The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  The Wandering Fountain was a disaster area, as the mob had explained. The broken furniture had all been removed from the galley, but there were still signs that a large melee had happened. The wall boards were cracked, support beams were scratched and nicked by errant weapons, and the bar itself had a monumental fissure running from one end to the other.

  The tavernkeeper’s wife met them at the door, and upon seeing the magestaff in Myreon’s hand, ushered them in without delay. In the galley, Jaevis spit on the floor, rubbed the saliva around in the dust, and then tasted it.

  Myreon made a face and muttered to herself, “I hope that is worth the taste.”

  “Pardon, m’lady?” the wife asked.

  “Nothing, madam, and the title is ‘Magus,’ please.”

  She threw up her hands as though surrendering. “We don’t have naught to do with fancy folks ’round these parts, no ways! That was why the stranger caught me eye. He was a fancy one, sure enough. Saldorian like yourself, I shouldn’t wonder. Anyway it was all strange to hear ol’ Abe tell it. He’s sore hurt, m’lady . . . uh, Magus. Face all swole up like a toad’s!”

  Myreon narrowly avoided hitting her temple on a low beam as she paced around the scene. She held out her hand and channeled enough Ether to conjure a glamour of Reldamar. It sparkled and rotated in midair before the wife’s wide eyes. “I am looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

  The tavernkeeper’s wife put a hand to her heart. “Hann guide me, but that’s the man! He had a boy with him, too, maybe thirteen years. After their beast done thumped all the men and threw our guests overboard, they nabbed the till!”

  Myreon blinked. “What, they robbed you?”

  “Then run off,” the woman confirmed.

  “Ran off together?”

  The man’s wife nodded, tugging at Myreon’s sleeve. “Have you ever heard the like, m’lady? Men in league with monsters like that? It is some kind of unholiness at work, I know it!”

  “Well?” Myreon looked at Jaevis, who was standing in the center of the common room, arms crossed.

  “There was fight. Can’t tell more—­too many ­peoples walking through here, sweeping up, mopping, washing . . .”

  “Well, then,” Myreon said, raising her staff, “Allow me.”

  Closing her eyes, she chanted the proper incantation for a psychometric augury, turning slowly at the center of the room. She felt the astral energy that bound the place together humming in resonance with her spell, and soon flashes of light were skipping behind her eyelids. Focusing her power a bit more, Myreon refined the flashes to actual images. She saw the floor being laid by a shipwright twenty-­four years gone. She saw an endless cavalcade of boots and shoes treading over the top of it. She saw men warming their feet before the stove, and saw decades’ worth of food and drink being eaten, spilled, and enjoyed. She rushed past these, trying to limit her visions to the most recent ones. It took some time, but then they were there—­a pair of broad furry feet, like paws—­moving with practiced precision around the room. From the stove she could see the gnoll mercilessly pummeling the tavern’s defenders, and reminded herself not to let the beast get anywhere near her in the future. Finally, the end of it came into clear focus, and Myreon paid close attention.

  The gnoll was there, and it was speaking in a deep, velvet smooth voice. You come with me.

  Reldamar’s voice was firm. Not a chance.

  Then the tavernkeeper’s yelp. Help! Help! Beast!

  Myreon saw the gnoll heave the man out the door. Then I go with you.

  As the rest of their negotiations unfolded, Myreon found herself aghast and in awe of what she was witnessing. Was this for real? How could it be possible for Reldamar to make some kind of pact with a wild animal?

  Then came the clincher. The gnoll was speaking, You need help to kill the man who tricked you and got you caught by the wizards. I am strong and fast and better than this pup. I can track stupid humans across miles and miles, and if you won’t let me go with you, I will eat your face.

  Then Reldamar nodded. For a monster, you are remarkably convincing.

  That was it. That was all Myreon needed to see. She opened her eyes to find Jaevis glaring at her, arms still crossed. “What do you know?” he asked.

  “It’s settled,” Myreon said, hurrying out of the tavern. “Reldamar’s making for Freegate. We need to catch him before he reaches it. Oh, and apparently he’s working with a gnoll.”

