The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  Artus raised his hand. Both Alafarr and Tyvian stared at him until, finally, the smuggler said, “Yes, Artus?”

  “Okay, so what do we do with Alafarr until then?”

  “I say we kill her,” Hool said.

  Tyvian felt the ring pulse with heat at this statement and he jumped in his chair. “Dammit, no! We can’t kill her.”

  Hool’s ears went back. “Why?”

  “Well . . . we can’t have her body found. It will raise suspicions.”

  Hool nodded. “I will eat her.”

  This caused Alafarr to sit up straight. “I . . . I beg your pardon?”

  Tyvian blinked. “I appreciate the offer, Hool, but you don’t have to eat her.”

  “Good,” Hool stated, but did not elaborate.

  Tyvian didn’t pry. “Let’s focus on getting to Freegate first, then we can decide what to do with Alafarr there.”

  Artus raised his hand again. “The innkeeper says there’s a barge heading north on the river tomorrow. We could buy passage and make it to Freegate in four days.”

  “No!” Hool snapped. “I will not go on the water.”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Of all the silly . . . Hool, you have to go on the water.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Hool’s ears pressed flat against her skull. “No.”

  Tyvian grimaced. “Hool?”

  “What?”

  “You want me to help find your pups?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll get on the bloody barge!” Tyvian pounded the armrest of his chair.

  Hool considered this for a moment and then nodded. “I will go on the water, but I will not get wet.” She then turned herself around in a circle and buried her head into her fur.

  Tyvian sighed and turned back to the fire. He found Alafarr looking at him. “How did you ever manage pick up a pet gnoll?” she asked him.

  “First, she is no one’s pet, and second, I’m just lucky, I guess.” Tyvian stood up and spoke to Artus. “I’m to bed—­you keep watch on our prisoner. If she does anything funny, tell Hool to eat her.”

  Tyvian retired to the large bed at the center of the room and was quickly asleep. His steady breathing was drowned out by the rumbling drone of Hool’s snoring and the crackle of the fire. Artus came to sit in the chair Tyvian had occupied and nodded politely to the morose Defender.

  “Sorry about this,” he said.

  Alafarr blinked at the boy, surprised by the genuineness of the sentiment. “Thank you. You must understand, though, that when I escape—­”

  Artus held up his hand. “I wouldn’t try it.”

  Alafarr managed a half smile. “I assure you—­I am quite well-­trained.”

  Artus cast a careful glance over his shoulder and then leaned in to whisper in the Defender’s ear. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you, but I just want to let you know that Hool over there ain’t really sleeping. She looks it, but she ain’t. You so much as stand to use the pot without asking and she’ll have you skinned and spitted ’fore you can say ‘Saint’s praise.’ ”

  Alafarr peered toward the hulking mass of fur and muscle slumbering in the corner. “Thank you for the warning.”

  Artus nodded. “I’m not such a bad sort. A guy’s gotta make a living, though, you know?”

  “Reldamar isn’t the best way to do that.”

  The boy nodded at this. “Yeah, well, I dunno. He’s a jerk sometimes, but I get the feeling I could learn a thing or two watching him. You could, too.”

  Alafarr scowled. “I do not learn from criminals.”

  “Might be why they keep escaping, then, ain’t it?” Artus smirked.

  Alafarr noted the style of insult. “You have been learning.”

  The boy beamed at that, and produced a length of rough rope from a satchel on the floor. “Shut it now, if you please. I gotta tie you to this chair and give you a gag. Again, no hard feelings?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN THE FREE CITY

  The Independent City-­State of Freegate lay like a loose field of mismatched wreckage bunched against one side of a stone bowl. Half of the city lay at the bottom of a steep valley, surrounded on all sides by the imposing gray cliffs of the Dragonspine and the ancient, empty ramparts the long-­dead Warlock Kings had carved into those cliffs. The other half had been built almost vertically up one side of the valley in a precarious series of terraced buildings, staircase avenues, and winding ramps. A low and permanent cloud of soot and dust hovered over the irregular steeples, minarets, towers, and artifactory stacks of the lower districts, while the Cliff District—­as the vertical portion of Freegate was known—­mired its way through the poisonous layer of fumes until, at its heights, it peeked over the clouds and glimpsed blue sky and snowcapped mountains.

