outposts in the jungles and returning with the ship’s holds full of near-priceless Chultan teak and ivory.

Of Captain Bawr herself he could learn little. The crew spoke of her in hushed tones, but always in glowing terms. They were loyal, but fearful, too. They’d all seen her transform at various times, though no one dared venture a guess as to her true nature. The only thing Artus discovered was she never came on deck during the day; when the sun shone, Master Quiracus and the other officers ran the Narwhal.

Artus shook his head. The contrast between the sweet young woman and the creature she became … He shuddered. It was horrifying to think on the matter too closely.

All thoughts of the captain fled his mind in that instant, driven away by sudden panic. Lost in his musings, he’d taken a wrong step. For a moment, the realization he was going to fall overwhelmed Artus. Then he toppled head over heels down the shroud. The net of ropes burned his arms and legs as he slid. He reached out, but discovered painfully he was moving too fast to stop his fall. It seemed he was going to either roll right down the shrouds and over the side, or slip from them and plummet to the deck.

Fortunately, Skuld was not about to let his master break his neck on the quarterdeck or drop into the sea like so much shark bait. A glowing silver hand shot from the medallion and clamped down on the shroud. Artus gasped, then choked as the chain pulled tight. His momentum gone, he slipped limply between the ropes. The explorer hung below the shroud for an instant, the medallion’s chain and the silver arm suspending him like a hangman’s noose. Then he was falling again, this time like an autumn leaf drifting slowly to earth.

When the chain had loosened its chokehold and the blood ceased to throb in his temples, Artus tried to sit up. The silver arm was gone, but it was clear everyone near the mainmast had seen his unearthly rescue.

“What’s this all about?” Nelock shouted. He stood over the dazed explorer, his hands on his hips. “No sailor’s allowed to use magic without the officers knowing about it. The captain will want you—”

“Sent to the surgeon to see about his wounds,” interrupted Master Quiracus. The first mate was at the boatswain’s side. When Artus looked up, a halo from the sun ringed the blond man’s bead. “Go on, Cimber. Have Pontifax see to those cuts.”

It was then Artus realized his shirt collar was heavy with blood. The chain had dug into his neck, but only enough to draw a ring of crimson. When he moved to lever himself to his feet, he found his hands gouged and bloody, too.

“It looks worse than it is,” Quiracus noted calmly. “Still, better to clean out the wounds before they become infected. Don’t you agree, Master Nelock?”

The boatswain muttered his agreement, then turned to the crowd of sailors who had paused in their work. “Awright, back to yer duties, ya bilge rats.”

As Nelock looked around, he saw men and women pulling lines out of synch, and midshipmen caught in idle speculation about the strange magic that had saved Artus’s life. The crew had been working at top form, like the well-tended engine they were trained to be. Now they were at odds, slowing the ship and making their own tasks harder by working against each other.

In his deep, growling voice, Nelock began to sing. The chanty was an old one and had a hundred variations all along the Sword Coast. The crew soon picked up the song. Its rhythm became the pulse of the ship, and the crew began to once again work in harmony.

“Despite your foul temper, you are quite good at your job,” the first mate noted as he came to the boatswain’s side.

Nelock rubbed his hands along his hairy forearms. “What I’d like to know. Master Quiracus, is why ya care about them—especially that useless Cimber. This is the third time ya’ve hauled him out from under a punishment I had in mind for him. It ain’t good to undercut me with the men around.”

The first mate smiled. “There are reasons for everything, Nelock. You just aren’t privy to them.” He patted the older man on the shoulder patronizingly. “You should consider yourself lucky.”

The boatswain watched the first mate stroll across the quarter deck to the aftcastle, then disappear down the stairs that lead to the captain’s cabin and the maproom. “Something ain’t right about this,” Nelock muttered to himself. “But I ain’t stupid enough to get caught in the middle of it either.”

The boatswain started another chorus of the chanty, and the dark thoughts troubling him flew away with the notes of the bright old sea song.

