The Iron Ring (9 page)

Around them, various patrons of the Wandering Fountain began to return to their senses, moaning and coughing. The gnoll's triangular ears swiveled to record this. It spoke in a thunderous semigrowl. “All of you will
leave
now! This is my place!”

Tyvian smiled and nodded. “We'd be delighted to.”

The gnoll glared at him. “Not you. You will come with me.”

“Not a chance.”

The tavernkeeper crawled out from under a table, his left leg bent at an unnatural angle. “Help! Help! Beast!”

The gnoll trotted over, grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, and heaved him through the exit like a sack. It then looked back to Tyvian. “Then I go with you.”

Tyvian scowled. “Why on earth would I let you do that?”

The gnoll looked around at the patrons stumbling to their feet, their eyes bleached with stark terror.
“I SAID LEAVE!”
It roared. Within a few seconds the room was empty.

“They'll go get help, you know,” Tyvian said. “There are more ­people in the inn than just those here.”

The beast snorted. “Not anymore. I threw them all in the water before I came down.”

Tyvian smiled again. “Ah, naturally. Well, they will come back, and next time they'll have weapons. I can't really think of a particularly good reason to associate myself with you in that case, can you?”

The gnoll fixed Tyvian with its predatory glare again. “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.” It gestured at Artus, who was only now managing to stand up. “I can track stupid humans across miles and miles, and if you won't let me go with you, I will eat your face.”

Tyvian, for the first time Artus had met him, seemed at a loss for words. Then he cleared his throat and said, “For a monster, you are remarkably convincing.”

The gnoll held up the tavernkeeper's apron and jingled it. “I also have lots of money.”

Artus and Tyvian exchanged glances. Artus asked, “How far is it to Freegate, again?”

Tyvian looked back at the gnoll. “Right, then—­you're in. Off we go.”

A
fter looting the empty river-­inn of supplies, a tent, and some other essentials, the strange trio of smuggler, boy, and gnoll slipped through the dark of the winter night until they found an empty barn in which to take shelter. The gnoll wanted to continue on, but Tyvian managed to convince it (he had no idea how) that to rest a few hours would be wiser.

Artus found a lamp somewhere and lit it with a flint. Tyvian would have preferred an actual fire, but the risk of discovery was too great. Besides, the hearthcider he had drank in the Wandering Fountain was actually working—­he didn't feel cold at all, despite crouching on the hay-­strewn floor of a uninsulated and empty barn on a winter night.

The gnoll's unnerving gaze was fixed on Tyvian. “How long do we wait?”

“I told you—­an hour or two. Then we put some distance between us and here until morning.”

“Then what?” Artus asked.

Tyvian gestured to the gnoll. “Then our new companion gives us the money he's acquired and we purchase passage on a riverboat heading north.”

Artus nodded, his eyes—­well,
eye
; one of them was swollen shut and purple—­darting constantly to where the gnoll was crouching as he tried to subtly move a few paces farther away from it. The boy had been ill-­at-­ease ever since it apparently dawned on him just how dangerous it was traveling with a savage monster. To his credit, he hadn't said anything aloud on the subject. Tyvian only hoped that the human facial expressions indicating anxiety and terror that were so prominently displayed on the boy's face weren't as readily understandable to gnolls as they were to other ­people.

“Where are you going?” the gnoll barked, paying Artus no heed.

Tyvian sighed. “Gods, do the two of you ever run out of questions?”

The gnoll slapped the ground. “You tell me!”

“Freegate! Satisfied now?” Tyvian snarled. He wondered how long it would take him to get rid of the beast now that it was in his company. Unlike Artus, its uses were limited to the money it had in its stolen apron and its obvious physical prowess. In every other way it was a liability, even provided it
didn't
eat them both in the middle of the night. He silently cursed the ring . . . again.

The gnoll curled itself up on the ground in a very canine posture. “I will sleep now. Don't you run away! I will know!”

Tyvian mustered up a smile. “We wouldn't dream of abandoning you, sir.”

The gnoll's ears shot up. “I am a
lady
!”

Tyvian blinked. “Oh . . . I beg your pardon, ma'am.”

“You call me Hool,” it said, and then closed its eyes. A few minutes later, with the two humans watching it in silence, its breathing became rhythmic and its ears laid back against its broad skull.

Tyvian broke the silence with a soft whisper. “It's asleep.”

Artus, visibly trembling, examined the beast's sleeping form. He then hissed at Tyvian, “What do we do now? You don't really aim to stay with this thing, right?”

Tyvian shrugged, smirking. “You didn't object in the tavern.”