  The Freegate Road and the spirit-­engine tracks to Galaspin both speared the irregular mass of Freegate’s lower half in the same place, terminating at the western edge of the city proper, in the midst of a sea of ramshackle tents, huts, pavilions, and other temporary dwellings that formed the Western Outskirts. The red-­tiled roof of the Freegate Spiritberth marked the start of the city’s Grand Avenue, which cut a swath between numerous guild-­owned and operated boroughs—­the Woodcarver’s District, the Mason’s District, Cobbler Hill, Tailor Town, and so on—­until reaching the vast, mile-­wide expanse of the Beggar’s Market at the heart of the city. There, housed beneath a huge dome of green copper, the Municipal Trading House squatted like an obese spider at the center of an overloaded web, the seat of Freegate’s Lord Mayor and Municipal Council.

  The Beggar’s Market and its attendant Trading House was only the largest of innumerable other markets and bazaars that filled Freegate, however. A city wedged between the Alliance to the southwest, the Principality of Dellor to the north, and the Twin Kingdoms to the northeast, commerce was the focus and purpose for its existence. As Tyvian led Artus, Hool, and a hooded and gagged Alafarr through the throngs of merchants, peddlers, and pickpockets that filled the Grand Avenue, he referred to the larger markets. “The Cloth Market is to our left, up Barricade Avenue, while the Perfumer’s Market and the Glitter Market are to our right, past the Holy District and Brewer Town, respectively. We are headed to a side street off the Stair Market, which is in the heart of the Cliff District.”

  Artus tugged a reluctant Alafarr past a pair of peddlers hawking discount luck talismans, his eyes scanning the crowd nervously. “I don’t know about this—­what if somebody asks why we’ve got a woman tied up and hooded? What do we say?”

  Tyvian smiled. “We just say we’re going to Corpse Alley to see the Phantom Guild.”

  Artus’s eyes grew even larger. “What’s that?”

  “The local thieving guild. They run a lucrative trade in kidnapped persons, particularly women.” Tyvian caught the baleful eye of Hool and added, “Not that I know from personal experience, of course. Hendrieux is a member there and spoke about it at exhaustive length.”

  Hool snorted loudly at this, which caused a number of passersby to back up even farther than the two-­yard bubble the crowd was naturally maintaining around her person. The gnoll had her ears back and her hackles up ever since they reached the city limits, but hadn’t spoken except to repeat the words “I don’t like this place” and “Everybody here smells bad” at regular intervals. She did so again at Tyvian’s mention of the Phantom Guild, but this time added the adverb “really” to each sentiment.

  Tyvian shrugged. “The wells here are privately owned, so clean water and bathing are at a premium. The average Freegater spends most of their water budget to be able to drink and live. Being clean is not a priority.”

  “That’s stupid,” Hool concluded.

  Artus frowned. “Hey, you don’t smell like a bunch of flowers yourself, you know.”

  One of Hool’s
ears swiveled toward Artus. “Not the bathing part. The part where these stupid ­people pay for water. Nobody owns water.”

  Tyvian led the party off of Grand Avenue when it reached the Beggar’s Market and steered them onto Main Street, which headed southeast toward the cliffs. Main Street was considerably narrower and all uphill, but that didn’t mean there were fewer ­people there. Without Hool to break the press of the crowd in front of them, it was likely they would have been forced back into Beggar’s like so many leaves caught in a stream.

  “Why are there so many ­people here?” Artus asked, guiding Myreon over a drunk passed out in the gutter. “I didn’t think Freegate was this big.”

  “It isn’t. Two out of three ­people in Freegate are visitors. Why there are so many visitors here now is somewhat odd, I admit. Probably a lot of holdovers from the Hearth Festival, or perhaps Trell’s Pass has been snowed in on the Northron side early this year and most ­people are just waiting for a thaw. In any case, get used to it.” Smiling at his own narration, Tyvian casually picked an apple from a passing cart without the carter’s knowledge, but then yelped suddenly and dropped it in order to cradle his spasming hand. “Dammit all!”

