The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  “It is, Master.” Myreon nodded. She wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or not. Certainly, the opportunity to pursue Reldamar was exciting, but Magus Errant was somewhat . . . worrying. No backup, no support, no reserves to call in. Was she good enough to do this herself? Was it even wise?

  Tarlyth smiled and stood. “Come with me.”

  The snow on the parade ground of the Thostering War Academy had been mostly trampled into a soupy mixture of mud and slush by the thousand boots of five hundred cadets, marching in rigid formations at the barking command of the March Master and his officers. Ordinarily, the slog across the wide yard to the gatehouse on the other side would have been a soggy one, but both Tarlyth and Myreon made certain to abjure cold and moisture from their boots as they walked, keeping their feet dry as good kindling.

  Some cadets saluted as they went past, but Myreon didn’t acknowledge them. She kept her eyes fixed on Tarlyth’s broad back, and tried to forget the faces of the men she had led against Reldamar just a few days before. Carlis, with the big laugh and strong hands, had been crushed under the spirit engine—­dead. Markon and Baness, who had worked with her since she earned her staff, had both been permanently crippled from the crushing wounds they received in the collapse of the dining car. Then there was Evard—­sweet, funny Evard, with his kindly smile—­he was slain by a gnoll and consumed by a sorcerous fire. The only thing his family would get back were ashes and a gruesome story. As it stood, she had barely survived herself; the burns on her arms and shoulders and hands had been mostly healed by the War College’s alchemist, but every move of her body felt like she was tearing her skin apart like parchment.

  And all of it was Tyvian Reldamar’s fault.

  Myreon found herself at the center of the courtyard, where a grand, ten-­foot statue of Finn Cadogan—­the Academy’s most famous graduate and the so-­called “Patron Saint of Sell-­Swords”—­stood just inside the main gate, overseeing the campus. The sculpture depicted the improbably handsome visage of the career soldier whose heroic sacrifice had, in large part, saved Galaspin from the ravages of Mad Prince Sahand twenty-­seven years earlier at the Battle of Calassa, where the Dellorans were finally defeated. Cadogan’s magic sword, Banner, was raised high, and he stood upon the broken shields and weapons of his defeated foes, his breastplate carved with the image of men-­at-­arms standing side by side.

  Myreon looked up at one of the four great heroes of the age. Cadogan had led a daring midnight raid on Sahand’s camp to assassinate Delloran officers, putting the Mad Prince’s army in disarray when the Falcon King Perwynnon’s reinforcements arrived at dawn. None of the Iron Men returned—­it was said Cadogan died at the hands of Sahand himself.

  She knew that Master Defender Tarlyth as well as some of the older Sergeant Defenders in Galaspin Tower had served alongside Cadogan’s “Iron Men” in Illin. When they spoke of him, it was only to say he was a soldier of integrity and steadfast courage. “I know what you’re thinking,” Tarlyth said, grinning up at the statue. “That it was all a myth. That we old men have cooked up stories about Cadogan and Varner and Marik the Holy and Perwynnon and the rest.”

  Myreon sighed but didn’t say anything. Cadogan had been a mercenary; he was paid to fight for the Alliance. Any of the men inside Thostering Academy could be the enemy or friend of Myreon’s goals, based only off the contents of her purse. The whole of Galaspin was awash in such men—­mercenaries infested the place like weevils. Just because the ones who could pay sent their sons to Thostering to learn how to pretend to be gentlemen didn’t make it so. They were no more to be trusted than Reldamar was.

  Tarlyth kicked the wet snow off the base of the statue and read the epigram.

  Captain Finn Cadogan

  Soldier, Hero, Favored Son

  “If Men of Honor Hold Together,

  No Evil May Pass.”

  The Master Defender sighed. “The man I am going to introduce you to is a man of honor. You may not like him and he may not like you, but he is the best at what he does. I trust him, and so should you.”

  Myreon nodded. “I defer to your wisdom, Master.”

