The Ring of Winter by James Lowder

and he laughed.
    Pontifax was right—the man is insane.
    Before the clerics appointed by the court to heal up Kaverin’s wrists could do their duty, the mage who had been serving as his lawyer throughout the trial muscled past. In his hands, he held two blobs of black stone. When the mage touched these to Kaverin’s gory wrists, they transformed. Still chuckling madly, Kaverin held his new jet-black hands up for all to see.
    Before he walked away—he was free now that the punishment had been exacted upon him—Kaverin pointed one stony finger at Pontifax and me. Not very subtle, but we got the threat quite clearly. He blames us for his conviction. Rightly so, too.
    Sooner or later, we’re going to hear from Kaverin Ebonhand again. If we do, I’ll make sure no mage in the world will be able to save him.
     

Five
     
    Port Castigliar was a sorry excuse for an outpost. It consisted of seven tin huts, two small plots of vegetables, a large but ramshackle supply depot, and a graveyard. The latter was more densely populated than the land for five miles in any direction.
    As Artus and Pontifax stood on the narrow stretch of beach, watching the ship’s boat from the Narwhal unload its cargo of food, cookware, knives, and weapons, they could not help but wonder if they’d come to the right place. “Are you certain this is where Theron said we should land?” Pontifax asked, wiping his rain-soaked hair out of his eyes.
    Artus scowled. “I have the map right here,” he said, then patted his pack. “My journal may have been stolen, but I was smart enough to keep the map with me at all times.”
    Pontifax stared uneasily at the Narwhal. The galleon waited impatiently in the deep waters off Port Castigliar, anxious to move on to more substantial stops in Refuge Bay. The lowering sky was dark and threatening, promising worse than the downpour already underway. “Quiracus might have disembarked before we got to the deck this morning,” the mage offered absently.
    Artus grunted. The crew had halfheartedly searched for Master Quiracus. Not only was the elven first mate wanted for questioning concerning his attack of Artus, but he was next in line to take command of the Narwhal. When no sign of him had been uncovered, it was decided he had fallen overboard in the battle with the dragon-turtle—decided, that is, by the newly risen Captain Nelock. Actually, Nelock had made it quite clear he hoped Quiracus never surfaced, and he did all he could to keep the hunt subdued. Even if he had found the elf hiding somewhere aboard ship, Nelock would have offered him shelter, just so long as he disappeared at the first port.
    For their parts, Artus and Pontifax believed the elf to be alive. When the explorer discovered his journal had been stolen—pocketed by Quiracus during the turtle attack, one of the ballista crew had said—he concluded the elf must be after the Ring of Winter. Either that, or he was working for someone else who quested after the ring. That possibility worried Artus the most.
    “Well, let’s show enough sense to get out of this rain,” Pontifax said. “I don’t think we’re going to catch our elusive adversary by drowning here on the beach.” He hefted a pack to one shoulder and started toward the sprawling supply depot.
    Artus grabbed the other two packs. Dragging them along, he hurried after the mage. “If we press on after the ring,” he said wearily, “Quiracus will show himself sooner or later.”
    “Quiracus or the blighter with whom he’s so gainfully employed,” Pontifax corrected.
    They wrestled their packs into the warehouse. The building appeared dilapidated from the outside, with pocked and scarred tin walls and a haphazardly constructed straw roof. Inside, however, the depot more closely resembled one of the finer shops in Suzail or Waterdeep. Row after row of neatly stacked boxes rose two stories to the waterproof thatch. Everywhere Artus looked lay jars full of buttons, cloth sheets lined with