The Ring of Winter (31 page)

The explorer opened his mouth to shout the name again, but a gentle hand on his shoulder shocked the air from his lungs. “There is no need to call me, Master Cimber,” said a cool, soothing voice.

His reflexes had been honed by years of facing untold dangers and his nerves were frayed raw by the afternoon’s confrontations with the walking corpses. Without thinking, Artus slashed at the man behind him. The move was executed expertly, with the skill of a Shou ninja, and the enchanted dagger ran a razor-straight course across Ras Nsi’s throat. The knife had barely left its target before Artus fell back, rolling to a defensive crouch a sword’s length away. He brandished the blade before him in one hand, the diamond sliver in the other.

Ras Nsi ran the fingertips of one hand along the knife’s path—no blood, not even the slightest nick marked the steel’s passing. “A palpable hit,” he said quietly. “That would have killed most men. Will done, Master Cimber.”

The bara’s eyes glowed like red-hot steel, so brightly that Artus found it difficult to look him in the face. The rest of his features were soft, even decadent—a weak chin hidden by a neatly trimmed beard, a pate as bald as a vulture’s egg, a flat nose that only emphasized the man’s inexpressive mouth. But those fiery eyes told Artus any weakness he saw in Ras Nsi was illusory.

Nsi did not wear the tobe so common in Mezro or the rougher, more basic garb of the Tabaxi villagers. He was clad handsomely in cotton trousers, a loose-fitting brocade shirt, and the flowing blue cape of a Cormyrian nobleman. His high leather boots were spotlessly polished, and the rapier hanging at his hip glinted in the sunlight. A ring on his left hand held a small triangular gem, as green as the hills of the Dalelands in spring. Artus felt his thoughts being drawn into the stone, just as he had when staring at the walls of Ubtao’s temple. He shut his eyes tightly and focused on his anger.

Holding the palms of his hands together, Ras Nsi bowed. All the time, he kept his fiery eyes on the explorer. “You have found the lost bara of Mezro. Your weapons are not needed.” When Artus sheathed the dagger and slipped the diamond sliver back into his pocket, the bara asked, “Your traveling companion—is he the one known as Byrt or Lugg?”

“Lugg, thank you very much,” the wombat said sourly.

Artus glanced at the zombies that had been trailing him.

The ragged pack had thrown themselves to their knees. Even now they bowed to Ras Nsi, their pitiful groans filling the air. Artus turned back to the bara. “How do you know who we are?” he asked warily.

Ras Nsi smiled. “Do we have to play that game? You may take it for granted that I know a great deal. Not everything, but—” he held his hands apart in a mock embrace “—I would be Ubtao if I knew all that transpired in the jungle. I am merely his most ancient and humble servant.”

“If you know so much, Master Nsi,” the wombat said, fearlessly stepping up to the bara, “then ‘ow about letting me know if Byrt’s still kicking about.”

The zombies cried out when Lugg said their master’s name, and Ras Nsi scowled. “Do not speak my name aloud again,” the bara snapped, small tongues of flame dancing from his eyes.

The wombat backed up a step, but did not look away. “Sorry—er …”

“Your Excellency,” the bara prompted. He rubbed his chin and studied Lugg for a moment. “Your fellow is still alive—as is Lord Rayburton.” Before Artus could ask how he knew, Ras Nsi added, “If you found me, you must know that Ubtao granted me the power to raise the dead. The power would be rather limited if I could not sense when something died in the jungle, don’t you agree?”

Artus straightened his grimy tunic. “If you know about Rayburton, then you know why I’m here.”

A strange, almost taunting smile on his lips, Ras Nsi said, “I have my suspicions, but dare not believe them.” He grabbed the edge of his cape and lifted it theatrically from his side. “But let us retire to my home, where we can settle this matter in the appropriate style.”

With a swirl of the bara’s sky-blue cloak, they were gone.

Fifteen

Ras Nsi’s home stood at the heart of a very mobile and spectacularly effective logging operation. For miles in every direction, his slaves tore up the Chultan landscape. Elementals summoned from the Plane of Earth—mighty creatures of stone and dirt that could move through the ground as easily as men walk upon it—used their stony hands to uproot trees of every sort. Behind these hulking brutes, gangs of zombies trailed with lethargic steps. The undead slaves dragged the trees back to waiting caravans and bundled the massive cargo onto sledges. Finally, dinosaurs of various species dragged the trees back from the camp and moved them along a wide road toward the coast. In ports all along Refuge Bay ships waited to take the precious wood north.

