The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [6]
Artus frowned and counted off a few of the more major unpleasantries they'd faced because of the quest. Let's see, first were the murder charges in Tantras, then the undead halflings in Thay, then the frost giants north of Zhentil Keep. There's the Cult of Frost, of course… He sighed. For almost as long as Artus had hunted the ring, Kaverin Ebonhand and his villainous Cult of Frost had dogged his every step.
"You are disturbing my rest, lackey of Oghma."
The voice was deeper than any Artus had ever heard, and it seemed to be coming from him. There was also a rumble of feet on the pegged floor as three people ran for the door. Artus opened his eyes, only to find Zin staring right back at him.
"Most unusual," the scholar said calmly. He saw Artus looking at him and pointed straight up.
There, above Artus, hovered the head and upper body of a ghostly silver figure-the statue come to life. A snarl twisted the bald phantom's lips, revealing a row of glinting teeth filed to savage points. "Should I tear the nosy one limb from limb, O mighty one?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Of course not!" Artus yelped. He glanced at the pendant banging around his neck. A trail of silver smoke rose from it to the apparition.
The spirit snorted in derision, then tossed his head back and laughed, a move that made the interlocking silver rings dangling from his ears bob and jingle. "Another dolt," he chuckled. "That is my curse, I suppose, to be servant to idiots and dolts." With exaggerated deference, he placed the palms of both sets of hands together and bowed. "If that is all, O master of men and beasts?"
The silver phantom disappeared without waiting for a reply.
"Yes… most unusual," Zin repeated. He casually rolled down his sleeves and retied them at the wrist.
"Can you tell me what that was all about?"
"It should be obvious, really. The statue you found was a housing for some sort of phantom servant. The four arms make him a better guardian, more dextrous at menial tasks, and so on." The scholar pointed to the medallion. "His name, I believe, is Skuld. The piece has an early forgemark from the city of Bezantur on it, so I assume it to date from, oh, thirteen to fourteen hundred years ago. I wonder how it got to that ruin in the Stonelands?"
Artus took a swallow from the mug set beside him. "So he's very old and has a cheery name. That doesn't help me a great deal. What is Skuld supposed to do?"
Zin sighed. "Their antiquity makes the runes on the back of the medallion difficult to translate, but I managed a few: protect, danger, and eternity."
"Eternity? You mean I'm stuck with this forever?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. The word is part of the inscription, but I can't fathom the context. Skuld reared his bald head before I could get that far." The scholar buttoned his vest, then cleared his throat noisily. "Gather your coat if you wish to keep it," he said.
Before Artus could ask why, the owner of the Black Rat stormed out of the kitchens. He was a big man, with wavy black hair banging into his eyes. Artus might have wondered if the tavernkeeper could see clearly, save that he headed straight for Zin. Grease and ale stains spotted the apron around his waist and the shirt that partially covered his hairy chest. In one massive hand the Rat's owner held a meat cleaver. The other was balled into a fist. "I don't mind magic in my place," he shouted, "but if you scare my customers away, you're not welcome."
Sure enough, only the barmaid remained in the taproom. The other customers had wisely bolted for the street the moment the spirit had appeared. The paladin's breakfast remained half-eaten, and the Sembian sailors had spilled their drinks and toppled their chairs on the way out.
"Sorry