by James Lowder
The young woman nodded and drew the knife Kwalu had given her. "If we reach the goblin camp while it's still daylight, they'll be sleeping. We can spy on them until the other warriors arrive… unless, of course, an opportunity to rescue Father presents itself."
Both Sanda and Kwalu turned to Artus, as if they expected him to hedge at the prospect. He strolled to the edge of the trail that led deeper into the jungle, "I fought my way out of the camp once. Going to spy on them with you two should be as easy as finding a crooked tax collector in Sembia." At their blank looks, he said, "A hungry dinosaur in a swamp?"
For the first time, Artus saw Kwalu smile. The warrior thumped his spear against his shield. "A dead Batiri near Mezro," he corrected. "So you fought your way out of the goblin camp, eh?"
"It was hardly the stuff of bardic songs," Artus said. "But if you're interested, I'll tell you about it on the way."
Twelve
Skuld pressed both sets of palms together and bowed deeply. "The wards are complete, master. No one else may look into this room with magic."
"Fine," Kaverin said. He resumed his pacing, clacking the knuckles of his jet-black hands together with every third step. At last he turned to Lord Rayburton. "You know, milord, I'm beginning to believe you about the ring."
His hands bound firmly behind his back, his legs lashed securely to the chair, Rayburton didn't bother trying to see his captor's face. Kaverin always paced behind the chair, where he remained hidden. Even in Rayburton's time in Cormyr this had been an old interrogation trick; without being able to read body language or expression, the prisoner could use only his ears to judge anything told to him.
"Then you can let me go," the nobleman said. "Byrt, too."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. Your gray-furred friend is going to be a present to the goblin queen, since the winged spy your fellows killed was technically hers," Kaverin said. He clucked his tongue. "Besides, the goblins are having a victory celebration tonight, and you can't leave before that's over with. They might even serve the talking pig-bear, knowing them. I wonder what he tastes like?"
"Pig-bear!" Byrt exclaimed. "Hardly, sir. I am a wombat. W-O-"
Skuld's silver foot descended onto the top of the cramped wooden cage. "Silence, little one. The goblins can eat you whether I pull your teeth out or not."
Byrt opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Sulking, the little gray wombat huddled against the bars and waited.
"Look," Rayburton said, "you believe me when I say I don't have the Ring of Winter. My daughter and the others know I'm here, that I'm alive. They'll come for me. You can count on that. Why not just let me go and avoid a needless battle?"
Kaverin stopped pacing-Rayburton could tell because the clacking of his knuckles stopped, too. "Oh, I have no doubt they'll charge right into the Batiri camp, horns blaring. Cimber is with them, and he is the least subtle person I know."
Finally Kaverin came around to the front of the chair. For the first time, Rayburton saw how exhausted his captor looked. His eyes were ringed by dark circles, his hands trembled from fatigue. Kaverin's voice was a sigh as he said, "Your would-be rescuers may even have the gem-sorcerer with them. They could have the whole population of Mezro with them, and I still wouldn't let you go."
Gingerly Kaverin lifted Phyrra's skull from the back of the chair. He adjusted the glasses and said, "The key phrase, milord, is immortality. Whether you have the ring or not, you've lived for more than twelve hundred years, by my count." He looked into the skull's empty eye sockets; the glasses reflected his own lifeless eyes back at him. "I want to know how you've managed it."
"Never," Rayburton said firmly.
Kaverin yawned and rubbed his tired eyes, then placed the head in Rayburton's lap. "Whatever the secret is, it's something you share with T'fima, since he says he's quite old, too-at least that's what Feg heard before that fanged thing ate him." He scowled at the memory of the image he'd seen through the winged monkey's eyes just before it died-a blur of black fur and razor-sharp claws.
Stoutly, Rayburton fought the urge to flinch from the grisly head or turn away in disgust. "If you want to know, go ask T'fima then," he said. "You'll get the same answer from him, I daresay."
Reaching down slowly, Kaverin took one of Rayburton's fingers in his cold, stony grip. He pulled it backward, just to the point where it strained, but didn't break. "Won't change your mind, will you, milord?"
Rayburton gritted his teeth against the pain and shook his head.
