James Lowder - The Ring of Winter

Outside the tin hut, in the fresh air of the sunny afternoon, Artus realized how badly he smelled of sweat and spilled wine. He tried to move away from Ibn, certain he was offending the man, but the shopkeep seemed intent on helping him walk. Together they made their way across the compound to the large barrels of rainwater at the side of the supply depot. A bucket had already been drawn for Artus to use. Next to it lay a cake of soap, a silver straight razor, and a covered dish.

"This will settle your stomach," Ibn said, lifting the round cover from a fist-sized lump of dark bread. "Do not ask what is in it."

Artus sniffed the bread and wrinkled his nose. It smelted distinctly like fish-was that a bit of tentacle peeking out from the bottom? "Er, thanks. I guess."

"Eat the whole thing," Ibn chided. "That is the only cure for the pounding in your head."

Ibn headed back to the depot, leaving Artus to wash up. The explorer scrubbed himself clean, then scratched at the thick stubble on his chin. With a sigh, he lathered up the soap and set to work.

As he scraped away his fledgling beard, Artus watched the activity on the white sand beach. Some of the men and women who worked as bearers in Port Castigliar manned long fishing poles. Others cleaned and prepared vegetables for the evening meal. A few small children raced after the long-legged sea birds that hugged the shore, sending them shrieking into the sky. With methodical care, Inyanga gathered driftwood and spread it in the sun to dry. The port's inhabitants would use it for fires instead of chopping down the living trees nearby.

After rinsing his now smooth-shaven face, Artus sniffed at the bread again. Maybe they chop up the leftover driftwood and put it in here, too, he thought. The explorer took a bite of the roll. As he'd suspected, it tasted fishy. There were chewy bits, too. Squid, maybe. Or octopus. He refused to consider any of the more exotic possibilities. Yet, as Ibn had promised, the bread settled his stomach and drove away his headache.

Inyanga soon ran out of driftwood to gather and wandered to Artus's side. "Have you seen the marker my father made for him?"

"No. Let's take a look at it," Artus said, steeling himself for the sight. When he took a step, he felt as if he were walking in thick mud. Obviously, the bread hadn't countered all the aftereffects of the wine just yet.

At the edge of the graveyard, Artus paused. He knew where Pontifax was buried; he'd helped Ibn dig the grave himself. But there were two plots of freshly turned earth, not one.

"That is where we buried Kwame Zanj, the guide," Inyanga said solemnly. "His brother Judar brought back his body yesterday. He loved the port, so he asked to be buried here."

"What?" Artus sputtered. "The guide is dead? What about the woman who left the port with him?"

"She is dead, too," Ibn said. The shopkeep had returned from the depot and stood behind Artus, a younger man at his side. "Judar says the party from the Narwhal was attacked by the Batiri, do you see? Kwame struggled home to his village, but his wounds were too serious. That is why I wanted you to meet this young fellow," Ibn interjected, seeing the shock and confusion play across Artus's face. "He wishes to become Port Castigliar's guide, to earn money for his family just as Kwame did."

The young man nodded his agreement. He was of slight build; that was obvious even through the flowing white robes he wore. Artus had read enough about the cultures of Chult to know that white, not black, was the color of death and mourning here. "Brave Kwame rests in the house of Ubtao now," Judar said in a high, lisping voice.

"And the woman who was with your brother?" Artus pressed. "Did she die in your village, too?"

"No. The Batiri took her away to their camp," Judar said, a tremor of fear in his voice. "She and the other one are surely dead now."

"The other one?" Artus asked.

Judar looked down at the ground. "A flame-haired white man, tall and ill-tempered. Kwame asked me to search for him and the woman, but we found only the remains of their camp. It is a dishonor to our family that Kwame led the strangers to disaster."

Artus pulled Ibn aside. "There's something not right about this," he said. "He's describing Kaverin, but I just can't believe that vermin is dead."

"I can tell you this," Ibn said. "I have met Judar once before, not long ago, and this one seems to be the same boy. He may be working for Kaverin, but you have no choice but to trust him if you wish to get moving, do you see? Without a guide you will be lost in the jungle."

"And with a guide, I may be walking into a trap," Artus concluded.

As Artus turned to Judar, the young man smiled obsequiously. "I will help you, master. I know the jungle for miles in every direction," He cocked his head, and his large, pale eyes flashed strangely in the sunlight.

"Perhaps," the explorer murmured. He looked past the others to the graveyard.

"If you do not go on," Ibn whispered in his ear, "the Cult of Frost will have already won. Sir Hydel will have died in vain."

That statement of common sense jarred Artus's conscience. The despair he'd been wallowing in, the self-pity, fell back before the shocking realization he was doing his old friend a disservice by not moving ahead with the quest. "I have a map," Artus said. "It's in the hut. We can look at it… in a little while. All right, Judar?"

Without waiting for a reply, Artus walked toward Pontifax's grave. Clean and white, its edges still undulled by rain, the headstone hunched before the dark mound. Ibn had carved a graceful scroll around the inscription: Sir Hydel Pontifax of Cormyr.

The explorer crouched down, feeling the sun pound down on his pale back and shoulders. The medallion's chain seemed to drink in the heat, and soon it was stinging the back of his neck. He ignored the discomfort.

After a time, Inyanga appeared and crouched beside Artus. "It is a good marker," Artus said, "but it's missing something… and I think I know what it is."

The boy followed at Artus's heels as he crossed the compound to his hut. Inside, the explorer tore open Pontifax's pack and scattered the mage's clothes. It has to be here.

Artus told himself. Pontifax never went anywhere without it. Maybe it's in with his spell components… Ah, success!

Artus held up a small medal, made of the purest Cormyrian silver, with a lightning bolt engraved upon it. Around the edges wound the inscription: Order of the Golden Way. He handed it to Inyanga. "Sir Hydel was awarded this for his service to our king on a great crusade," Artus said. "He was very proud of it."

"My father can set this in the stone," the boy said, nodding sagely.

"And I think I know what other words need to be written beneath it," Artus added.

By sunset that evening, Ibn had set Pontifax's medal beneath the scroll that held his name. Across the face of the white stone, he chiseled these final words: Healer amp; Loyal Friend. Artus could think of no better words to accompany his comrade to the Realm of the Dead.

The expedition set off into the jungle two days later-Artus, Judar, and six bearers. The guide went about his duties, trying hard to earn the explorer's respect. The youth quickly proved his knowledge of the area, or at least the route Theron's map delineated.

Artus missed Pontifax's expertise as soon as he left Port Castigliar. The bearers spoke only their native Tabaxi, and Artus only knew enough of the tongue to struggle through the most rudimentary exchanges. Judar, who spoke fluent Common, was an amiable, if somewhat self-deprecating, conversationalist. He smiled readily and was quick to laugh, though his chuckling was coarse, as if he were amused at some obscene jest everyone else had missed. Artus found it hard to talk with him, so he ordered the guide to march in front once they got underway. Letting the young man set the pace meant he could watch him closely and scan the brush for signs of an ambush.