The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [44]
Artus had managed to keep to himself for much of the trip, but it proved impossible to avoid Judar that evening. The guide came to him as soon as the meal was finished and the watch set. "You are not a talkative man," Judar observed, more a question than a statement.
Quietly, Artus ran his dagger along a sharpening stone. The light from the gem in its grip cast long shadows across his face, making him look quite dangerous. "I just don't have anything to say to you, Judar."
The guide pursed his lips. "I… I have heard about the death of your friend," he began tentatively. "I am sorry. I just lost my brother, so I know what you feel."
"Perhaps." Again Artus scraped the blade along the stone. "We'll be at Kitcher's Folly by tomorrow night, if I read the map right."
"If we keep up this pace, we will have time to make camp at the statue before the sun sets."
"And the trail ends there?"
Judar paused. "You know it does, Master Cimber. The map says so." His expression darkened. "I know you do not trust me. A man who has assassins of ice trying to take his life should trust no one." To Artus's suspicious look, the guide replied, "The bearers told me about it. Don't think I could have been in camp a day without hearing of such fantastic things."
"You're right. I don't trust you," Artus warned. "But if you can figure that out, you should be wise enough to leave me alone."
Judar abruptly stood. "When the trail ends, you will need to trust me, Master Cimber." He laughed coarsely, eyes flashing in the firelight. "I do not mean to mock, but you will get nowhere in the jungle without trust."
Artus watched as the guide went back to his tent. My first impression was right, he decided. There's definitely something dangerous about him.
A swarm of finger-long mosquitoes settled over Artus, and he used the hood of his cloak to scatter them. He retreated from the night, dagger and sharpening stone in hand, for the refuge of his tent. The netting kept the larger insects out, but, as always, a small army of pests had invaded the tent in his absence. He killed a few, which sent the others scrambling for the doorflap.
For much of that night and all the next day, Artus pondered his dilemma. With Kaverin and the cult after the Ring of Winter-for there could be no other reason for their presence in Chult-he could trust no one. Neither could he accept the story that Kaverin was dead. The stone-handed murderer had escaped greater threats than goblin cannibals before. He was crafty and resourceful-resourceful enough to plant a spy in Artus's expedition, just as he had set the elven first mate aboard the Narwhal against the explorer.
Yet the guide was right in one thing: Artus would need someone to help him navigate through the jungle. No tribesman had passed them in two days, and the trail had all but vanished beneath a carpet of twisting vines and decaying leaves. The canopy had closed completely overhead, plunging the expedition into a twilight broken only infrequently by slants of pale sunlight. They had passed beyond the lands traveled by any but the very brave or the very foolish.
Artus found himself checking their heading more and more with his dagger. The centaurs of Tribe Pastilar had not only enchanted the weapon to give off a perpetual light, but it could also be used as a compass. By holding his dagger flat in his palm and speaking the centaur chieftain's name, the blade pointed due north. The dagger