Lowder - The Ring of Winter

Trees crashed to the ground, shoved out of the way as the triceratops charged.

Run! Artus shouted.

Calmly, as if he had not heard the explorer, Kwalu lifted his broad-bladed spear and threw it with all his considerable strength. The weapon flew, lodging just below one of the monsters eyes. The wound didnt even slow the beast down. It rampaged forward, closing half the distance between the doomed men with three steps. Kwalu didnt retreat an inch, instead reaching for a small leather box that hung at his belt.

Artus saw then how futile it would be to run. Unless hed started to move long before the dinosaur broke through the tree line, it could catch him in a half-dozen thunderous steps. The explorer glanced over his shoulder, hoping Sanda had possessed the sense to bolt at the first rumbling footstep. At the same time, he reached back for an arrow from his quiver. Kwalu was right in that muchbetter to fight until the end.

THE HARPERS

A semi-secret organization for Good, the Harpers fight for freedom and justice in a world populated by tyrants, evil mages, and dread creatures beyond imagination.

Each novel in the Harpers Series is a complete story in itself, detailing some of the most unusual and compelling tales in the magical world known as the Forgotten Realms.

THE PARCHED SEA
Troy Denning

ELFSHADOW
Elaine Cunningham

RED MAGIC
Jean Rabe

THE NIGHT PARADE
Scott Ciencin

THE RING OF WINTER
The Harpers
1992 TSR, Inc.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK .

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All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Fred Fields

eISBN: 978-0-7869-6339-3
640-A1721000-001-EN

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www.DungeonsandDragons.com

v3.1

To my parents, for teaching me the value of the printed word and never complaining when I stayed up late to watch Creature Double Feature.

The creature had sixteen eyes, and all of them stared hungrily at the man in the center of the circular room. The would-be victims namethough the creature could not know thiswas Artus Cimber, lauded throughout Faerun as an explorer, historian, and seeker of adventure. At the moment, Artus was crouched in front of a short stone pedestal, appraising with a practiced eye the silver statue that rested there.

With slow, careful movements, the explorer circled the pillar. He held an ancient dagger before him, the gem in its hilt casting a soft radiance over the statue. The dagger had been given to him four years past by the centaurs of Tribe Pastilar in Lethyr Forest, a reward for recovering the chieftains sacred staff of judgment. Magical light was just one of the weapons strange properties. And at the moment, the bared blade was the only thing preventing the creature from dropping down on Artus, for the hunters mind was agile enough to recognize such an unusual threat.

Theres no evidence the ring was ever in these ruins, Artus. Perhaps it would be best if we dusted ourselves off and went our way.

Artus glanced up at the lone entrance to the chamber just as a white-haired head appeared around the crumbling stone doorjamb. Well, the older man asked mildly, his breath turning to steam in the frosty air, what do you say we head for camp? His mouth was set in a vague smile, and his bushy white brows hung like clouds over eyes the color of sapphires.

Come have a look at this, Pontifax, Artus murmured, his attention instantly drawn back to the statue. Its Mulhorandi from the looks of it, and very, very old, too.

A frown of concern crossed Pontifaxs face, and he stepped into the room. Mulhorandi, you say? For Mystras sake, dont touch the thing until youve examined it under better lighting. You know what happened to Grig of Armot when he bought that blasted magical model of a Mulhorandi pyramid at the magefair. Still trapped inside, dont you know. Why, his own sonalso named Grig, I believe

Without breaking off his narrative of the elder Grigs unhappy fate, the white-haired man lowered a sack full of less spectacular artifacts recovered from the ruins, then hefted the stump of a torch. The wood burst into flame, filling the circular chamber with light. On the ceiling, the creature tried to shrink back into the shadows. Finding none, it froze, hungry yet frightened by the dagger Artus wielded.

Pontifax, Artus whispered, its absolutely priceless. Ive never seen its like. He stood transfixed by the artifact, his gloved fingers held perilously close to its surface.

The glittering silver statue stood about two feet tall. The figure, despite the extra pair of arms extruding from its sides, was human and clad in the sandals and loincloth still favored by the natives of Mulhorand. A simple circlet rested upon its brow, as if to make up for the utterly bald pate. Around the statues base, a series of complicated picture-glyphs marched in a regulated line.

Can you read what it says? Pontifax asked, leaning close. Maybe itll tell you why a Mulhorandi statue is sitting in the basement of a ruined keep here in Cormyr.

Artus shook his head. The glyphs are older than any Ive seen. I could make a guess, but He sheathed his dagger in his boot and rubbed the stubble on his chin. I think you were right about this being magical, though. The silver isnt tarnished in the least.

At that instant, Pontifaxs lower back decided to voice a painful complaint. He straightened with a groan, just in time to glimpse a dark shape dropping quickly and silently from the ceiling high above. Artus! he cried.