“That was 'cause it was gonna kill us! I thought we would get outside and make a break for it. Maybe call for help.”

Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Yes, because those locals so recently pummeled by the very same wild gnoll would have done such an
admirable
job of containing it and we could
easily
outpace a creature that can, evidently, track like a hound and run like a mountain cat.”

Artus gestured to the sleeping gnoll. “It's sleeping! Why don't we just call them now?”

“Or better yet,” Tyvian said, drawing his knife and offering it, hilt first, to Artus. “Why don't
you
do her in?”

Artus looked at the knife and looked at the sleeping gnoll. “You do it.”

“Come now, Artus. Is this the same lad who charged into the fray with his fellow patrons at the Wandering Fountain? Take the knife, cut out the middleman, as they say, and slice her throat.”

Artus shook his head. “I don't want to.”

“Don't want to because she might wake up, or don't want to because you don't think it's right?”

“Both. I don't know.” Artus sighed.

Tyvian nodded. “Exactly as I thought, boy. Never taken a life in your whole time in the world, Hann bless you. I, meanwhile, have this.” He held up his right hand, where the iron ring glowered blackly in the lamplight. “And I would wager its perverted sense of self-­righ­teous­ness would prevent me from slaying yonder sleeping beast, no matter how much my practiced hands might want to. So, barring your spontaneous generation of a spine or my freedom from this iron anchor, nobody is going to do anything to our new friend, Hool.”

“But we can't
travel
with it! No town will ever let us in. We'll never be able to stay at an inn or ride on a riverboat or anything!”

Tyvian frowned—­that
was
a sticking point, but there was little point in echoing the boy's sentiment. “No matter. Besides, if that river-­inn is any indicator of the kind of lodgings one can expect along the Trell, I doubt we are missing very much.”

Artus looked back at the sleeping gnoll. The apron with the money was securely buried beneath her body, with only its tassels visible. “I wonder how much silver she's got in there.”

“The equivalent of at least two marks, two crowns, and eight peers, and probably a bit more,” Tyvian remarked absently, rising and walking to the barn door.

Artus's mouth fell open. “You're making that up.”

“I most certainly am not,” Tyvian shot back, peering through the cracks in the door into the darkness beyond.

“How'd you know?”

Tyvian shot him a withering look. “I
counted,
you ninny. What do you think I was keeping an eye on that whole time you were asking me stupid questions?”

Artus gasped. “You were gonna rob the place all the time!”

Tyvian nodded. “Did you really think it was my original intent to
walk
all the way to Freegate? Between the money the tavernkeeper had in that apron and the safe he clearly kept under the bar, I estimated we could buy a pair of ponies or some such the next town up as well as book passage on a riverboat as far as Headfort. We wouldn't travel in style, but at least we'd travel fast. Plus, animals exude a consistent Lumenal trace, which would assist us in evading Alafarr.”

Artus slapped his knee. “Saints, you're sharp!”

Tyvian returned and sat down, his face impassive. “Thank you very much for noticing. Such praise from you is a priceless gem that I shall cherish forever.”

“Well, you don't have to be a jerk about it.”

“Forgive me, Artus, if I am in a bad mood lately. You see, a longtime business associate of mine recently betrayed me, I have a magical torture device affixed to my hand, and I am wearing furs and sleeping on a barn floor with a chattering juvenile delinquent and a bloody
gnoll.
”

Artus's lips pulled into a tight line. “Sorry.”

Tyvian pulled off his fur hat and fashioned for himself a makeshift pillow. “That's perfectly all right. Only one of my six problems has anything to do with you, after all. Get some sleep. We'll leave in an hour.”

Artus nodded and lay down, uncertain of how insulted he was supposed to be, but decided to let it go. Tyvian just liked insulting ­people, he guessed. The more he took it personal, the longer his trip to Freegate would be.

His face still hurt from his fight earlier, though his mouth had stopped bleeding. He tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard floor. Though hardly the first barn he had ever slept in, he didn't feel tired, and his thoughts were racing. He thought again of the letter Eddereon had written him and what it might really say. He thought of his home across the mountains, in the broad farmlands of the North, and what his mother was doing right then. Most of all, though, he thought of the gnoll lying not four paces from him. He thought of her long white fangs and her predator's eyes; he thought of her standing over him in the night and tearing out his throat with a bestial howl.

His eyes popped open. There, twinkling in the semidarkness, one of Hool's eyes was half open and looking at him. Artus gasped and sat up straight, but the eye snapped closed as soon as he did so.