  Tarlyth smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. The pressure there made Myreon’s burns scream with pain, but she held it in and only tightened her grip on her magestaff. “Good,” Tarlyth pointed through the gate behind them, “because here he comes now.”

  Myreon looked and saw a grim-­faced Illini guiding a black mare through the village market that pressed up against the borders of the War Academy. He had eyes like coals and a mane of matted raven hair that reached his shoulder blades. Myreon cocked her head to one side. “Wait, is that . . .”

  Tarlyth nodded. “Yes, that is Hacklar Jaevis. I am paying him two thousand marks to assist you.”

  Hacklar Jaevis dressed in muddy leathers studded with rusty iron disks, and knee-­high boots inlaid with tarnished silver. He had a thick, black beard that was clasped at its bottom with a ringlet of bone etched with a Hannite cross. He wore a thick black fur cape, underneath which, Myreon could tell, were hidden a variety of weapons, both magical and mundane. He was known to be humorless, gruff, and unpleasant. When he dismounted, she noted that he smelled very much like a wet dog.

  But everybody said he was the best.

  Jaevis did not bother introducing himself. He pointed a grubby finger at Myreon’s chest and muttered, “Pretty Mage Defender does not come to Hacklar Jaevis to catch famous Reldamar first. She comes to Hacklar Jaevis last. You will listen to what I say, or you will go away and hire fool. Choose now.”

  Myreon held her breath and held out her hand. Jaevis didn’t shake it; he spit in it. She looked back at Master Tarlyth, mouth agape.

  The Master Defender only smiled. “He likes you!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  MAN VERSUS BEAST

  “ . . . Five, six, seven. Stop.” Tyvian put an arm out to stop Artus in his tracks.

  The boy groaned. “How is this helping us, again?”

  Tyvian scowled. “I’m sorry if my attempts to keep us from capture are bothering you. Perhaps you’d like to run and hide in some dark alley somewhere?”

  They were standing in the center of a muddy road that paralleled the wide, blue-­black expanse of the Trell River. Around them there was nothing else but the snow-­dusted fields of Galaspin, empty, windy, and cold. Artus gestured at the open countryside. “How is this better than hiding? We’re the only damned ­people on the road, and it’s broad daylight!”

  “Are you ready to go another seven paces now? You’re slowing us down, and there’s a river-­inn ahead about a mile, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t know about you, but I am quite hungry.”

  Artus threw up his hands. “What is with the seven-­paces-­and-­then-­stop thing? I thought we was in a rush!”

  Tyvian began to count out another seven paces as he muttered, “Were in a rush. You thought we were in a bloody rush.”

  Artus stuffed his hands under his armpits to keep them warm and stomped after the smuggler. When Tyvian got to seven paces, though, Artus took an eighth and stuck his tongue out.

  “Are you an idiot?” Tyvian snapped.

  “I told you no more insults!”

  “It wasn’t an insult, it was a question.”

  Artus snorted. “Why are we walking seven paces at a time, Reldamar? We’ve been doing it for hours and it’s driving me nutty!”

  Tyvian rubbed his hands together and blew into them. “Tell me something, Artus. For exactly how long have you evaded capture by the Defenders of the Balance?”

  Artus blinked. “I never had no cause till I met you!”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes, yes—­a fact that you, no doubt, will harp upon for the days to come. However, allow me to point out that I have evaded their capture for almost eight years now. Now, what does that tell you?”

  “That you’re a slipp
ery bastard.”

  “A rather cruder turn of phrase than I, myself, might have used, but accurate enough. Suffice to say that I know what I’m doing and you do not, so when I tell you to walk seven paces at a time and stop, you should bloody well do it!” Tyvian yelled.

  Artus groaned. “Fine, fine—­whatever. Can we just get to that river-­thing faster?”

  Tyvian looked at the sky. “At last! Now, with me—­one, two, three . . .”