The sound of trees splintering and crashing to the ground filled the air, along with the shrieks of the birds and apes and other tree-dwellers routed by the destruction.

The whole camp stank of decaying flesh, shattered wood, and overturned earth. Zombies were constantly being crushed by the elementals or the dinosaurs or the falling trees. Just as quickly as they fell, the walking corpses were replaced by newly risen dead. Overhead, vultures and other flying scavengers circled. As soon as the crews moved far enough forward, they would swoop down to claim whatever carrion had been left behind.

In this way, over hundreds of years, Ras Nsi had created the broad, blasted plain upon which Artus and Lugg had found themselves that morning. The scar never seemed to heal. The bara’s crews were too efficient for that.

In the center of this chaos sprawled Ras Nsi’s palatial home. The building resembled many of the stately houses so common in Faerun’s wealthier cities. Four towers capped in spires marked the corners of the huge structure, and a low wall surrounded the courtyard spreading before its front entrance. Arrow loops and stained glass windows dotted the white stone in patterns that appealed to the eye in a dozen subtle ways. Banners floated from poles atop the towers, their bright colors making them stand out against the sun-bleached sky like brilliantly plumed birds. From an open upstairs window, the gentle music of a string quartet lofted upon the hot, humid air.

The entire estate—grassy courtyard and all—was borne upon the backs of two dozen monstrously huge, long-dead tortoises. It was the job of these unfortunate skeletal creatures to keep the estate moving through the jungle at a steady, creeping pace, just ahead of the elementals and the zombies and the falling trees. The gentle swaying of the house was apt to bring fond memories of time at sea, to those who enjoyed such things.

Yet Artus wasn’t remembering his days aboard the Narwhal as he stood in his newly clean clothes, framed by a large window in Nsi’s audience hall. No, the former Harper was thinking on the injustice of the place—the enslaved dead men, the massive destruction of the jungle. “And you do this all for the betterment of Chult?” he asked coldly, turning back to the outcast bara.

“For the betterment of Mezro” Ras Nsi corrected. “In the end they are the same, but you must see that Ubtao chose the citizens of Mezro as his messengers in the world. The rest of the Tabaxi—” he dismissed them with a wave of his hand “—savages. It was their kind that drove Ubtao back to the heavens four thousand years ago.”

The bara paced nervously back and forth before a velvet-lined throne, his boots rapping an unsettling rhythm on the polished floor. Like the rest of the room, the chair was imported from the North—from Suzail, in fact. He caught Artus studying the furnishings. “I do a great deal of business with Cormyrians, Sembians, and other northern merchants. Occasionally they send me gifts.”

Fine crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Oak tables and chairs brought from the Dales filled the center of the room. The audience hall was very much like a dozen Artus had visited in Cormyr. Only the painting that hung over the large fireplace was different, surprising. In garish colors, ghastly blues and greens and grays, it depicted men and women being pulled into a grassy mound by bloodless hands. If the rest of the hall was meant to soothe visitors from the North, the painting was intended to remind them of their host’s power.

“I control the Refuge Bay Trading Company, which owns the Narwhal,” Ras Nsi said proudly. “That’s how I knew who you were—well, one of the ways.”

Artus was suddenly glad Lugg was fast asleep in the shadow of the cold hearth. He was finding it difficult to hide his growing disdain for the bara, and he was certain the wombat wouldn’t be nearly as diplomatic. “I still don’t see bow this is helping Mezro,” the explorer noted.

Slowly Ras Nsi unhooked the rapier from his belt and hung it over the back of his throne. “Money,” he said, a patronizing tone to his voice. “The more money I control, the greater network of servants, the grander things I can do for Mezro—once King Osaw and the others see the error of their ways and allow me to return to the city.”

The bara sank into the embrace of his throne. “By Ubtao’s blood, they were fools,” he chuckled. “I end a three-hundred-year-long war, save Mezro from destruction, and they banish me.”

“A war that lasted three hundred years?” Artus gasped.

“They sent you here without telling you of my great crime?” Ras Nsi asked sarcastically. His sun-bright eyes flashed. “They must be embarrassed by their foolishness, especially now that the city is in such grave danger.”

