Lugg spit out a chunk of tentacle and ran. Artus was about to follow on the wombat’s furiously kicking heels when he saw his journal had been jarred from his pocket by the fall. He thought to reach back for the book, but a horrifying noise stopped him.
Grumog roared and lunged at Artus, mouth open wide. The explorer managed to dodge the clumsy attack, but the creature did succeed in tearing up a large section of the pit’s floor. Grumog chewed up the earthen victim. Sadly, it found no bones to crush, no flesh to rend. It did, however, get a surprise.
Along with the rocks and dirt, Grumog had gobbled up Artus’s journal.
When the beast bit down upon the wyvern-hide binding, its spadelike teeth shredded the tough covering—and thus broke the enchantment placed upon the book long ago by the Red Wizards of Thay. Thousands of pages spewed out of the journal when the binding snapped. Grumog tried to push them out of its mouth, but there were simply too many of them. The lizard-thing gagged. Twitching and gasping for breath, it fell over and kicked its feet futilely. Then the god of the Batiri died.
Artus walked silently to the creature’s bead. Its mouth had been forced so wide by the paper that the lower jaw hung at an impossible angle, broken. A few pages floated free of Grumog’s mouth and drifted to the ground. Artus picked up one of these. The top read; The tale of Elminster at the magefair, as told to me by the Sage of Shadowdale himself. Most of the text had been sheared off by one of Grumog’s teeth.
He crumpled the page and let it fall.
The journal had contained his whole life, everything he’d done as an adventurer and all that he’d learned from the sages and heroes of Faerûn. Even when it had been stolen aboard the Narwhal, Artus knew somehow he would get it back. Now it was gone for good, irrevocably destroyed.
“That was quite a trick,” Byrt said, nosing one of the pieces of parchment. “It goes to show the power of a good book.”
The larger wombat trundled to his fellow’s side. “Leave ’im alone,” Lugg growled. “Can’t you see ’e ain’t thrilled about this?”
Artus absently gathered up his unstrung bow, a few stray pieces of discarded clothing, his quiver of arrows, and the now-smoldering torch. Without a word, he headed off down the tunnel, backtracking Grumog’s trail. The wombats fell in behind him, keeping a respectable distance.
“I think he can help us,” Byrt whispered.
Lugg shook his head mournfully. “I don’t think anyone’s likely to ’elp us.”
Grinning so broadly all his wide teeth showed, Byrt replied, “Give him a chance, old sport. I think our Master Cimber is a good fellow, if a bit at sea right now.” He looked up at the man shuffling down the tunnel, shoulders slumped, head bowed. “Anyway, I think he could use our help, poor chap.” He picked up the pace, trying to catch up to the explorer.
“I wonder what ’orrible thing ’e did to deserve that,” Lugg mumbled, then hurried after the others.
Kaverin Ebonhand leaned back in his chair and placed the back of one hand to his forehead. The black stone remained cool, even in the most unfriendly of climes. Currently, it was doing a fine job of soothing the headache he had developed the moment Artus disappeared into the pit.
“What do you think the punishment is for murdering Batiri warriors?” Phyrra asked, nervously cleaning her glasses with the hem of her tunic.
The decor of the room they occupied suggested many gruesome possibilities. Like much of the goblin queen’s two-story palace, the main motif here was human bones and animal skins, though this particular room was rife with skulls. The bleached relics of meals past grinned from the walls, the tables, and even the backs of chairs. Small and large, human and inhuman, they kept perpetual, sightless watch on the prisoners.
Kaverin chuckled bitterly. “Allowing Cimber to escape was the worst punishment they could have inflicted upon me, my dear.” He gestured to Feg, and the winged monkey fanned him more fervently.
“He might be dead, you know.”
That hopeful statement only turned Kaverin’s mood more sour. “Impossible,” he scoffed, “You heard the clatter from the pit. Did it sound to you as if that—that—thing the goblins worship simply chewed Cimber up? He was armed, for Cyric’s sake! Could this Grumog succeed where I have failed, despite the efforts of six long years?”
The sorceress silently returned her attention to the Mulhorandi artifact she had taken from Artus, which still hung around Kaverin’s neck. The medallion was very, very old and exceedingly interesting. She had added two more glyphs to the white damper surrounding the silver coin. Now Phyrra took up her charcoal one last time. “I’ve already broken the enchantment that made it impossible to remove the medallion, as well as the one limiting Skuld’s servitude to moments when his master is in danger.” She made two quick strokes. “This one will free him from his imprisonment. You’ll have a sleepless guardian who never has to leave your side.”
With a final cross of the charcoal stick, Phyrra completed the magical symbol. The white casing cracked, then flaked away. Silver light radiated from the medallion. The sorceress covered her eyes, but Kaverin found himself mesmerized. The tiny, four-armed figure on the front of the disk writhed in pain. It grew larger and larger, until it could barely crouch within the confines of the circular prison. The medallion warped and, finally, disappeared in a burst of energy.
When the spots cleared from Kaverin’s eyes, he found Skuld standing before him. The Mulhorandi guardian spirit held Phyrra by the front of her blouse. “Your spell made me fail to protect my master, witch,” Skuld rumbled. “For that you shall die.”
“No,” Kaverin said calmly. He dangled the twisted remnant of the medallion before him on its chain. “I, Kaverin Ebonhand, am your master now. Let the woman alone.”
His silver eyebrows knit in consternation, Skuld dropped Phyrra unceremoniously to the floor. He planted two of his hands on his hips, rubbed his chin with another, and reached for the medallion with a fourth. Kaverin ducked out of the chain and handed it to him.
“Only the one who wears this has the right to control me” Skuld noted. “You relinquish that right so easily?”
“Of course not,” said Kaverin smugly. “The glyphs the young lady added to the disk make you my slave, whether I wear the medallion or not. You must protect me and do my bidding … forever.”
“Until you die,” Skuld corrected. “I will be free when you die.” He crushed the chain and the fragments of the silver medallion into a ball.
Kaverin smiled. “Then you will never be free. Moreover, you are going to help me find a ring that will make certain I don’t ever have to see the Realm of the Dead again. First, though, we—”
The door to the room creaked open, and Queen M’bobo sauntered in. At her side was Balt, the leader of the Batiri warriors and her consort. While the queen’s face showed little emotion, the veins on the general’s neck were bulging with suppressed anger. Neither seemed particularly surprised to see Skuld, and they disregarded his presence with the unthinking bravado of royalty. Kaverin understood their confidence; the entire village would tear him to shreds if he harmed their beloved queen.
“We no kill you now,” Balt said, disappointment clear in every broken word.
Kaverin bowed and gestured to his silver guardian. “My thanks for your consideration. This is Skuld. He is my manservant, just arrived from parts unknown.”
With practiced disinterest, M’bobo eyed the servant. His double set of arms was no more strange to her than the light-skinned humans who had begun to appear in her jungle. “Maybe he do,” she murmured. “You meat or metal?”
Skuld remained silent, but Kaverin quickly filled the awkward lapse. “Do for what?” he asked.