The Ring of Winter Read Online Free PDF

enchanted soldiers wrought from lead. In the mock war, a line of ogres and orcs charged in a ragged line toward an arrow-straight formation of miniature human infantrymen.
    “There he is now,” someone shouted. “A giant among us!”
    “Better clear the room in case his body swells to fit his ego again.”
    Artus forced a smile and headed straight for Pontifax.
    The older members of the club, white-haired and pompous, encircled Sir Hydel. Their discussion rarely ranged to their own exploits—all were expected to know the merits of their elders in the society, so they had no need to brag. The senior members discussed the glories of long-dead Stalwarts and the foolishness of the youngsters. Artus knew their topic to be his own misfortunes even before he reached the circle of comfortable chairs.
    “Well met,” he said as he arrived. The half-dozen men and women murmured their greetings over glasses of Tethyrian brandy. In more than a few faces lurked hints of knowing smiles. “Sir Hydel … if you don’t mind?”
    “Any word on the medallion?” the mage asked as soon as they moved away from the others. He gestured to the silver disk. “I see you still have the dratted thing.”
    The look of genuine concern on his comrade’s face lessened Artus’s irritation. “I’m stuck with it for now,” he replied. “Look, Pontifax, I wish you wouldn’t tell everyone about what happened. I mean, the curse on this—”
    The mage looked genuinely hurt. “I am the very soul of discretion,” he said. “I could hardly call myself a good soldier if I ran off at the mouth about such things.”
    “Then how did the Raephel and the other dwarves know about me growing? What about all the comments I’ve been hearing since I came in?”
    “Ah,” Hydel said, clearing his throat. “I must admit I did tell an edited version of the story, leaving out anything about the curse. Replaced it with a misfired spell, you see. The story got quite a chuckle over lunch, if I do say so myself. Why, Lady Elynna even asked if I’d write it up for the society’s journal!”
    “Congratulations,” Artus said, frowning. He wasn’t sure if it bothered him more that the mage had told everyone about the embarrassing mishap or that he would never get a chance to tell his own, much livelier version of the battle. “Any luck selling the artifacts?”
    Hydel puffed out his chest. “I’ve secured an offer of three times the amount you estimated. The society will buy all the coins and the spearheads we took from the ruins, and the sergeant of the Royal Historical Office offered to buy everything else for the king’s personal collection.”
    Removing a thin book bound in wyvern hide from his pocket, Artus took a seat at one of the nearby desks. He opened to a page filled with columns of items and numbers, then recorded the exact amount they’d been offered for each of the objects recovered.
    “You’re not keeping anything from this expedition?” Hydel asked. “You usually take something as a memento.”
    “I have this,” Artus said, holding op the medallion. “Skuld—that’s his name by the way—is reminder enough for me, thank you.” He clapped the thin book shut and buried it in a pocket. The journal was a prize stolen from the libraries of Zulkir Szass Tam, the undead ruler of Thay. No matter how many pages Artus filled, more appeared without ever adding to the volume’s weight or thickness. The book also opened automatically to whatever page he wished to see.
    “Skuld?” the mage asked. His puffy eyebrows rose in shock. “You mean the dratted thing’s alive? Why, Artus, you should—”
    A roar, followed swiftly by a chorus of astonished gasps and a few quite colorful curses, drowned out the rest of Pontifax’s suggestion. There was a mad scramble to get away from the miniature battlefield as the reason for the disruption—a fist-sized dragon wrought of lead and painted bright crimson—circled into the air. It screeched and dove back