James Lowder - The Ring of Winter

Theron sighed raggedly. "They haven't taken the pin away because they still feel you could be a very useful agent," he said. "And that's why I sponsored you as a member in the first place. You shared the group's idealism once. Now-"

"Now all I care about is finding the ring," Artus finished. "I know that's what you think, but you're wrong. I want the ring to right all the wrongs: the Harpers only talk about fighting."

The young explorer grabbed his cloak and tossed it over his shoulders. "Look, Theron, the Harpers aren't an option for me any more. And there's no one at the club beside you and Pontifax I'd trust in a tough spot. You're too sick to go back, but I'll ask Pontifax. I'm sure he'll go."

As Artus headed for the door, Theron said, "You're right. The society'll be of no help to you now. It's too rife with foppery. But the Harpers-"

His features obscured by the dancing shadows from the fire, Artus turned to face his old friend. "I know you'll tell the Harpers about this… for my own good, of course. But I'll be gone by morning. Even this city's fabled web of Harper agents won't be able to close on me that quickly." His voice was full of cold resolve, but for an instant that icy tone cracked. "Good-bye, Theron. You'll be the first to see the ring when I return."

"Take care of yourself," Theron said, but the steady thud of Artus's boots was already echoing back from the hallway.

Kwee returned to the study a moment later. "So it is as you had feared. He refused to alert the Harpers?"

Theron nodded. "I hope this wasn't a mistake, Kwee. The only thing I can do now is let the Harpers know. They'll alert the few agents they have in the South. Maybe they can help him."

The window blew open suddenly, and the heavy drapes ballooned up, borne on the cold wind whipping into the room. "It wasn't this windy when I let Artus out," Kwee noted as he ran to close the window.

"Carefully," Theron hissed, sliding a dirk from under the daybed's cushions.

As Kwee reached out to fasten the window, a black-gloved hand grabbed him. The young man needed no weapons to defend himself; like many Shou warriors, he possessed deadly hand-to-hand fighting skills. Instead of trying to pull away, he anchored a firm grip on the attacker's wrist and fell backward into the room.

The figure that tumbled stiffly in from the balcony was completely garbed in black, with a long cloak and heavy cowl hiding his features. The young Shou could feel the cold radiating from the cloaked man and quickly pressed his advantage. Before the assassin could stand, Kwee kicked him in the chest, then dropped to his knees and struck at the invader's face with the palm of his hand.

The blow, which would have killed most men, only made a sharp cracking sound and knocked the assassin's cowl back. Kwee didn't know what he expected to see, but a man made completely of ice was not it. A spider web of fractures surrounded the spot where the blow had struck the ice creature's forehead. Below this, two eyes burned blue-white in a rigid, expressionless face.

The moment of shocked surprise gave the assassin the advantage he needed. He lashed out with a rock-hard fist, shattering Kwee's skull. The young Shou dropped to the floor with a grunt.

Theron pushed himself to his feet. The assassin stood slowly and began to walk toward him. A thin film of water now coated his rigid, icy face, running down into his clothes. His wet footprints stained the carpet as he came relentlessly closer. The heat from the fireplace is melting him, Theron realized. If I can keep him at bay long enough, the fire will take care of him for me.

The explorer dropped his dagger and grabbed a boar-spear from the wall, but the polearm was far too heavy for his fever-weakened muscles. The assassin knocked it from his hands with a single blow. It was clear the fire could never finish its work in time.

As the assassin closed its black-gloved hands around Theron's throat, the explorer's mind fell away, spiraling back to the goblin camp. He stood at the brink of a circular pit. Some monstrous creature bellowed in the darkness below, waiting for the savages to push him to his doom. Spears prodded the explorer, slicing bloody ribbons from his back. Without warning the air turned numbingly cold. Theron grew certain the snow had come to rescue him once again. "The ring," he croaked. "Rayburton, use the ring."

With agonizing slowness, the cold of the assassin's icy grip became the final chill of death.

Artus had never been a patient man. That restlessness, combined with a healthy streak of irreverence, had dashed his mother's hopes for his career as a teacher with the clerks of Oghma. It had also done in his position as a scribe for the royal court, a lucrative but incredibly dull job that could only promise him a foothold in better paying, but equally stultifying government service. The Harpers had tried to channel Artus's restless energy into various short-term projects-ridding the road to Hilp of a band of cutthroat orcs, protecting dignitaries in the Dales from Zhentish assassins, and similarly routine tasks-but even those adventurous duties lost their intrigue after a few months.

Now, when Artus stood poised to once more pick up the trail of the Ring of Winter, that restlessness proved to be more painful than any torture.

He sat in a seedy room at the cheapest, most dangerous inn on the Sword Coast. That was quite a claim, but no one with any sense contested the Hanged Man's reputation. Vermin, both human and animal, called the place home, feeding off the transient sailors and criminals who made the inn a more or less safe haven for an hour or a day or a month. Fights were frequent and deadly, the floor of the taproom having long ago been stained reddish brown with dried blood. The government of Baldur's Gate sent notices to the Hanged Man from time to time, condemning the building or revoking their hostelry license; the owner of the inn, a huge half-orc with bad breath and a snoutlike nose, posted these official notices behind the bar. The wall was covered with parchment, but no one had ever come to enforce any of the edicts.

Wanted men were safer than soldiers or bounty hunters at the Hanged Man. It was for that reason Artus chose to stay there, overruling Pontifax's strident objections; even the Harpers would likely steer clear of the inn.

As he had warned Theron, Artus had left Suzail within hours of learning the ring's possible whereabouts. He'd taken only enough time to gather a few belongings from his rented room and track down Pontifax. The old mage had secured them fast passage from Suzail to Baldur's Gate. They had flown much of the way on griffons. But when they could stand the freezing journey by air no longer, they covered the last fifty of the five hundred miles as part of a merchant caravan. In all, the long trip had taken but a few days.

"Gods, I hate this place," Pontifax sniffed. He reached down to flick a thumb-sized cockroach that had just wandered boldly onto the table before him. The daylight streaming in through the broken window didn't deter the bugs in the least. The roach hissed as the mage sent it spinning end-over-end across the room.

"Chult will be worse," Artus murmured vaguely.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

Artus shrugged and sat on the room's sole, ragged bed. "You didn't have to sleep on the floor. Consider yourself lucky." He could hear the sounds of drunken snoring clearly through the wall, though that was less disturbing than the unpleasant human symphony they'd been forced to endure last night when their neighbor had been host to at least three women he'd rented for the evening.

Pushing that vivid memory from his mind as best he could, Artus pulled his notebook from his pocket. He opened to the pages he'd devoted to Theron's wild tales of the goblins and the other monsters he'd encountered in Chult. Artus had hoped to assuage his conscience, bruised by the heated exchange with the sick man, by setting his old friend's story down with the others he'd recorded. Along with his own adventures, he'd transcribed tales told to him by such notables as the great sage Elminster and Princess Alusair of Cormyr.