  Artus politely ignored the episode, but Hool did not. “What is wrong with your hand?”

  Tyvian heaved a heavy breath and worked his fingers. “Nothing.”

  “You are a liar.”

  “Mind your business, gnoll,” Tyvian snarled.

  Hool went back to scaring locals out of their way and conversation stopped. Tyvian navigated his three charges up through the winding alleys and steep avenues of Freegate without comment, ignoring the ceaseless, oceanic roar of the crowds, to be left with his own thoughts.

  The journey from where they captured Alafarr to Freegate had taken four days, just as predicted. The barge crew had been hesitant to take a gnoll and a gagged prisoner aboard, but Tyvian paid extra and, to her credit, Hool caused no trouble. That she was uncomfortable on a boat was clear—­she insisted on sitting at its exact center and could not be persuaded to move. Tyvian also noted that she only looked at the deck or straight up at the sky and wouldn’t entertain conversations regarding the depth, breadth, or temperature of the river. Still, he had seen many humans act less rationally toward their fears than the gnoll, and he supposed he owed her some degree of tolerance, as she had saved him from the Defenders twice now. He had left her in peace.

  Artus, however, was another matter. Tyvian knew the boy was becoming attached to him for reasons that were not entirely clear. Granted, he was well aware of the impressive figure he cut and knew how his clever wit and resourcefulness might encourage a certain amount of awe in a young teenage boy, but he had made a point to antagonize and insult Artus at every convenient opportunity. He knew these insults had their effects on the lad—­after he used Artus as a decoy in an attempt to confuse Alafarr’s seekwand, the boy had been irate. The trouble was, the very next morning Artus had apologized for being angry. He’d said. “I understand what you were doing, and it was a pretty smart plan and all, so I guess I’m sorry I was cross.” Tyvian had informed him that he ought to be sorry, and that he was a pretty dull lad in situations pertaining to life-­and-­death. Artus had looked annoyed at this but didn’t comment.

  At any other point in his life, Tyvian might have secretly abandoned the boy while he slept without a second thought. Hool’s presence, though, complicated that considerably. Somehow, the gnoll had gotten it into her head that the three of them were some kind of transitory family unit, with her as mother, Artus as child, and Tyvian himself as father. He was relatively certain that the beast would become quite upset if he had introduced the “abandon Artus” plan and, due to Hool’s unusually acute senses and incredible tracking ability, Tyvian seriously doubted he could escape without her permission.

  Then, of course, there was the infernal ring. Tyvian had come to understand that it, much like Hool, attached some level of significance to Artus. He imagined this was somehow integral to the sorcery Eddereon had used to attach it to his body. This would explain the note Eddereon had written for the boy, as well as the device’s rather extreme reaction to his attempts to kill Artus during their brief knife-­fight, as well as during his attempt to abandon Artus to the tender mercies of Hool in the Wandering Fountain, and to his efforts to disguise Artus as himself four days ago, though that instance had been less intense. Nevertheless, because of the ring, Tyvian was uncertain he was going to be rid of Artus easily.

  To be fair, Artus had been useful during the trip, as Tyvian had hoped he would be. The boy had the resilient constitution of a young person who spent a great deal of time working with his hands, was gullible enough to be easily manipulated, and was savvy enough to be trusted with basic tasks without failing utterly. He could pick a pocket, pitch a tent, and watch a prisoner—­all tasks Tyvian would have been hard-­pressed to do on his own without assistance from Hool, which seemed unwise. Still, the boy was young, irritating, and in no way his responsibility. If Eddereon had hoped to give the young vagabond a father figure in the form of Tyvian Reldamar, he had sorely misinterpreted the smuggler’s temperament. He had every intention of paying the lad his ten marks and setting him on the streets of Freegate with his conscience clear. After all, he had learned to stop relying on adults for guidance long before his fourteenth birthday, and Artus would be fine on his own, no matter what an imperious gnoll or a self-­righ­teous ring thought.

