The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [3]
The mage squeezed through the space between Artus's feet and the wall. His frown was matched by the one on the younger man's face, though Artus's was four times larger. Hydel walked slowly from one end of the room to the other, studying the unfortunate giant. "Ah, there's the culprit, I would imagine."
He pointed at the gaping hole in the front of Artus's coat, where the creature had bitten through. There, dangling on a fine silver chain, was a medallion emblazoned with the image of a bald, four-armed man. The silver disk gave off a wan white radiance, even in the direct glare of Pontifax's conjured globe of light. "You touched that Mulhorandi statue, didn't you?"
"Oh no!" Artus opened the collar of his coat and tried to remove the chain. It wouldn't budge.
"Leave it alone, Artus."
"But we can't leave me-"
"I need to think about this for a moment," the mage said. "Now, be a good soldier and stand down." His command had a biting edge, one gained from years in the Cormyrian army. Though the young man's frown deepened, he did as he was told.
Pontifax nodded and studied the medallion for a time. "Does it burn where it touches your skin?"
"No."
"Tingle?"
"No."
"Hmmmm." The mage steepled his fingers and stared at the silver disk. Then he stepped forward, murmured a few words of magic, and grabbed the medallion's edge. Nothing happened.
That experiment complete, Pontifax dusted a patch of floor and sat down. "The statue itself is gone, so it must have transformed somehow. I don't think it's got a curse on it, so the chain probably won't constrict until it strangles you or some such grisly thing. Still, the enchantment's not altogether friendly. It must have warped my spell somehow, just to make you grow."
Artus examined the medallion. "At least that little stunt frightened away the creature."
Pontifax nodded. "As I said, I don't think the thing's cursed. Still, it would be best if we found a wizard more familiar with Mulhorandi magic before we try to remove it."
"And my size?"
"Will probably be back to normal in a little while, so be a good soldier and wait it out." He paused, considering his next question carefully before asking it. "Has the possibility crossed your mind that there might be another curse at work here?"
"The Curse of the Ring is a myth, Pontifax," Artus snapped. His brown eyes narrowed and darkened, taking on the color of a hard-packed earthen road. "You should know that by now. We've been hunting for the Ring of Winter for almost ten years. If rumors of the curse were true, you'd think it would have caught up to us by now."
Silence hung heavy in the chamber. Ostensibly they had come to the ruined keep, set in the rough foothills of northwestern Cormyr known as the Stonelands, to recover artifacts. Whatever ancient coins or jewelry, vases or artwork they found would then be sold to King Azoun IV for a sizeable profit. Yet the driving motivation for Artus's trek to the desolate and dangerous ruins was the Ring of Winter. Over the past decade, the search for that almost mythical band of metal had become the motivation for the young man's entire life.
All that was known for certain of the ring had been gleaned from ancient histories. It had been forged by a mage of staggering power at a time when the countries that now make up the continent of Faerun were little more than scattered villages. Throughout the ages, men and women had hunted it, for it was rumored to grant unbelievable powers to the person wielding it. Exactly what those powers were varied from legend to legend, but every account agreed upon two things: the Ring of Winter contained the magical might to bring an age of ice down upon Faerun, and the ring granted immortality to anyone who wore it.
"The 'mythical' curse, as you call it, has caught up with everyone who has ever hunted the ring," Pontifax ventured at last. "Someone beloved