  The Trell River ran south and west from its headwaters near the city of Freegate, gaining strength from the many tributaries running out of the Dragonspine, until it became a broad and powerful waterway that ran all the way to Saldor and the Sea of Syrin. Back before the Delloran Wars, it had been a fortified border, with watchtowers and garrisons of the duke’s petty barons patrolling regularly. Sahand’s invasion had, of course, put an end to literal fire and brymmstone and as many rows of impaled heads as he could manage. After the war the lack of fortified keeps was found convenient by the guild-­lords who ruled much of Galaspin, and nothing much had been rebuilt while tariffs had been kept low. Accordingly, the river was a busy trade highway year-­round, so long as it didn’t freeze, and trading posts and settlements were common along its banks.

  The Wandering Fountain was one such settlement. It was a “river-­inn,” which meant it was a barge or series of barges converted into a floating boardinghouse that provided shelter, supplies, and food for travelers along the banks or the river. Their advantages, as Tyvian understood it, were chiefly legal. No Galaspiner petty barons or guild-­lords held legal authority over the waters of the Trell—­a by-­product of the great Treaty of Aldentree, which ended the Guilder Wars that tore the country apart over a century ago—­and therefore any building that existed upon it was free from harassment and taxation from any authority on shore. Furthermore, if a local ruler made himself too troublesome, a river-­inn could easily be floated downstream or to the opposite bank, thereby changing which local lord they would deal with.

  The most beneficial thing about river-­inns, as far as Tyvian was concerned, was the fact that nobody save a Defender of the Balance would have the authority to arrest him while he stayed on one. That didn’t mean somebody couldn’t try, of course, but any discouragement at all was helpful, given his current predicament.

  Long before they came around the bend in the river that obscured the Wandering Fountain from sight, Tyvian and Artus smelled it—­wood smoke and stewed meat—­and it was intoxicating to the famished and cold pair. When the establishment came into view, however, Tyvian was immediately reminded of the drawbacks of such places. It comprised probably three massive barges upon which had been built three stories of rickety wooden construction that not only looked drafty but also not entirely safe. Each floor was ringed by a veranda painted with a haphazard coat of whitewash that somehow managed to make the place look even older than it probably was. From the center of the river-­inn rose a single rusty tin smokestack that belched out the pleasant aromas that had enticed the two of them closer; Tyvian noted that this smokestack was poorly secured and wobbled in the wind. Like the rest of the place, it looked like a massive firetrap, and he wondered how it had managed not to burn down already.

  “Looks great!” Artus said, trotting down the road toward its entryway. Rolling his eyes, Tyvian followed.

  The Fountain’s common room—­or “galley,” as the quaint riverfolk called it—­was belowdecks in the first barge. As Tyvian and Artus entered, they found themselves drowned in a sea of smoke and raucous conversation. The warmth of the low-­ceilinged chamber made Tyvian’s numb cheeks start to tingle, but he could identify few other positive attributes to the place besides the heat. Taking a table somewhere in the middle of the room, he sat gingerly on the edge of a dirty chair and scanned the local patrons. Artus threw himself unceremoniously across from the smuggler and hunched over the table as only a teenage boy could. He frowned at Tyvian. “What’s the matter?”

  Tyvian motioned to his fur-­and-­leather-­themed attire. “I have discovered, to my dismay, that I am appropriately dressed for this venue.”

  Artus sniggered. “Serves you right.”

  Tyvian disregarded the goad. “How much money do you have?”

  Artus blinked. “Nothing.”

  Tyvian grimaced. “Not anything?”

  “Look, you’re the one always saying I’m a worthless street urchin. What’d you expect?”

  Tyvian pursed his lips. “I expected you to have picked a few pockets on our way in.”

  Artus’s mouth fell open. “Steal! Here?”

  Tyvian leaned forward. “Please lower your voice.”

  Artus leaned to meet him, glancing over his shoulder twice as he did so. “I can’t steal from these folks.”

  “I notice that you had no qualms about picking my pocket.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t like you.”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Am I to believe that you only rob ­people you dislike? Gods, no wonder you were living in a gutter.”

  Artus opened his mouth to protest, but Tyvian cut him off. “Never mind. I thought we might utilize your one apparent talent to purchase ourselves a hot meal.”