"Quite certain?" Kaverin asked flatly.
Again Rayburton shook his head.
Kaverin didn't ask a third time. He pulled the finger until it touched the back of the prisoner's hand. Rayburton stifled a scream, refusing to give his torturer the pleasure of hearing him cry out.
"Bravo," Kaverin cooed. "Just the sort of control I would expect from a man of your breeding, milord." He gripped another finger. "This will be a challenge, I think."
"You monster," Rayburton hissed through clenched teeth.
Kaverin smiled a predatory smile. "You don't know the half of it." He broke another finger, then grabbed a third. "If it comes to it, Lord Rayburton, I will kill you. Then I'll find your daughter-Oh, don't look surprised. The lovely young woman mentioned her relation to you in T'fima's hut, before my spy was so rudely slaughtered," Twisting the finger sideways, he added, "Maybe she'll be more cooperative."
"Why don't you just ask me?" Byrt chimed from his cage. "I'm a regular font of knowledge. License to lecture granted by the College of Bards on Orlil, order of fabulists. No literary masterpiece too obscure for our attention. Rules of grammar enforced with spirit-root words are a wombat's specialty, don't you know."
"Take that idiotic thing outside," Kaverin said coldly. "Give it to the queen's guards."
As Skuld hefted the cage, Byrt pressed against the bars. His blue eyes were locked on Rayburton. "You'll need to keep him alive if you want to cash in on his fountain of youth, Kaverin." When the stone-handed man ignored him, the wombat added, "Ask him what it takes to become a bara of Ubtao. The benefits are quite good, from what his daughter told me."
"No!" Rayburton lurched forward, making the chair scrape ahead a foot or two. Phyrra's head rolled from his lap and bounced off Kaverin's leg before coming to rest under a table. "Don't tell him," the bara cried.
Kaverin held up a hand, and Skuld paused at the door. "Why would Rayburton's dear daughter tell you anything important?"
Glancing up at Skuld, Byrt said. "This will take a while, so you might as well put me down." When the silver giant didn't move, the wombat shrugged. "Suit yourself, but don't blame me if one arm is longer than the other three from holding me up so long."
"Do not try my patience," Kaverin said. "I do not brook fools easily."
"Why would you ever-" Byrt swallowed the rest of the retort. "Sanda told me because she likes animals, has a gift for dealing with them, you might say." He looked at Rayburton apologetically. "Like her dad, she's a bara of Ubtao-a sort of mystical guardian of Mezro on behalf of the god. In return for serving the public good, they are granted eternal life."
"Don't tell him anything else!" Rayburton shouted.
"Quiet, old man," Kaverin said. He backhanded Rayburton without so much as looking at him, then strolled to Byrt's cage. "So why do I have to keep him alive, now that I know the secret?"
Byrt cleared his throat. "When a bara dies, Ubtao chooses his successor from everyone who presents himself at the temple in the city's center-" he leaned close to Kaverin and lowered his voice conspiratorially "-but you've got to go to the temple to be considered. You see the obvious problem, of course?"
"Of course," Kaverin admitted. "If I kill him before I'm in the temple, ready to undergo the ceremony to become a bara, the good people of Mezro would be sure another candidate got there before me." He paced a few steps, then looked back to the wombat. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me where the city is or how it's hidden?"
Byrt's
blue eyes took on a haze of vagueness. "Sorry, I'm just a tourist in these parts. If you let me go right now, I would be utterly lost."
"Then how did you find the city in the first place?" Kaverin asked.
"Couldn't tell you," Byrt said merrily. "It was all Artus's doing. Lugg and I were in a daze, but he found us shelter from the storm and put a thatched roof over our heads. Frightfully bright fellow, Artus. I hear you two go way back."
Kaverin gestured to Skuld. "Give him to the queen."
"I protest!" Byrt cried as he was carried from the room.
"You might show some gratitude. After all, I saved you the trouble of breaking any more fingers-"
The slam of the door cut off any further pleading. Kaverin strolled to a long couch that faced his prisoner. "I guess I'll have to keep you alive, at least until we get into the city and test out the pig-bear's claim." He clacked his knuckles together. "And as far as finding Mezro is concerned, we'll just wait for your daughter and that idiot Cimber to try to rescue you. Then we'll simply follow them back to the city."