  The winter wind seared Tyvian’s cheeks raw as the Freegate Road wound about the broad base of a rocky hill. Behind it, he knew there would be another hill, and another, and another after that. They were climbing up the sides of the Trell River Valley, and the foothills of the mighty Dragonspine were making travel difficult. The sun was setting, and they would have to camp soon.

  Tyvian looked behind him to see Artus hiking up the road with a smile on his face, the large frame pack with their supplies clanking quietly on his shoulders. The weight of the thing, which was not inconsiderable, seemed to bother the boy about as much as would a simple blanket-­roll. Tyvian found that frustrating, but reminded himself that such spite was beneath him.

  “The mountains are pretty, ain’t they?” Artus remarked, peering past the crest of the hill where, along the horizon, the snowcapped peaks of the Dragonspine glowed in the light of the setting sun.

  Tyvian scowled, deciding to reevaluate his position vis-­à-­vis spite. “Yes, quite fetching.”

  Artus took a deep breath, savoring the crisp air. “I mean, look at the way they glow—­all warm and bright.”

  “ ‘Warm’ strikes me as a very inappropriate adjective. It’s getting dark. We’d best set up camp.”

  Artus looked around at the bald crown of the hill. “What, here?”

  “No, in the stable over there.” Tyvian pointed.

  Artus looked. “I don’t see nothing.”

  “That’s because I was being bloody sarcastic! Just set up the damned tent, will you?” Tyvian snarled. “Where’s that gnoll, anyway?”

  “Here!” Hool loped to the top of the hill, a few fresh rabbits affixed to her belt. She threw the meat at Tyvian’s feet and looked at Artus, who was taking off his pack. “What is he doing?”

  “Setting up camp.”

  Hool snorted. “Not here. This is a stupid place to make camp.”

  Artus nodded. “That’s what I wanted to say.”

  “Could that be because it is outside in the middle of the bloody winter?” Tyvian motioned to the cold, austere countryside around them. “Because I wholeheartedly agree, but since we are traveling in the company of a bloodthirsty monster, we can’t exactly stop at the next roadside inn and ask for a room, can we? Remember what happened at the last place?”

  Artus rubbed his head reflexively. “They threw pots at us.”

  “Right!” Tyvian nodded. “So, unless we can convince Madam Hool here to go away, I don’t see why we can’t just pitch our damned tent anywhere we damned well please.”

  Hool stood up. “This is the top of a hill. There is lots of wind and no firewood. You will get cold and will have to eat the food I caught for you without cooking.”

  Tyvian began a pithy reply but quickly noted that what the gnoll said made a good deal of sense. “Fine. Where would you suggest?”

  Hool pointed to the next hill. “The back of that one has small bushes for burning and is hidden from the wind. Let’s go there now.”

  Tyvian doffed his cap and bowed. “Lead on, wise gnoll.” He then looked at Artus and his half-­unpacked tent. “Looks like we’re moving. Pick all that up.”

  It had been three days since they left the Wandering Fountain in the company of the gnoll, and Tyvian found that her presence had complicated things even more profoundly than he originally thought. For one thing, purchasing ponies was completely impossible. Not only was approaching civilized
­people difficult, given the gnoll’s predilection for being nearby, but the barest whiff of her scent was enough to drive horses to the point of hysteria. Since both he and Artus were in her company for the better part of the day, this meant that they, themselves, reeked of gnoll enough to cause one horse trader in a small village twenty miles back to banish them from the sight of his corrals for rest of their natural lives. This, ­coupled with the fact that staying at inns had become likewise difficult and that Hool steadfastly refused to travel on the river, meant they were reduced to hiking and sleeping outside for the remainder of their journey, doubling their travel time, and making it more uncomfortable besides. They had left the banks of the river and moved slightly north to pick up the Freegate Road—­the best and only highway that lead directly to the city. It was also the slowest and least comfortable of all possible methods of travel.

