The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  Tyvian paused, trying to clear his head enough to do some very crucial calculus. Behind him, he caught a glimpse of his shadow—­getting closer, so much closer.

  “Kroth,” he growled to himself, “dying would be better than this nonsense anyway.”

  He drew Chance with his left hand and cut down a flagpole. He forced himself to catch it with both hands, though he practically passed out from the ring’s objections. Then, holding one end, he began to run.

  Tyvian heard his shadow break cover, coming at him at a dead sprintfrom behind. He angled himself toward the edge of the bridge, planted the flagpole, and vaulted.

  Behind him, he heard someone swear in Illini (Illini?) over the rush of air past his ears. He pulled for all his worth with his arms, propelling himself through space. He had no idea if he’d cleared enough distance, no idea if he’d cleared too much. He dropped through the air, feet first . . .

  . . . and struck the edge of the lower bridge, but only barely. Something in his leg cracked, but he had the presence of mind to roll forward. It was an ugly roll—­he flopped across the bridge like he had been poleaxed. He banged his head and arms pretty badly. New pain joined the old tortures of the ring, and they did not harmonize well.

  Tyvian tried getting up, but his leg and arm were now howling together. He groaned and almost passed out.

  No! he cursed at himself. If he passed out, his tail won—­the fellow was already circling around, mostly likely, and trying to get down to where he was before he disappeared. He imagined he could hear the slap of his boots against the cobbles.

  The world swirled and pitched. Tyvian vaguely recalled grabbing something to pull himself up but then falling down again. After that all he could see, hear, or recall were the sounds of his own cries of pain and the curses on his lips.

  When he came again to his senses, he was standing on the street he had just leapt from. On his left was a respectable home sporting a sign advertising the medicinal and alchemical ser­vices of a Doctor Wich. The ring’s assault upon him had abated somewhat, but his lower left leg was taking up the slack. He found he couldn’t put weight on it.

  Remembering the Wandering Fountain, Tyvian glared down at the ring. “Think you’re tricking me this time, eh? You almost kill me and you expect me to go along with your little plot? I know what you’re up to—­”

  The ring flared as he turned away from the doctor’s office. Across the street was a well-­appointed gambling house, catering to “Persons of Breeding,” according to the lettering in the window. Dragging his broken leg, Tyvian forced himself inside. It was empty, the morning light casting dusty beams of sunlight across the finely appointed room. Most of the chairs were set atop the gaming tables, but the bar stools were out and ready.

  Tyvian shambled over to one and slapped his good hand on the bar-­top. “Whiskey!”

  A serving specter poured him a tumbler, but Tyvian made it a double. Grimacing, he knocked it back in one swallow and demanded another.

  “A bit early for you, isn’t it Mr. Reldamar?” The voice came from the shadows. Tyvian tried to grasp Chance, but the ring had paralyzed his hand too much with pain. The voice chuckled. “There’s no need for that.”

  “Show yourself!” Tyvian growled.

  Eddereon stepped into the light. His graying beard had been combed and his clothes were somewhat less rustic, but he was still every bit the barrel-­chested mountain man Tyvian had met on the banks of the river all those weeks ago.

  “You son of a bitch!” Tyvian pulled a knife with his good hand. “I’ll kill you now, ring or not.”

  Eddereon brushed back his cloak to reveal the jeweled hilt of a longsword. “You are in no condition to murder me, Tyvian, and I would hate to kill you. May I sit down?”

  Tyvian said nothing. He only knocked back his second double-­shot. Between the alcohol and the ring-­induced agony, he knew Eddereon was right.

  The big man pulled up a stool beside him. “You are fighting the ring even now, eh?”

  “I . . . refuse . . . to let you . . . control me,” Tyvian grunted.

  Eddereon shook his head and smiled. “I am not controlling you, Tyvian. The ring is not making you into a trained animal. It is waking you up.”

  “Kroth take you.”

  “We don’t grant the ring to just anyone, Tyvian. If we did, we would have put one on Banric Sahand ages ago, as well as any other monstrous villain you could name. Every cutthroat, blackmailer, thief, and rapist in this miserable city would be carrying the ring about.”