"Why are you doing this?" "Rayburton rasped.
"I told you before, milord. The key is immortality." Kaverin stretched out on the couch. "Since I know your secret, I'll share one of mine-not anything that would give you a weapon against me, of course. Just some information that'll let you know how serious I am about solving this little mystery…"
Kaverin's voice trailed off and his head dropped to his chest. He started awake instantly and turned his attention back to Rayburton. "I don't suppose you've ever been dead," he said. "I have, thanks to Cimber and that bloated mage Pontifax. They murdered me about three years ago. The authorities in Tantras even called it murder." He covered another yawn with one jet-black hand. "I don't begrudge them that. We'd been destroying little parts of each other for years-I'd send an assassin after Cimber, he'd gather evidence of wrongdoings and have all my associates arrested. My killing Pontifax's wife sent them both over the edge. Looking back, it was bad judgment on my part. Still, you can't undo the past. Cimber and Pontifax swore a vendetta against me, caught me in a tavern without my bodyguards, then blew me into a hundred pieces."
Kaverin studied Rayburton's face, watched contentedly as horror mixed with the pain. "So down to Hades I went, to the Realm of the Dead. When you were in Cormyr, the Lord of the Dead was Myrkul. Not any longer. That's Cyric's domain now." He snorted. "It's a good thing that homicidal maniac killed Myrkul and took his godhood, because he was willing to cut a deal with me: I get to live out the rest of my life, just as if Cimber hadn't caught me in Tantras, but only so long as I sow chaos and destruction in the North. That's why I'm after the Ring of Winter. No other artifact in the history of the world has such potential for destruction."
"I never found the ring," Rayburton snarled. "You won't find it here."
"But there had to be a reason you were in Chult looking for it," Kaverin said. He held up his hand. "But that's something we can discuss later. Where were we? Ah, yes. My deal with Cyric." Lashing out with one stone hand, he shattered a skull resting atop the couch. "The price for all this was a bit steep, I've come to find out. When I do die, I go straight back to Cyric for an eternity of torture."
Rayburton saw a glimmer of some weird emotion flash in Kaverin's dark, lifeless eyes. It was gone as soon as it had appeared, though.
"That's another reason for me to possess the ring-eternal life. But even that would be a torture of sorts, thanks to Cyric…" Kaverin smiled mirthlessly, then fell into a drowsy reverie. From the frown on his face, Rayburton assumed it was far from pleasant.
After a few moments, Kaverin's breathing became regular and deep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He did not wake this time, though Rayburton soon wished he had.
The first indication of the horror that was to come was the smell of sulphur. The stench grew so strong it seared Rayburton's lungs and made his eyes tear. Next came the sound of wailing. The murmur never became very loud, just audible enough for some of the individual shrieks and cries for mercy to rise above the hellish nimble. The chorus of the damned made the hair stand up on the back of Rayburton's neck. Panic swelled in his chest, muffling his heartbeat, threatening to choke the air from his lungs.
Finally they came. On either side of the sleeping Kaverin, two huge figures appeared out of the air. Their heads were lupine, with slavering jaws and glowing red eyes. Coarse hair bristled in a mane from between their pointed ears down their backs, but the rest of their bodies were plated with armorlike scales. Each had a pair of human arms ending in clawed hands. These they rubbed together like a miser considering his hoard. Four other limbs, more akin to a spider's legs than anything human, waved and clutched the air. When the beasts moved toward the sleeping man, it was on a snake's writhing body. They pulsed forward and, gripping the couch, leaned over Kaverin.
Rayburton tried to close his eyes, but the ghastly sight had burned into his thoughts. The two creatures, monstrous denizens of the Realm of the Dead, moved closer to the sleeping Kaverin. Yet they didn't so much as lay a taloned hand on him. No, they did something far more terrible.
As Kaverin slept, the denizens whispered in his ears, describing the horrors of the Realm of the Dead and the awful fate that awaited him when he died. The sleeping man twitched and groaned, but stayed lost in slumber. Such was the part of their deal that Cyric didn't reveal to Kaverin on the day he made his pact; so long as he lived, these creatures would visit him every time he slept. Even if he found a way to prolong his life, the stone-handed man would be given a bitter taste of his eventual fate each time he drifted off to sleep.