  The Stair Market was aptly named. Running for nearly a mile from bottom to top, it was a hundred-­yard-­wide terraced market of granite stairs that ran for nearly the entire length of the Cliff District, beginning in the haze of the city’s pollution layer and reaching all the way up to the crest, where the elite of the city maintained impressive homes along the shores of Dain’s Lake—­an ancient and artificial reservoir that rested in a basin atop the southern edge of the valley. Thanks to the lake being at such a high elevation, a narrow stream fed by its waters cascaded from broad stair to broad stair at a rapid rate down the center of the Stair Market and ended in a large fountain at its base. As the water was drawn from the lake, it was said to be safe to drink. This was, of course, discounting the fact that most local merchants used it as a dumping ground for the waste they did not wish to carry off, permitting the stream’s rapid speed to carry the offending material off to the bottom. This practice meant drinking the water was risky at best, particularly at lower altitudes, and also explained why the fountain at the base was known as the “Chamber Pot.”

  By the time Tyvian and his companions reached the Stair Market, the crowds had abated somewhat. It was late afternoon and the sky was gray with rain clouds. Those peddlers and pushcart merchants who had elected to brave the rain were erecting colorful oilcloth awnings over their carts or had drawn out umbrellas, ready to be opened. Uncharacteristically, they did not call out to Tyvian and company as they passed, though whether it was due to the gnoll glowering at them or the hooded, casterlocked woman they had in tow was unclear. In any event, Tyvian appreciated the relative quiet.

  Artus, who had to guide Alafarr up every stair, was taking up the rear of the group when he called to Tyvian, “Watchmen, Reldamar!”

  Tyvian saw them then—­a squadron of four city watchmen clad in iron-­studded leathers and bearing arm-­length cudgels, standing in a circle on the front steps of a gambling house. One of them was watching them casually as the other three were engaged in conversation. Tyvian smiled and nodded to him. He nodded politely back and returned his attention to his compatriots.

  Tyvian looked at Artus. “They aren’t interested in us.”

  “Not even . . .” Artus jerked a thumb at their prisoner.

  “The enforcement of laws in Freegate is spectacularly lax, Artus. Those men have probably been bribed to beat some unfortunate fellow somebody suspects of cheating at dice, and have evidently been paid well enough to completely disregard a gnoll and a blindfold
ed wizard being led through the city streets. Even if they were interested, for the cost of a mark per man we would be given a rather lackadaisical warning to ‘behave’ and they’d go their way.”

  Artus shook his head at this, a mix of disbelief and amazement on his face. “Wow.”

  Tyvian smiled and shrugged. “That’s why I love this city. Come, now—­we’re almost there.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To visit a warlock and thaumaturge of my acquaintance.”

  “What’s a tham . . . thouma . . .” Hool’s snout struggled with the word.

  “Thaumaturge—­thaumaturgy is one of the Low Arts, related to alchemy but more abstract. Thaumaturges distill essences and traffic in materials for sorcerous rituals and such. Boring ­people, but rather useful contacts to have.” Tyvian said, steering them toward the edge of the market.

  Hortense’s shop had the same cheery green awning and brightly painted sign as the last time Tyvian had been here. The sign depicted a stereotypical wizard’s cap with stars and moons and such, which was generally enough information for the primarily illiterate population of Freegate to identify his general specialty. In truth, Hortense was a master of his craft. Nobody Tyvian knew of was a better hand at sussing out the details of odd and rare magecraft.

  As they got closer, however, he noted some key differences in the shop’s appearance. The broken lock, for instance, as well as the slightly ajar door, the bare shelves, and the thick layer of dust covering the floor, counter, and almost everything else. As he peered inside, Artus looked in over his shoulder. “Is he out of town?”

  Tyvian pointed at the forced lock. “Why would he break into his own shop?” He knew the place was likely empty, but decided to be thorough. “Hello?”

  Something fell over and broke within the shop, and a scruffy, bearded face popped up over the shop’s bare counter. The man had far too many sores on his face to be Hortense, and his fingers were stained purple—­a squatter and an ink-­thrall. “Eh? Watchawant?”