  Tyvian snorted, trying to pry his pain-­soaked fingers out of a fist. “Yes . . . wolf among sheep. I remember this lecture.”

  “The ring only punishes you for that which you know is wrong. If you are wracked with pain, it is not brought on by the ring, but by your own soul.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Is it?” Eddereon cocked an eyebrow. “Can you remember the first time you killed, Tyvian?”

  Tyvian scowled. He had been fifteen. A boy his age had challenged him to a duel for something stupid and childish—­some adolescent idea of honor, he supposed; Tyvian had run him through the neck. He remembered clearly how the boy had gurgled bubbles of blood as he died, a look of painful surprise on his face. “What of it?”

  “How did you feel?”

  Tyvian remembered weeping. He remembered going to his mother and demanding she use her considerable sorcery to bring the boy back. When she refused, she had laughed at him for his repeated pleas. Really, Tyvian, she had scoffed. Anyone so stupid as to challenge you to a fight deserves what he gets. As soon as you stop that unseemly blubbering, you’ll realize the little fool killed himself.

  “You felt terribly, didn’t you?”

  “Go . . . to . . . hell.”

  Eddereon smiled and shook his head. “Stop fighting yourself, Tyvian. The easy way is not the only way, nor is it the best of ways. If you follow your heart, you will find the ring as much a help as it is a hindrance.”

  Tyvian pushed himself to his feet. “Mark my words, Eddereon—­this isn’t over.”

  Eddereon smiled. “Of course not. Allow me to pay for the drinks.”

  Tyvian fished a few silvers from his purse and slapped them on the counter, glaring at the mountain man. He then left the gaming house, stumbled across the street and pounded on the door to the doctor’s office. There was no answer.

  Eddereon came into the street. “Doctor Wich went missing five months ago. No doubt kidnapped, like so many other such professionals of late.”

  Tyvian glared at Eddereon. “Is that your angle, then? Did you rig this ring to bring me here to unravel a mystery you were too dense to solve yourself? Am I supposed to save the practitioners of the Low Arts all across Freegate and then earn my freedom?”

  Eddereon shook his head. “Noble of you, but that is not the ring’s intent. It wishes only to make you whole.”

  He reached out and touched Tyvian’s broken leg. Tyvian would have jerked away but was exhausted, hurt, and foggy with lack of sleep to manage it. Incredible warmth spread throughout his body, but then pooled in his broken bone. In an instant the feeling had passed.

  Tyvian’s leg felt fine. “How . . . how did you . . .”

  Eddereon smiled. “The ring, Tyvian. You, too, have this power. You must merely have the true and honest goodwill to use it.”

  “And buy into this entire ‘goodness’ charade? Is that it?” Tyvian snorted. “I either do it your way or Artus dies, eh? That’s moral extortion.”

  Eddereon nodded. “How clever of you to identify it.”

  Tyvian backed away from him, his eyes wide, his legs wooden. “Kroth take you, you infernal bastard. I won’t do it, do you hear me? Tyvian Reldamar is nobody’s slave!”

  Eddereon watched him go, his bearded face grim. “Then Artus will die. It is your choice, but there is only one right pa
th. This, whether you admit it or not, is something you already know.”

  Tyvian turned around and left. He did not look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DEATH’S DOOR

  “That wretched boy,” Tyvian growled. He was seated in his living room, a cup of bitter tea in his hand that he sipped in sharp, sudden movements. His hand throbbed. Over the crackle of a fire, he could sometimes hear the desperate moans of Artus, deep in the throes of fever’s delirium.

  He had summoned Myreon Alafarr from her room. The Mage Defender sat with her arms crossed, scowling at the floor. She appeared to have been brushing her hair—­it glittered like gold wire in the rays of early morning sunshine. “Did you call me out here just to complain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t get any sympathy from me. You know that.”

  Tyvian set down his teacup. “Myreon, am I an evil man?”

  Myreon looked up and blinked. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Just answer it, dammit.”

  “Yes, you are an evil man.”

  “There, you see! Ha!”

  “I fail to see what I have just proven.”

  Tyvian held up the ring. “I contend that this little trinket does not make me a good person. Do you agree?”