Deep in the ship, on the bleak and damp orlop deck, Artus could hear the chanty belted out by the sailors, it didn’t lighten his thoughts the way it did Nelock’s, but then he’d never been one to appreciate work songs. He much preferred the refined bardic music of Myth Drannor and the Moonshaes.

“How’ve you been, Pontifax?” he asked somewhat sheepishly.

“Fine. Now be a good soldier and sit on the table,” was the somewhat chilly reply. “Take your shirt off so I can get a look at the wounds on your neck.”

The mage bustled about the large room, only a small part of which was lit. Two magical globes of light floated at Pontifax’s shoulders, but they did little to help dispel the gloom from the place. “I’ve spent the last tenday setting broken limbs, bandaging gashes received in mindless brawls, and ministering to petty officers with hangovers,” he offered as he grabbed a handful of cotton wrapping. “Same sorts of silly injuries I worked on when I served with the Army of the Alliance—until the fighting started, of course. The barbarians dealt in more ghastly wounds. In fact, I spent most of my time on the crusade making men comfortable until they died… .”

Artus dropped his bloodied shirt to the floor. Whenever Pontifax was disgusted with things, he talked about King Azoun’s crusade against the barbarous Tuigan tribesmen. He had served as a surgeon during the entire campaign and had even fought alongside the royal War Wizards in the final battles. There were few things Pontifax prided himself upon more than this.

Pontifax sighed. “Did you know there are passengers aboard who don’t have to work?”

“What?” Artus leaped to his feet, spilling a bottle of strong-smelling liquid. It splattered on his scraped hands, stinging like a thousand wasp bites. “Gods’ blasted …”

“Serves you right,” the mage said. He righted the bottle, mopping up the spilled liquid with Artus’s shirt. “Now sit down before you really hurt yourself.”

“But if there’re paying passengers aboard who don’t have to—”

“These privileged passengers have taken over the captain’s cabin,” the mage warned, “so don’t go making a fuss just yet. Bawr’s sleeping in the maproom to make space for them.” He glanced at the long slice in Artus’s neck, then dabbed the blood away. “They’re important ambassadors on their way to Samarach on a secret trade mission. Quiracus told me about them one night after dinner. They paid ten times what we did.”

“But I haven’t seen anyone who even vaguely resembles a government-type strolling the decks.”

“They’re more secretive than the captain.” Pontifax began to clean the scrapes on Artus’s hands, dousing them with more of the stinging liquid. “Besides, you should be glad they haven’t seen you. They’re from Tantras.”

Artus groaned—both from the pain in his hands and the dread in his heart. Government officials from Tantras! Both he and Pontifax were wanted men in that city, for murder and a dozen other charges, all stemming from a battle they’d had with Kaverin Ebonhand three years past. If the ambassador heard they were aboard the Narwhal, he might try to take them into custody or even worse, try them on the spot for their crimes.

“There.” Pontifax stood back to study his work. “I can’t do anything about the cut on your neck. The chain’s in the way. The wrap on your hands will keep you away from hard duty for a couple of days, anyway.” He shook his head. “Despite our fears, Skuld has been a gift from the gods so far. Maybe this unfortunate voyage will all turn out for the best, too.”

“Just so long as we get to Chult,” Artus said. “That’s the only way I can keep taking the mindless abuse Nelock dishes out on deck—keep thinking about the ring.”

Pontifax turned serious eyes on the explorer. “What would you do to get the ring, Artus? I’ve had a lot of time to think down here, and I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Anything,” the explorer replied without hesitation.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.” Pontifax went back to stowing medical supplies. “I really don’t want to believe you, you know, but a little part of me does. I’m frightened for you, my boy.”

Artus stood and headed for the ladder to the upper decks. “Don’t worry, Pontifax, I wouldn’t murder children or do the sorts of despicable things Kaverin Ebonhand would do to possess the ring.”

“But you’d let yourself be made a slave aboard a stolen ship,” the mage said, his sapphire eyes clouded by sadness. “That’s rather telling, I think, since you say you want to use the ring to preserve freedom.” He balled Artus’s bloody shirt and tossed it into a bucket. “And if you’re willing to stoop that low, you might just be telling the truth. Maybe you would do anything for the ring.”