Artus knew then, beyond any doubt, that the gnoll had been awake the whole time.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

ON THE ROAD

M
yreon Alafarr sat uncomfortably in the saddle of a borrowed horse, her magestaff across her knees, and mused on the truth to Jaevis's reputation as the bounty hunter crouched over some muddy, snow-­filled tracks in the center of the narrow road that ran along a tributary to the Trell River. What he saw in them, Myreon had no idea, but it was apparently very interesting, as he had been examining the tracks in earnest for a full minute. After another half minute or so, Myreon cleared her throat. “Mr. Jaevis, would you care to share what it is you are looking at?”

Jaevis looked at Myreon over his shoulder. There was something about the man's thick eyebrows and dark eyes that put his face into a perpetual glare. “Two ­peoples. One man, very fit, not so tall. One boy, maybe fifteen, go with him. They were here day before yesterday. They walk strangely—­in sevens.”

“That sounds like Reldamar and his accomplice to me. He's using the seven-­step to foil seekwands. Fortunately it will slow him down. Come, let's—­”

Jaevis held up a thick, dirty hand. “That is not all, Lady Magus. There are other tracks.”

Myreon sighed. “This is a
road,
Mr. Jaevis. I'm certain there are other tracks.”

“These are not ­people tracks. These use four feet, like wolf or big cat, but are not wolf or big cat. Front paws are hands. Weigh maybe three hundred pound, moving quick.”

Myreon frowned. “You're certain?”

Jaevis glared at the Mage Defender. “Of course.”

“There was a gnoll on the spirit engine when I confronted Reldamar last. It escaped during the fighting, but I had presumed it dead.”

Jaevis looked back at the road and examined something. “It favors left side a little—­probably bruises there. Not enough to slow it.”

“Why would a gnoll follow Reldamar?” Myreon asked aloud.

Jaevis shrugged. “You are wizard. Use augury.”

“An augury to determine another being's
intentions
is something quite beyond my capabilities, Mr. Jaevis, and, even if it weren't, it would take too much time. We are after Reldamar, not the gnoll. If it interferes, I will simply make certain to destroy it this time. Can we be going, now?”

Jaevis did not respond. He mounted his own horse, Kuvyos, and spurred her into a canter. Myreon shook her head and followed.

C
atching Reldamar didn't seem terribly likely. The smuggler had at least a two-­day head start on them and, as Tarlyth had predicted, was counteracting most of the conventional auguries Myreon knew for catching criminals. Even by creating a possessive link to the smuggler with a small stockpile of his items retrieved from the spirit engine, the best information she had acquired were things she knew already—­Reldamar was heading north, and Reldamar was not alone.

The light mix of rain and snow that plagued the days since they left Thostering had finally cleared, giving way to a bright but cold sun that reflected off the isolated patches of snow spotting the Galaspin countryside. As if that hadn't put enough of a damper on her relationship with Jaevis, even when the weather cleared they did not speak. Not only was Jaevis's Trade imperfect, Myreon couldn't think of a topic of mutual interest they might discuss. The tracker didn't seem inclined to make friends, in any case.

Myreon was fairly certain Jaevis didn't like magi and probably had a low opinion of women, though she had no real proof to back that up and was never good at the empathic auguries that would tell her for certain, as channeling the Fey had never been her strong suit. She did note, however, the Hannite cross Jaevis wore around his neck and the Hannite talisman affixed to his beard—­almost certainly a life ward—­and concluded that such accessories were probably sufficient to indicate his piety and, by extension, his opinion of the High Arts, if not the fairer sex.

The Church had become more and more critical of the Arcanostrum of Saldor since the death of Keeper Astrian X shortly after the conclusion of the Illini Wars. With the conservative Astrian dead, a more progressive member of the Archmage Council was able to achieve the Fifth Mark—­the former Archmage Del'Katar of the Blue College, now known as Polimeux II, Keeper of the Balance. Polimeux had wasted no time repealing what he considered “antiquated policies” regarding the distribution of ensorcelled goods and the development of alchemical or thaumaturgical technologies. This was followed by the invention and distribution of things like spirit engines, sending stones, hearthstones, feylamps, and the rest of it. As far as Myreon could tell, the West had benefited enormously from these changes—­the economies of the Allied Nations had exploded; the war-­ravaged infrastructures of Illin, Rhond, Saldor, and Galaspin had been restored in record time; and the ­people prospered.

The Church, however, didn't seem to appreciate all of this. Such “irresponsible” use of the art was a sin, they said. It would lead to the destruction of the world, they insisted, and every slight magical mishap or natural disaster was said to be evidence of “Kroth the Devourer stirring in his bonds.” Myreon personally believed the Church was just bitter that their priests and healers were receiving fewer donations now that materials like illbane powder and bloodpatch elixirs were more readily available to the average person. She imagined that the sale of luck-­charms and various divinatory almanacs also had a deleterious effect on their blessings and holy ceremonies. Why kowtow to a bunch of didactic holy-­men when you could see if your child was born under a fortunate star with a ­couple silver crowns to a local talismancer?