  “Agreed.” Myreon nodded cautiously. “It merely constrains you to act as a good person.”

  “You will note that it is not hurting me now as much.” Tyvian twiddled his fingers to illustrate. “It feels that, by torturing me into trying to find a doctor, it has somehow improved me.”

  Myreon shrugged. “It has.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Believe me, Tyvian, were it not for that ring, a great many terrible things would have already been done by the hand it occupies. From my own perspective, my murder stands out as the foremost among them. I thank Hann that it remains in place, as with each passing day the swelling and pain in my fingers subsides, and one of these days I will be able to work a Binding spell on you in the midst of one of these chats, drag you back to Galaspin or even Saldor, and the entire world will be better for it. My only regret is that it will not be soon enough to save that boy’s life.”

  “Your delusions aside, Myreon, what you have described is not an improvement upon me, per se, but a change in behavior dictated for me. There is a difference. I do not think or feel any differently with it attached than I did without it.”

  Myreon narrowed her eyes. “What are you driving at?”

  Tyvian sipped his tea and tried not to cast a glance at the closed door to Artus’s room. “You are a woman of education and a student of human nature, of sorts, and so I am curious about your opinion on the following: given prolonged exposure to this ring, would I actually change, or would I simply submit to an exterior will greater than my own?”

  “I think, in the end, they are the same.”

  “No, they aren’t.” Tyvian waggled a finger. “Allow me to produce an analogy appropriate to your expertise. Suppose you capture a criminal and he is sentenced to one week’s petrification. While petrified, he is and does exactly as you say—­he is a model citizen of sorts. You even place him in an area where he will do good, like educating children or providing shade or some such tripe. While thusly constrained, can he be considered reformed?”

  Myreon sighed. “I suppose not.”

  “And when he is released, will he be changed by his experience, or will he revert to his old ways?”

  “I think that depends greatly on the type of person the criminal is. On the one hand, if the man was a criminal out of desperation, ignorance, or constraint, it seems unlikely he will continue on his former path, given that he has seen the results of his actions. On the other, if the man is a criminal by way of philosophical choice or inherent mental depravity, he will undoubtedly revert to his old ways, as the consequences of his actions are of little concern to him—­he is either consciously aware of them and finds the risks they represent acceptable, or he simply does not care what happens to him.”

  Tyvian nodded. “Well said—­I agree entirely. Now, which of those two kinds of criminal am I?”

  “The second,” Myreon stated.

  “You have no doubts about that?”

  The Defender looked Tyvian in the eye. She was about to speak but then stopped. “Why are we having this conversation?”

  Tyvian shrugged. “What difference does it make? Just answer the question, please.”

  Myreon shook her head. “No. This is all part of some kind of plot, isn’t it? You’re trying to manipulate me.”

  Tyvian chuckled. “I assure you, Myreon, that if I were trying to manipulate you, you would never realize it until too late.”

  “No, no—­I see what you’re up to. Very clever, of course.” Myreon stood up. “This line of questioning is meant to provoke in me the suspicion that you, Tyvian Reldamar, smuggler and blackhearted villain, are supposedly having some kind of profound change of heart due to that contraption affixed to your hand.”

  Tyvian stiffened. “That’s ridiculous—­”

  Myreon shook her head, her voice rising almost to a yell. “It is not! You bring me out here and ask me questions about your moral caliber, as though you yourself were holding such things in doubt. You want me to think you are reluctantly facing the possibility that you are not, in fact, a soulless monster who, not more than a few hours ago, was going to let a young boy bleed to death on his front doorstep had he not been controlled by a magical device. I’ll tell you one thing, though: it isn’t going to work! I know you too well, Tyvian Reldamar! You are a wretched blight upon the good ­peoples of the West, and I will not rest until you are installed in a statuary garden for the rest of eternity!”

  With that, the mage spun on her heel and, with a flip of her hair, stormed back to her cell-­room. Tyvian sat on the couch, watching her go, and picked up his teacup again. He murmured quietly to himself, “Well, that’s all I wanted to know, thank you.”

  Quiet descended. The crackle of the fire, the muffled moans of Artus. The ring pulsed and raged. Do something, it seemed to say. Try.

