It was at that moment, as Artus silently lamented the foolishness around him, that one of the most obvious Warts made the worst mistake of her life.
“Here, old fellow,” an elfmaid drawled. “I hear tell Theron is back from Chult. Had another breakdown, don’t you know.” She detached herself from a small group of sniggering nobles and sauntered toward Artus. “It wouldn’t surprise me if his mind’s gone for good this time.” As an afterthought, she added, “Poor fellow.”
Fighting to hide his surprise at the news of Theron Silvermace’s return, Artus said coldly, “The only thing that could drive someone like Theron mad would be to spend too much time around the likes of you, Ariast.”
He turned his back on the woman. The eldest daughter of a family that could trace its roots back to the rulers of fabled Myth Drannor, Ariast prided herself on being haughty. She held the workaday members of the club in as little regard as they held her. Like many Warts, she gloried in any gossip that tarnished an older explorer’s reputation. Theron Silvermace, in particular, was a favorite target, especially after the crusty old soldier had suffered a mental collapse after escaping from a drow prison in the nightmarish underground city of Menzoberranzan.
“There’s no need to be so rude, Artus,” the elfmaid said, her sweet voice full of contempt.
Artus heard her stifle a chuckle. This will be trouble, he noted angrily. Ariast was known for casting cantrips on those who slighted her; the minor spells were mostly harmless, intended to embarrass the victim more than harm him. He turned to face her, hoping to give her pause before she made him belch or trip or laugh uncontrollably.
What he saw was not the pretty young elfmaid in the midst of an incantation, but the muscled back of a four-armed man standing well over seven feet tall.
“Skuld, no!”
He was too late. Before either Artus or Ariast could react, the spirit guardian grabbed the elfmaid by the wrists. “You will now know better than to harm my master, witch,” Skuld hissed through filed teeth. With a quick flex, he crushed both her wrists.
Ariast’s wail of pain brought the room to a standstill, but only for an instant. Within seconds, a dozen mages had launched spells meant to contain the spirit. Glowing spheres of blue and gold energy pelted the silver-skinned giant. A snaking band of light wrapped around him, then fell harmlessly away. Skuld’s laughter at the magical onslaught was like the jingling of his earrings, high and musical. He tossed Ariast aside like a broken doll and prepared to defend himself against two swordsmen who were moving warily toward him.
All this time, Artus tried frantically to make the spirit return to the amulet. He shouted orders. When that didn’t work, he clasped his hands together and hammered Skuld’s back. The spirit guardian did nothing to stop Artus, but he didn’t follow his commands either. It was only when Uther appeared at Artus’s side that Skuld paused.
“Please step aside, Master Cimber,” the butler warned. His slitted eyes were narrowed as he approached the spirit. He lowered his magnificent horns and prepared to charge. “I will take care of this ruffian.”
Skuld dropped his four hands to his sides, a look of surprise on his face. “You, a beast from the pit, call this little worm master?” The spirit looked at Artus and bowed respectfully. “I have underestimated you, O mighty one. Forgive this humble slave.”
That said, the spirit guardian faded into a silver cloud and flew into the medallion.
Swords found their sheaths, and mages carefully placed the components for spells back into their pockets. Uther calmly righted a table and went to help Ariast. “Hey,” one of the Stalwarts said to the butler, “that thing thought you were from the Abyss!”
Uther studied the man for a moment, then surveyed the chaos in the library. “There are times, sir,” he said blandly as he helped the whimpering Ariast to her feet, “when I myself am forced to wonder if I’m not a willing denizen of the pit.”
Artus was trying to avoid the angry glares and suspicious looks he was receiving from the other members, but it was difficult. To harm another Stalwart, even unintentionally, was considered highly improper. This would mean yet another conduct review by the president.
“Oh my,” Pontifax murmured. The mage was at Artus’s side, a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “If that Skuld character respects you because he thinks you’re mighty enough to command creatures from the Abyss …”
“Then he must be used to dealing with extremely powerful and unquestionably evil masters,” Artus noted. “Look, Pontifax, I think it would be best if I just went home and stayed there until Zin discovers a way to get this thing off of me.”
“Well, er, that might be for the best,” the mage said. He turned away from Artus. “It’s just, well, Theron Silvermace is back from Chult and …”
“And what?” Artus prompted.
Pontifax lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s asked to see you tonight, my boy. He says he knows where you can find the Ring of Winter.”
Two
“It was horrible, Artus, simply horrible.”
Theron Silvermace’s features resembled a corpse’s more than a fifty-year-old man’s. His hair was bone white, and it cascaded in long, wild strands around his head. The skin hung in loose jowls from his cheeks. The jagged scar running across the bridge of his nose was a new wound, as was the pulped mass of one ear. Dark circles rimmed his sunken brown eyes, which only heightened the frantic look in them.
“The goblins were the worst of it.” Theron shuddered, then pulled the heavy blanket up to his chin and shrank back into the pillows piled behind him on the daybed. “Kwee, can’t you get that fire burning any higher?”
“I will try,” came the subdued response from the young man standing at the fireplace. The words sounded hollow and tinny in the cavernous room.
Artus swore silently. It was already as hot as a Flamerule afternoon in the study. He mopped at his brow with a handkerchief and tugged at the collar of his tunic where it was chafing his neck. After the cold evening air, this heat was brutal.
His discomfort was not lost on Theron. For the first time that evening, a tiny spark of mirth lit his eyes. “This heat’s nothing compared to the days in Chult,” he murmured. “Bearers dropping like coins into a collection plate on a high holy day. You sweat so badly the clothes rot off your back.” He looked almost wistful for an instant. “I’d suffer it again to get rid of this awful chill.”
“Maybe if you added my cloak to the blankets,” Artus offered, reaching for the heavy wool garment.
“No, no,” Theron said, then paused. “What was I—oh yes. The goblins …” The haunted look swept over his face again as he renewed his tale. “It was five days out of the station at Port Castigliar, on Refuge Bay. We were searching for the ruins of a lost Tabaxi city—”
“Mezro?” Artus asked.
Theron nodded. “The heat had claimed a few of the bearers, and Sigerth, the only one from the club brave enough—or foolish enough—to go with me, died from fever. I’m afraid that’s what’s got me now,” he noted without self-pity.
“The goblins came at night. My guide warned me about them—Batiri, he called the monsters—but we were supposed to be well away from their usual hunting territory.” Theron shook his head. “Maybe he wasn’t such a good guide after all. Anyway, they ate him first, so he got what was coming to him. The bearers went next.”