  Artus held up his pack. “We still got the dry rations Eddereon gave us. We could heat them on the cookstove over there.”

  Tyvian stood up. “Warm crackers do not constitute the kind of sustenance my stomach has come to expect from me. Since you are so unwilling to accommodate us, I see I will have to do everything myself. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Tyvian left Artus at the table without waiting for an answer and passed among the crowds of sweaty rivermen and fur-­clad wagoners that filled the Fountain. Picking pockets from half-­drunk laborers was child’s play. The trouble was, they hardly had anything worth stealing. After a few minutes all Tyvian had was a handful of copper peers, a few buttons, and a set of dice that looked like they had been shaved by the least subtle cheater in the history of gambling—­the thug must have tried doing the job with an axe. During this time, he was forced to press bodies with men who had never bathed, women who had never brushed their teeth, and the odd filthy, belching child. This, of course, would have been bad enough, but the sharp bites of pain Tyvian received from the ring every time he snagged another coin only made the experience that much more unpleasant.

  He decided that his life had reached a new low point. This was it. The bottom of the barrel—­picking pockets in the bilge of a Galaspiner river-­inn. Gods.

  When Tyvian returned to the table, he found Artus with his feet up and a steaming bowl of black stew in front of him. Tyvian threw the coppers on the table. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  Artus grinned broadly as he slurped from a wooden spoon. “The serving lady come by, and she says I looked so nice she gave me a bowl of stew for free!”

  Tyvian considered his throbbing right hand. “You are a son of a bitch.”

  “Hello there!” A matronly woman with large red cheeks draped an arm around Tyvian’s shoulders. “You must be this young man’s father, then?”

  Tyvian smiled at her. “Madam, I would hardly consider myself old enough.”

  The woman smiled and blushed. “Madam, am I?” She looked at Artus. “Sweet talker, your da is, eh? What’ll it be, love?”

  “I’m afraid you haven’t told me the menu.”

  The woman laughed. “Menu, now? By Hann, you’re the toast! We’ve got stew or a roast.”

  Tyvian eyed the greasy liquid Artus was slurping down with skepticism. “What is in the stew?”

  The woman gave him a blank look. “In it? It’s stew.”

  Tyvian produced a restrained grin and slid a copper across the table. “I’ll have the roast.” He added five coppers to the pile. “And a cup of your best hearthcider.”

  The woman winked. “Back before you know it!”

  As she left, Tyvian grum
bled, “Roast what, is the question.”

  Artus was staring at him. “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You had her eating out of your hand!”

  Tyvian pointed to the stew. “Of the two of us, you are the only one who has free food.”

  “No! I mean . . . I mean, well, she liked you.” Artus blushed.

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “We are not having this conversation.”

  “I bet you’re a hit with the ladies. Knew a guy who always said they liked jerks.”

  “No!” Tyvian slapped the table. “I am not discussing this with you. How old are you anyway?”

  Artus puffed out his chest. “Almost fourteen!”

  “I would wager you know as much about women as you need to know at this moment, Artus. The remainder you ought to learn like every other man—­through painful trial and error.”

  Artus frowned. “C’mon! Just a trick or two, is all! Please?”

  Tyvian took a deep breath. “How about we talk about something more immediately useful, such as how to get to Freegate without being caught.”

  Artus nodded. “Okay—­yeah! How come you know they’re after us? Maybe they think we drowned.”

  “Alafarr is nothing if not thorough. She’s after me for certain. The question is only how much of a head start we have. We can only keep up the seven-­step for so long before it becomes a disadvantage.”

  “Are you gonna tell me what that does?”

  Tyvian grimaced. The thought of educating Artus seemed a rather tedious enterprise, especially given how ineffectually the boy had absorbed the exhaustive etiquette lessons he gave him on the spirit engine to Galaspin. Still, he reasoned that giving the boy the basics could only work to his own advantage, as the likelihood he would make a stupid mistake would be bound to go down. He sighed. “Very well, then. Taking seven steps at a time in broad daylight is an adequate way to enhance the luminal ley of any given area.”

  Artus blinked. “What?”