  On the bright side, Hool was an exceptional huntress and had kept them all well fed on rabbit and grouse, the latter of which Tyvian had no idea how she caught with her bare hands. She acted as a scout, too, giving a report to him of the layout of the local land every day when she returned from hunting. Though their lack of transportation made it almost certain the Defenders would catch up with them, Tyvian felt oddly secure in the knowledge that Hool would let him know they were coming long before they arrived.

  The gnoll’s reason for accompanying them, or more specifically, accompanying Tyvian himself, was still a mystery. Hool was oddly concerned with his whereabouts, and with the exception of her hunting expeditions, wouldn’t let the smuggler out of her sight. She hadn’t yet revealed the reason for this, though Tyvian surmised that if it was sufficiently important to necessitate her assaulting an entire tavern’s worth of ­people, it was a lot more than simple curiosity or fascination. Tyvian hadn’t asked. This was partly because he didn’t think she would tell him—­she was waiting for the right moment, he was certain—­but he mostly hadn’t asked because he didn’t care.

  At the gnoll-­recommended campsite, Artus set up their tent with his usual skill as Tyvian hacked up some of the dry, scraggly bushes that grew in the area with a hatchet they had purchased with some of Hool’s stolen money. The gnoll, meanwhile, skinned and gutted the rabbits on a broad, flat rock. The place Hool had chosen was a small basin on the leeward side of a large hill. Tyvian was forced to admit that it was a far better choice than his rather arbitrary choice, as this spot was removed from the road by a few hundred yards, hidden from sight on three sides by large stones jutting out of the side of the hill, and warmer by some ten degrees.

  Since they had run out of hearthcider, warmth had become a major consideration for Artus and himself. All they had to protect them against the wind and cold were the furs on their backs, the itchy woolen blanket rolls, and the thick canvas of the tent walls. Against the biting chill of a winter night in the foothills of the Dragonspine, it was all poor protection. Hool, meanwhile, seemed unaffected. Her shaggy coat was evidently more than enough insulation to deal with the local conditions, a fact that was of great relief to both Artus and Tyvian, since the prospect of sharing a tent with the beast would have been too much to bear.

  Tyvian gathered the brush together at the center of the gulley and produced a hearthstone. Striking it sharply against a rock, he tossed it quickly into the pile of brush and watched as the magic in the simple, rust-­red rock ignited the fire. Hool was watching him with her unwavering gaze as she skinned the game with the practiced ease of one who had been stripping small animals of their flesh for most of her life. “Are you a wizard, Reldamar?”

  Tyvian shook his head. “Certainly not.”

  “Do you know about wizards?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Tell me about them.” Hool had a note of finality in her tone that was unmistakable.

  The hair on the back of Tyvian’s neck stood on end. He spoke carefully. “What do you want to know?”

  “Do they die?”

  Tyvian licked his lips. “Well . . . yes. They’re just human beings, after all. Are you looking to kill some wizards, Hool?”

  “Yes.”

  Tyvian managed a chuckle. “That’s what I like about you, Hool. You are delightfully straightforward. Any wizards in particular?”

  Her eyes gleamed like metal disks in the firelight. “Yes.”

  Tyvian nodded, disliking the direction the conversation was going. “Well, then I pity the poor chaps. I most certainly would not like to be your enemy.”

  “You say we are going to this Freegate-­place. What is it?”

  Artus hammered the last stake into the earth and clapped his hands. “Yeah! What are we doing when we get there?”

  Tyvian scowled at him. “Just to make things perfectly clear—­once we get to Freegate, we are not doing anything. I am paying you ten marks from my personal holdings there, and then we are going our separate ways.”

  Artus frowned and sat in front of the fire. “Oh right—­sure.”

  Tyvian nodded. “As for ‘what is Freegate,’ it is a city. It is, perhaps, one of the most wonderful cities in the whole world. Indeed, I often wonder why I ever leave.”

  Artus shook his head. “I dunno. I was there once, and I didn’t think it was all that great.”

  Tyvian nodded. “That’s because you passed through as a moneyless wretch, Artus. Freegate is no place for the peasantry.”

  The boy looked at his own tattered fur clothing. “Good thing we’re going there in style, then.”

  “Are there wizards in Freegate?” Hool asked.

