James Lowder - The Ring of Winter

A gout of flame devoured the parchment in Pontifax's hands. After the mage dusted the ashes from his palm, he sighed. "Thank you for watching over these things."

Ibn bowed. "Any Harper would do the same." He settled back against the wall. "Theron would not tell me what he found in the jungle, saying only that it was not a Harper matter and I would be safer if I did not know about it."

"He was wise not to tell you," Artus said. "There are many who would stop at nothing to gain information about our quest."

He peeled his wet, sweat-soaked shirt off and dropped it to the floor. Old scars-some small, some long and twisted-marred his back and stomach. The medallion hung heavily on its chain, still encased in a cast of solid white paste. Artus studied the now-lifeless medallion, then shrugged on the tunic Theron had left for him. "It's light and very cool. And," he added, flipping the hood over his head, "this will keep the sun off quite nicely."

"You look like a monk," Pontifax chuckled. "Brother Artus of Oghma to the rescue."

Artus pulled the hood down. "Perhaps I should reconsider my calling if I look so dashing in this," he said. "I'm certain Zin would have me back in the order if I asked."

"These men who are after you," Ibn interrupted, "are they Zhentarim? I have seen the marks left by the tortures they employ. Yours are very much like them."

Artus lifted his shirt and traced a puckered line across his stomach. "You're very observant, Ibn. The scars-most of them, anyway-I got in the dungeons of Zhentil Keep, at the hands of the Zhentarim. They aren't the ones who tried to kill me aboard the Narwhal, though. They favor magic over brute force, so they would never have been so crass as to push me overboard during a battle."

"You know," Pontifax said, "it could be the Red Wizards. Maybe that's why they took your journal." He gave Artus a stern look. "After all, you stole it from them in the first place."

Artus frowned and crossed his arms. "Or it could be the Slashing Skulls, or the assassins' guild of Iriaebor, or those lunatic halflings from the Shar, or any one of fifty groups that'd like to see me dead." He paused and took a deep breath. "It could even be Kaverin Ebonhand, for all we know. This has Cult of Frost written all over it."

"Wait a moment," Ibn said. "I'd heard Kaverin Ebonhand was dead."

"You're right," Pontifax said glumly. "Kaverin was dead, the bastard. We killed him ourselves not three years ago."

"But, if you killed him…?"

Artus picked up the bow, which very nearly matched his height. As he braced it against the wall to string it, he asked, "You've heard how Kaverin lost his hands for murdering a Harper?" When Ibn nodded, the explorer continued. "After that sordid business, he swore to kill me and Pontifax. We clashed now and then, especially after he murdered his way to the head of the Cult of Frost. Anyway, one day in Tantras, he slipped up and we caught him."

"I blasted him to pieces with a lightning bolt," Pontifax noted grimly.

Artus studied one of the arrows and fit it to the bow. "We should have dealt with him sword-to-sword or called in the local watch, but he'd found his way out of their jails a hundred times before."

With a quick pull, Artus fired the arrow across the hut. It split the skull of the snake that was in the process of crawling through a gap beneath the rear wall. The serpent's head was as large as a man's fist. "The end result of all this is Pontifax and I are still wanted for Kaverin's murder in Tantras. The government was annoyed at us interfering with their local problems-even if they knew Kaverin was a murderer and worse-so they tried to haul us in on a dozen different charges."

"But if you killed him…?" Ibn prompted.

"Some say Kaverin made a pact with the Lord of the Dead, but that may be a myth." Artus tossed the bow aside. "We do know that he came back from the dead, as rotten as ever, and he's never slipped up again. The Cult of Frost now shields him from everything. We haven't even been close to catching him in three years, though he keeps trying to kill us."

In the silence that followed, Ibn pulled the arrow from the snake's skull. "This is a fine shot, Master Cimber," he said, "but do not be so cavalier about what you kill in the jungle. More importantly, you must never leave a creature's corpse lying about. If you do not eat it, burn it." He pulled the rest of the snake-all five feet of it-into the hut. "It is too bad Theron chose the menu for dinner tonight. These are quite good when cooked correctly."

"Theron picked the menu?" Pontifax asked.

"That was his gift for you, Sir Hydel," Ibn replied. " 'A good meal for Pontifax before he's subjected to trail rations for days on end.' "

"I always said that man knew how to live," Pontifax said happily. Yet as he followed Ibn out of the hut he warily eyed the snake coiled around the shopkeep's arms. Just what, he wondered, did the natives of Chult consider a good meal?

A clatter on the hut's tin roof woke Artus. He sat up, dagger in hand, even before he realized he was fully awake.

The gem in the dagger's hilt lit the room enough for Artus to see there was no immediate danger. The rain had stopped hours ago, the drumming of raindrops replaced by the soft roll of the ocean and the steady, faraway blanket of sounds of the jungle. It was still dark outside; he could tell that much from the gaps around the door and the hole at the base of the back wall. Pontifax snored sonorously, well-fed upon a meal of fish, koko-yams, plantain, and palm wine. Had he dreamed the noise? Perhaps a monkey had leaped from a tree and-

Something struck the door and a voice cried out, high and filled with fright.

Artus leaped to the door and braced himself against it. "Pontifax, quick!"

Startled from a deep sleep and a pleasant dream of a room in Cormyr's finest inn, the mage was slow to his feet. "What's going on?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes with awkward fingers.

"Help, Father!"

"Mystra's wounds!" Pontifax cried. "That's Inyanga!" Artus stepped to one side of the door, then pulled it open. A tall figure, pale and ghostly by the fight of Artus's dagger, blocked the way. Its body was made entirely of crystal-clear ice. The explorer had faced assassins like this before, minions of the Cult of Frost, conjured servants of Kaverin Ebonhand.

Cursing, Artus grabbed for the door. The frost minion lashed out, knocking the sheet of metal from its hinges. The door crashed to the ground. Swiftly the explorer jumped back, but the assassin grabbed him by the front of his tunic and lifted him from the ground. It raised one massive fist to strike.

A tiny ball of fire hissed across the hut. It struck the frost minion in the side, then burrowed in. The assassin probably didn't feel any pain, but it was sentient enough to sense danger. It dropped Artus and tried to dig the ember out. Too late. The pinpoint of fire exploded, and the minion's clear body filled with flame, then shattered into a thousand shards.

Artus wiped a line of blood from his cheek where one of the larger shards had grazed him. The other fragments had been too small to do any damage.

The mage smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," he said. "A bit of an overreaction."

"At least we know it's Kaverin," Artus said. He gestured to the scattered shards of ice. "This is like an engraved calling card."

There was noise in the compound now-doors being flung open, shouts of alarm, and the clatter of weapons. Artus charged outside and was immediately knocked to the ground from above. The roof! He tumbled, feeling icy hands fumble for his throat.

When Artus stopped rolling, another of Kaverin's frost minions was on top of him, its weight crushing the air from his lungs. Its arms were as thick around as fenceposts, its hands like dwarven hammers. It turned its smooth, eyeless face toward Artus and reached for his throat, but the explorer struck with his dagger. The enchanted blade carved a deep furrow in the assassin's arm. Another frantic blow, and the limb shattered. Water dripped down on Artus as the thing loomed over him, melting even as it tried to choke him with its one remaining arm.