Ras Nsi began his tale. He stared into the green stone on his ring as he spoke, as if it were calling forth his memories of the ancient battles.

“The war started about eighteen hundred years ago,” the bara told Artus. “That was long before the wall encircled the city. We didn’t need sorcerous protection then. Mezro boasted the mightiest army in the world, and every Tabaxi who had the heart to be a warrior flocked to the city to prove his mettle.

“There was another large tribe of humans in Chult then—the Eshowe—and they were our sworn foes. They mocked Ubtao, worshiping the rain and the sun, calling upon local spirits for spells.” Nsi sneered and reached behind him for a short-handled spear hanging on the wall. Holding the broad blade toward Artus, he added, “But their local gods could not help them against our righteous armies. For three hundred years we fought, driving the Eshowe farther and farther into the wild parts of the jungle, the valleys where creatures from before time still dwell in dark caves.”

The bara tapped the spear against his palm, digging the sharp tip deeper and deeper into his bloodless flesh. The wounds healed instantly. “The Eshowe found just such a beast,” Ras Nsi said, his voice strained with excitement. “A creature as tall as the highest spire on the Temple of Ubtao, its body wrought of blinding smoke and choking fog. They made a deal with the creature, promising the souls of all the slain to its greedy stomach, for it fed upon bravery, and the Tabaxi were known throughout Ubtao’s jungle as the bravest of all men.” He sank the spear into the arm of his throne. “The Eshowe led the beast back to Mezro for a final, desperate attack.”

A look of sadness passed across the bara’s features, though his eyes still blazed with an infernal light. “They sacked the city before we could defeat them. Our homes, our fields—all burned. Just the temple and a few of the buildings in the city’s heart were left standing.” Ras Nsi sighed. “Of the seven barae, only I survived. The others all died crushing the Eshowe and the beast. We were the victors, but at a terrible price.

“For the next decade, I hunted the few Eshowe that survived the fight, tracked them with my zombies. I burned their homes and slaughtered their children. And each Eshowe warrior I killed was raised up to fight against his brothers.” He gestured casually to the weird painting. “That depicts the last of the Eshowe being killed. There are no more of them in Chult.”

Ras Nsi stated the gruesome facts with inestimable pride. Artus shuddered at the claim, his throat constricting. It was clear now the bara was blind to the horror of his actions.

“By the time I returned to Mezro, the legion of dead Eshowe trailing in my wake, Osaw had been made king, with Mainu and that bleeding heart T’fima serving as his most trusted advisors.” The bara scowled. “When they saw what I had done, they banished me from the city. ‘Your murderous ways are not honorable,’ T’fima proclaimed at my trial. They were fools, but I had no choice but obey. Osaw was the rightful king and leader of Mezro. I would have done anything to help the city, and they turned me away!”

The bara glowered for a moment, staring at the screaming men and women in the painting. “I warned them that other enemies would arise, that there was a void in the jungle hierarchy. I have watched the Batiri rise up over the last thousand years. The war Mezro faces now could have been prevented long ago, had they only let me wipe out the goblins, too. But now I will remedy that mistake.”

“Forgive me, Ras Nsi,” Artus began slowly, “but King’ Osaw did not send me to ask for your aid. I came on my own.”

Furious, Nsi jumped to his feet. “What?” he shouted, brandishing the spear before him. “They don’t want me back? Not even now?”

Artus stood his ground, keeping his gaze locked on the bara’s face. “I cannot speak for the king. I thought you might be able to help, that the reason for the rift between you and the other barae might be minor enough for us to reason it out. Even T’fima—”

“T’fima is no bara,” Ras Nsi snapped, tiny curls of fire leaping from his eyes. “He fell from grace long ago, when he first left the city. Ubtao stripped him of his powers.”

The house lurched to a stop. The sweet music of the string quartet, drifting down to the audience hall from somewhere else in the estate, ceased suddenly. So did the sounds of the logging camp. An unearthly wailing rang out, as if the zombies could sense their master’s fury.

Ras Nsi drank in the sound. He closed his eyes, let his head droop forward, and held his arms out at his sides. The hellish cacophony seemed to calm him, and when he opened his eyes again the angry fire had subsided a little. “Forgive me. I had thought myself beyond such disappointment,” he said coolly. “I had thought you a messenger of the king. I should have known better….”