The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [118]
Perhaps you can tell us your reasons, said the woman wrapped in flames.
The old weaponsmith was not so kind. He insults Ubtao and the city! It is our duty to end his life!
Artus pointed toward the Harpers' symbol at the center of the glowing pattern. "There are other cities in the world that need protection, other peoples who need to be defended against creatures like the Batiri," he said. "I will fight for Mezro, but not exclusively. I cannot be a bara."
The assembled heroes faded from view, followed quickly by the starry sky and the vast stone plain. Once more Artus stood in the modest chamber. At the heart of the faint circle of light, the explorer looked up into the silent darkness above him. "I need the ring," he said. "Please, let me take it and go."
One who is wise enough to pass my test should know I never would have prevented you from doing just as you wished. My law is simply that, my law. You must follow it only if you choose to do so, only if you give me that power over you.
To Artus's right, not a dozen steps away, the Ring of Winter floated in the darkness. The simple band of gold turned slowly, and it seemed to Artus the faintest glimmer of starlight winked seductively off its frost-flecked curves. With a trembling hand, he reached out for the artifact, the thing that had consumed a decade of his life.
Holding the ring was much like gripping the magical lightning bolts conjured from T'fima's ensorcelled diamonds; the gold band vibrated with power. It also burned Artus's fingers with its intense cold. Frost crept down his forefinger and thumb, then worked its way across his palm. Artus hardly noticed, so stunned was he to actually hold the fabled Ring of Winter.
How long he stood there, Artus could not tell, but his entire hand and half his arm were covered in a thin coat of ice when he next realized where he was. He flexed, sending a shower of ice fragments to the floor. Then, clutching the Ring of Winter in a numb fist, he ran for the door.
When Artus stepped through the archway into the Hall of Champions, he was greeted by the groans of the wounded stretched out beneath the statues. Bodies almost hid the floor, and the explorer had to pick his way carefully to avoid treading on any of the unfortunates.
"Help me here!"
The plea came from a young woman at Artus's feet. She was wrestling with a boy, trying in vain to keep him still while she straightened his broken leg for splinting. The boy would have none of it. He thrashed about, shouting, "I must go back to the battle. They need me!"
When Artus kneeled to grab the boy, he saw it was the same bright young man who had led him to Ras T'fima. "You can't get back to the fight unless you let them help you," he said.
The boy calmed a bit, and when the woman pulled his leg straight, he only cried out a little. Tears of pain in his eyes, he forced a half-smile. "I'll be better by the afternoon. You'll see."
Artus hurried on, the cold eyes of the statues following his progress. A strange feeling stole over him as he glanced back at the unblinking stone faces; perhaps they really were watching him now, gathered in Ubtao's home in the sky. He heard their displeasure in the moans of the wounded, saw their disappointment in the staring eyes of a dead warrior's corpse.
I'll change their minds soon enough, Artus vowed as he pushed open the door to the plaza.
The burning fields lit up the night, and by that light Artus could see the city was in ruins. Gaping holes pockmarked some buildings in the Scholars' Quarter. Others had been reduced to nibble, only stray pillars marking the site of their glory. Goblin archers lined the roofs of the few buildings still standing. They fired flaming arrows at the human warriors and set more buildings ablaze back toward the library. Overhead, pteradons soared unopposed through the shroud of smoke, shrieking in triumph.
The line of Mezroan defenders had retreated, almost to