The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [13]
"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 Castighar, 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."
Now it was Artus's turn to shudder. "Cannibals? Gods, Theron, I've never heard of an entire goblin tribe… not unless they're realty desperate. Starving, I mean."
"Not in Cormyr or the rest of the Heartlands, but Chult might as well be another world." He nodded. "Yes, that's it. Chult was like another world. Kwee, you might as well give up on that. The fire's not doing me any good."
Kwee finished dumping an armload of wood into the huge fireplace. It was tall enough for a man to stand in without ducking and twice that in width. The blaze contained in this gaping maw cast a monstrously large shadow of the slight-framed man throughout the room. The darkness fluttered across a mummy stretched out in its glass sarcophagus, the dozens of shields and polearms hung upon the walls, the thick, embroidered drapes covering the glass doors, and the stunning self-portrait Theron had painted. The jewel-encrusted statue of a beautiful, fanged woman crouching opposite the fireplace was never touched by shadow. A light shone upon it no matter how dark the study became. No one knew exactly who the statue depicted-some ancient and long-ago abandoned demigod was the most common hypothesis. Theron liked the woman's looks,