Free The Ring of Winter by James Lowder Page A

chanty was an old one and had a hundred variations all along the Sword Coast. The crew soon picked up the song. Its rhythm became the pulse of the ship, and the crew began to once again work in harmony.
     
    My love was a lass from Shadowdale,
    A beauty with hair of silver.
    A pirate from Presper stole her away.
    The sea take all pirates from Presper, brave boys,
    The sea take the pirates of Presper.
    My love was a lass from Marsember,
    And we were to wed last Mirtul.
    A whaler from Westgate stole her away.
    The sea take all whalers from Westgate, brave boys,
    The sea take the whalers of Westgate.
     
    “Despite your foul temper, you are quite good at your job,” the first mate noted as he came to the boatswain’s side.
    Nelock rubbed his hands along his hairy forearms. “What I’d like to know. Master Quiracus, is why ya care about them—especially that useless Cimber. This is the third time ya’ve hauled him out from under a punishment I had in mind for him. It ain’t good to undercut me with the men around.”
    The first mate smiled. “There are reasons for everything, Nelock. You just aren’t privy to them.” He patted the older man on the shoulder patronizingly. “You should consider yourself lucky.”
    The boatswain watched the first mate stroll across the quarter deck to the aftcastle, then disappear down the stairs that lead to the captain’s cabin and the maproom. “Something ain’t right about this,” Nelock muttered to himself. “But I ain’t stupid enough to get caught in the middle of it either.”
    The boatswain started another chorus of the chanty, and the dark thoughts troubling him flew away with the notes of the bright old sea song.
     

     
    Deep in the ship, on the bleak and damp orlop deck, Artus could hear the chanty belted out by the sailors, it didn’t lighten his thoughts the way it did Nelock’s, but then he’d never been one to appreciate work songs. He much preferred the refined bardic music of Myth Drannor and the Moonshaes.
    “How’ve you been, Pontifax?” he asked somewhat sheepishly.
    “Fine. Now be a good soldier and sit on the table,” was the somewhat chilly reply. “Take your shirt off so I can get a look at the wounds on your neck.”
    The mage bustled about the large room, only a small part of which was lit. Two magical globes of light floated at Pontifax’s shoulders, but they did little to help dispel the gloom from the place. “I’ve spent the last tenday setting broken limbs, bandaging gashes received in mindless brawls, and ministering to petty officers with hangovers,” he offered as he grabbed a handful of cotton wrapping. “Same sorts of silly injuries I worked on when I served with the Army of the Alliance—until the fighting started, of course. The barbarians dealt in more ghastly wounds. In fact, I spent most of my time on the crusade making men comfortable until they died… .”
    Artus dropped his bloodied shirt to the floor. Whenever Pontifax was disgusted with things, he talked about King Azoun’s crusade against the barbarous Tuigan tribesmen. He had served as a surgeon during the entire campaign and had even fought alongside the royal War Wizards in the final battles. There were few things Pontifax prided himself upon more than this.
    Pontifax sighed. “Did you know there are passengers aboard who don’t have to work?”
    “What?” Artus leaped to his feet, spilling a bottle of strong-smelling liquid. It splattered on his scraped hands, stinging like a thousand wasp bites. “Gods’ blasted …”
    “Serves you right,” the mage said. He righted the bottle, mopping up the spilled liquid with Artus’s shirt. “Now sit down before you really hurt yourself.”
    “But if there’re paying passengers aboard who don’t have to—”
    “These privileged passengers have taken over the captain’s cabin,” the mage warned, “so don’t go making a fuss just yet. Bawr’s sleeping in the maproom to make space for them.” He glanced at