  “That depends—­are you planning to go on a wizard-­killing rampage when we get there?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes, there are lots of wizards.”

  Hool placed a skinned rabbit on a stick and handed it to Artus to suspend over the fire. “Don’t drop it in or it will burn.”

  Artus frowned. “Saints, Hool, I know, okay? You tell me that every time.”

  “That is ’cause you hold your stick too loose. You are going to drop it in.” Hool handed another stick to Tyvian. “Reldamar does it better than you.”

  Artus scowled and grumbled under his breath, staring into the fire.

  “Don’t look at the fire. You will ruin your eyes for night-­seeing,” Hool scolded again. “Then when the wizards come for us you won’t be ready.”

  Tyvian perked up at that. “Any sign of them?”

  Hool nodded. “There are horses behind us. They were many miles away, upwind from us. One of the riders is the one who tried to catch you.”

  Tyvian smiled. “Good to know Alafarr hasn’t given up. I was a bit worried about her, to be honest.”

  “Why do they chase you?” Hool asked.

  Tyvian shrugged. “Because I’m a bad person. I deal in the illicit sale and trade of enchanted and alchemical items, which is a serious crime, you know.”

  “You’re also a jerk.” Artus muttered.

  Tyvian nodded. “Ah, yes—­thank you, Artus.” He turned to Hool and said, “I am also ‘a jerk,’ though exactly how that differs from being a ‘bad person,’ I can’t say.”

  Artus glared at him across the fire. “Jerk.”

  Tyvian raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Well, your mood has certainly soured. Why don’t you look at the pretty mountains some more?”

  Artus didn’t say anything and kept looking into the fire as the sunlight vanished behind the crest of the hill. The smell of roasted rabbit filled the air, and Hool passed around a waterskin. She then went about checking Artus’s pack and reloading anything that had shifted over the course of the day’s walking. She even checked its leather straps for any wear or tear. Not until she had finished her inspection did she sit down to roast her own rabbit.

  Tyvian watched the gnoll quietly through the firelight, trying again to figure out how it was she had come to be here. Wherever Hendrieux had gotten her,
she couldn’t have come cheaply—­catching gnolls was a daunting enough prospect as it was, Tyvian imagined, but shipping them alive across half a continent couldn’t be substantially easier. It would have cost a fortune, and he knew Hendrieux was not in a position to spend that kind of money on what amounted to an elaborate trap. Hendrieux could have planted a dozen equally incriminating things in the cargo in question without needing to go that extra mile for a full-­grown gnoll in a box. Granted, the biomantic text Alafarr mentioned had dealt specifically with altering wild beasts, and gnolls fit that description admirably, but it still didn’t make sense that Hendrieux would choose that specific crime. Unless . . .

  “You aren’t the only gnoll,” Tyvian whispered to himself.

  Hool’s ears swiveled in his direction. “What do you mean?”

  Tyvian blinked. “Oh . . . your hearing is quite keen, isn’t it? It was nothing, really—­just thinking aloud.”

  Hool’s ears went back, a gesture Tyvian had come to associate with annoyance. “No. You tell me what you meant.”

  Tyvian put up his hands. “I only meant that you are probably not the only gnoll Hendrieux has. Actually, let me amend that, you aren’t the only gnoll that whoever is paying Hendrieux has in his, her, or their possession.”

  Hool was across the campsite with her fists gripping handfuls of Tyvian’s jacket in the blink of an eye. She shook the smuggler like a rag doll. “YOU TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE RIGHT NOW!”

  “Saint’s eyes!” Artus jumped at the sudden attack; he immediately dropped his rabbit in the campfire.

  Tyvian wriggled in the gnoll’s iron grip, his own hands prying at her furry fingers to no noticeable effect. “Kroth, beast! Unhand me! Let go, I say!”

  Hool shook Tyvian so hard he thought his head was going to pop off his neck. “YOU TELL ME NOW OR YOU DIE!”

  Artus snatched up the mallet he had used to hammer in the tent stakes and hit the gnoll on the back as hard as he could. Hool dropped Tyvian immediately and backhanded the boy across the face hard enough that he spun around and fell flat on his face.