All that afternoon Lord Rayburton shared in the nightmares those creatures conjured in Kaverin's mind. The sweet voices spoke of tortures and promised terrors beyond belief. They whispered of a world of agony without end, an eternal fife filled with misery and suffering, all at the hands of the dark god Cyric.
No matter how loud Lord Dhalmass Rayburton screamed, the voices of the denizens came to him clearly, as if their words were meant for him, too.
* * * * *
Since leaving Ras T'fima's hut an hour past, Artus, Sanda, and Kwalu had moved toward the goblin camp at a steady pace. The jungle had thinned, the tangles of trees and vines giving way now and then to clearings filled with saw-edged grasses, squat palms, and strange creatures. Docile dinosaurs lumbered about, tearing up huge mouthfuls of greenery. Kwalu showed no fear of these gigantic lizards, and they in turn watched unafraid as the trio passed.
Only when he spotted a quartet of dinosaurs running through a clearing did the negus order the party to take cover. These beasts stood twice as tall as Artus and ran on two legs. Their tails stuck out straight behind them like rudders, allowing them to balance as they charged across the field. The most frightening thing about them was the scythelike claw hooking up from each foot. It was clear to Artus that they used these in combat, probably hopping up and tearing at each other like giant birds.
The respect Kwalu showed these monsters surprised Artus, for the negus seemed truly fearless. He had warmed to the explorer considerably after hearing of his escape from the Batiri camp, even offering cryptic hints as to some of his own fantastic adventures. Few predatory beasts had escaped his spear and club, few places in Chult had remained closed to his wandering. He was never specific about his feats, though. His modesty simply wouldn't allow him to stoop to anything even close to bragging.
Though Kwalu appeared tight-lipped to Artus, Sanda was amazed at how talkative the negus had proved to be with the explorer. For her part, she never seemed at a loss for a comment or question. Her mood never darkened for long; she'd even recovered from her worry about her father, convincing herself and the others that they would certainly rescue him in time. Artus found her self-assuredness a welcome beacon, warning him away from the shoals of despair. At least, he welcomed it most of the time. At other moments, Sanda's breezy dismissal of problems seemed frivolous, her mocking tone rather mean-spirited.
> "I make you uncomfortable, don't I, Artus?" Sanda asked bluntly as they tore through a particularly thick curtain of vines. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I would have thought you too worldly to be intimidated by an older woman."
The comment flew straight and true, dead on target to the heart of the matter. Artus could only wince at the sting, though, for Sanda had seen right through him. To deny the truth would be pointless. "You should understand my discomfort," he said. "I mean, I find myself wondering how you see me-like a child or a fool. Don't you ever wonder how we mortals see you? Doesn't that make it hard for you to live with us?"
"Of course," Kwalu said. The negus looked up from the trail marker he was leaving for the Tabaxi troops that King Osaw was sending after them. "That's the reason you've met so many barae in such a short time. We tend to stay together. Why choose a hunting partner who can only keep up with you for twenty years or so?"
"How lonely," Artus said.
"Oh, any isolation is self-imposed," Sanda offered cheerfully. "The king doesn't have a problem becoming close to 'mortals,' as you call them. Most of the barae have, at one time or another."
"Not me," Kwalu said proudly.
Sanda bowed. "Except Negus Kwalu," she corrected. "The rest of us have had friends, lovers, and children pass away, all while we remain untouched by the scouring winds of time." A cloud passed over her bright features as she looked at Artus. In reply to his unvoiced question, she added, "Two sons and a daughter. Actually, grandchildren, too, and great-grandchildren. I stopped keeping track. It made me too sad to see them as infants and watch them die of old age, all without much noticing the passage of the years myself."
In silence they came to the edge of a wide field. Above the general cacophony, a chorus of high-pitched cries rang out. Desperation gave an edge to the shrieks, a panic that grew as the cries were repeated. The source of the calls remained hidden, though, for the grass in this particular clearing stood taller than Artus's waist.