  “I don’t care about him. I don’t,” Tyvian hissed.

  The ring flared. He felt as though his hand had been thrust in the fire now for hours. He could scarcely think about anything other than the pain and the ring and himself.

  And the boy.

  Tyvian found himself on the threshold of Artus’s room. The boy’s face was a sickly shade of gray, glistening with sweat. He moaned but did not move. Tyvian watched him suffer, his hand blazing.

  Eddereon’s letter sprung to mind. Sentimental garbage, of course. It called him embittered and angry, as though his whole life and personality could be explained by some kind of petulant grudge. It claimed he needed friends, though he had many friends scattered across the West. He knew pirates and smugglers, rogues and thieves, tyrants and rogue wizards and . . .

  . . . well, perhaps not friends, per se. Tyvian had never felt he needed friendship in its traditional sense. He didn’t need others to enjoy his company—­he enjoyed his own company well enough, thank you.

  Artus let out a low, sobbing sound. “Ma . . . Ma . . . no . . . lemme stay . . . lemme stay . . .”

  Tyvian had watched a man die like this before—­in Illin. He’d been tagging along with a caravan coming back from Tasis when they were ambushed by bandits. It was a quick hit-­and-­run. They had shot a few arrows and injured a few camels, not trying to kill. The weapons had been poisoned, and within a few hours anyone who was wounded dropped into a deadly fever.

  The caravan master had known the tactic—­the idea was to slow them down, weaken them, empty their already flagging water supplies. It hadn’t worked. The caravan master had ordered all the ill to be left behind with all the sick camels. All except his son, who had been among the wounded. He was carried to the master’s private wagon,
and there he cooked himself into an early grave. Tyvian, who had been posing as a doctor at the time, was forced to watch. It had taken less than a day.

  This was the same poison, this was that same terrible death. This situation was different now, though. Then, Tyvian had an obligation to save the boy but could not, whereas now he supposedly had the ability to save the boy but not the obligation.

  “Kroth take the boy,” Tyvian snarled, but he could not leave the room. The ring burned him and burned him, but he did not advance.

  Eddereon had said he had a good heart, that the ring was bringing out the best in him, but Tyvian knew it was a lie. All he needed to do to prove it was walk away, close the door, and have some dinner. Maybe take a nap.

  But he did not budge.

  He took a deep breath, his eyes watering with the torture being inflicted on him. He knew there was another option—­he could stay here, by Artus’s side, and watch him die. It would only take a few hours, and then the pain would be gone, simple as that. By doing nothing, he could beat the ring. He could endure it.

  And then Artus would die.

  Tyvian wiped sweat from his forehead with his good hand. “You force me to do it, you miserable trinket.”

  The ring did not answer; it merely burned, oven-­hot, between the tender flesh of his fingers. Tyvian hated that he was speaking to it again.

  “I’ll beat you,” he said. “I swear by every god, named and unnamed, I will beat you.” He closed the door behind him and sat beside Artus’s bed. The boy did not stir save for his chest rising and falling with increasing difficulty. The room was hot.

  “Tyv . . . Tyvian . . .” Artus mumbled.

  His name struck him as a blow. He stood up, turned his chair around and sat back down. He stared into the fire and let the ring burn.

  He was no one’s slave. He would prove it. It was merely a matter of time.

  INTERLUDE

  A TASTE OF THINGS TO COME

  Sahand stood in the midst of what had been a sumptuous feast hall in the sleepy hills of northwestern Eretheria. A land of pretty castles and picturesque villages, this place had been the perfect storybook image of a rustic hunting lodge on the edges of a great black forest. Deer, elk, and wood-­drake heads were mounted against thick oak pillars. These pillars supported delicate wooden arches carved to look like the boughs of trees, and the ceiling was painted with pictures of leaves and forest animals where it wasn’t stained black by centuries of wood-­ and pipe-­smoke. Just before Sahand had arrived, the long table had been strewn with tray upon tray of roast quail and cured ham as well as pitchers of cider and bowls of candied fruits. Men and women in the house of Viscountess Renia Elons had been laughing and talking about the day’s entertainments, stuffing their faces with all the pleasant foods that their puffy cheeks could accommodate.