In any case, as much as she might like to discuss these topics, Myreon doubted Jaevis would appreciateit. Illinis were known to be a superstitious and pious lot and were famously intolerant of those who didn't agree with them. There was no sense in sticking one's finger in a pot one knew was boiling, and so she kept silent until they came upon the angry mob along the banks of the Trell River.

Like most mobs, they lacked subtlety. A group of about ten men armed with spears, scythes, and hatchets came clambering out of a copse of trees near a bend in the river. They were bundled in heavy woolen fleeces and crude beaver-­pelt caps, and their faces were scoured raw with cold and exhaustion. Their eyes, however, were still blazing with equal parts fear and anger. When the mob caught sight of Myreon and Jaevis, they ran toward them, waving their arms and shouting “Hold” and “Danger.”

Myreon looked over at Jaevis to find the bounty hunter had a small crossbow already loaded and resting across his knees. “Mr. Jaevis, I trust you will use discretion with that device?”

Jaevis didn't look at her, but grunted in what Myreon assumed to be assent.

“Hold!” The apparent leader of the mob was a middle-­aged man with a thick beard and wide, flat cheeks. He had a wood-­splitting axe that he was waving in the air like a banner. “Come no further if you value your life! Go back!”

Myreon raised her magestaff so it could be easily seen and pulled back her hood. “I am Myreon Alafarr, Mage Defender of the Balance, in pursuit of a criminal fugitive. This is an associate of mine, Mr. Jaevis.”

The sight of the magestaff took something of the bravado out of the group. The leader paled slightly and let his woodsplitter drop to the ground. “Begging your pardon, Magus. Been trouble hereabouts, and we've been keepin' travelers away.” The man looked about at his companions and, perhaps for the first time, realized how a pack of armed men jumping out of the bushes might be misinterpreted. “For their safety, you know. Obviously. We ain't no bandits or nothing. Honest.”

Myreon nodded, face impassive. “I surmised as much, sir—­bandits are usually a bit quieter when approaching their prey. What has happened?”

“Well, night before last there was a row at the Fountain—­river-­inn, maybe two miles up. Monster of some type crashed in there. Fought the whole place, it did, and put ten men on their backs in a healer's bed, threw a half dozen into the river and half froze 'em, plus a ­couple more got bruised up so bad they don't know what's comin' or goin'. There was some talk from witnesses and such that seen the fight that the beast was in league with some strangers, but I don't know more past that. We been out ever since trying to hunt the thing down—­we know it slept in a barn nearby anyway.”

Myreon gave the mob a good hard look—­they were farmers, woodsmen, fishermen, and craftsmen, by the looks of them. That gnoll, she suspected, would tear them apart if they actually caught up to it. “Why not report this to your local baron? Surely his men-­at-­arms would be better equipped for this sort of thing.”

The men shrugged. “He's gone off to winter up in Freegate, the slug—­all the fancy folk go up there before the heavy snows set in. His keep has got just a few fellows about, and they're helping with another group upriver.”

Myreon rolled her eyes—­typical Galaspiner politics. ­People claimed the nobility were more responsible since the war, but they hadn't changed. The average Galaspin peasant was expected to fend for himself, and they usually did, or pooled their money to hire mercenaries. Putting that issue aside, Myreon focused on what was most interesting in the mob leader's tale, “How many travelers do you get passing through at this time of year?”

The leader of the mob conferred with his compatriots for a moment before producing the answer. “I dunno. Two or three barges head up-­ or downriver a week. Them's mostly folks we see regular, you know? They ain't from around here but they ain't strangers neither, right?”

“What about on foot? How many then?”

The leader of the mob blinked. “On foot in the winter? None—­who'd walk to Thostering at this time of year?”

“Hey!” one of the other members of the mob shouted from in the back. “Weren't those two strangers on foot that night? I swear I heard that!”

Myreon grinned. “Thank you, sir—­that was what I wanted to hear. If you don't mind, my associate and I are going to the Fountain to investigate.”

The mob leader knuckled his forehead. “Yes ma'am. You think we should keep looking for the monster, then? Is there danger?”

Myreon weighed her options for a moment and decided to remain positive. “Keep up the good work, gentlemen—­you are a credit to your community!” With that, she and Jaevis spurred their horses past the group and rode off.

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.