The Iron Ring (6 page)

Artus frowned. “It don't say that!”

Tyvian threw the note over his shoulder and began to follow the riverbank downstream and away from the spirit engine tracks and the road.

The boy fished the note out of the snow and trotted after him. “Well, what
does
it say? Tell me!”

“No.”

“Why not, dammit?”

Tyvian spun around. “Allow me to be clear, boy. Our relationship is
over
. You and I have nothing more to say to one another.” He pointed down the river. “When we follow this river to the Trell, you are going to turn downstream and go to Galaspin. You'll like the gutters and alleys there, I'm certain. I, meanwhile, will go upstream, to Freegate, where there is a comfortable bed and some decent clothing. Thus will end the tale of Tyvian Reldamar and Artus the street urchin.”

Artus snorted. “Fine, but you owe me ten marks.”

“Ha! Whatever for?”

“The job—­what else? I fooled that guy for you, didn't I?”

Tyvian hissed out a laugh. “You did nothing of the kind. The man wasn't Akrallian nobility; ‘he' wasn't even a man
. She
was a glorified constable and she certainly wasn't tricked.”

“That don't matter! I went with you, didn't I? I did everything you said, right? You owe me my money!”

“First of all, it is ‘doesn't matter,' not ‘don't.' Second, in case you hadn't noticed, Artus, I no longer
have
any money! That crazy hermit you are so fond of somehow managed to lose my change purse.”

Artus scowled. “That ain't fair.”

“By your age, I would think an indigent orphan would come to expect unfairness.”

“I'm no orphan.” Artus said. His voice dropped an octave and he stopped walking. Tyvian turned to see the boy's hand on his knife. “I've got a family, and I won't have you say nothing bad about them.”

Tyvian pursed his lips and stood calmly. “Or you'll what?”

“I'll have your blood, is what.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Try me.”

Tyvian rolled his eyes. On other days he might have kept walking—­he didn't feel up to a knife fight and was guessing the ring might have some adverse effect on the contest as well. Even now it was throbbing on his finger, as though threatening him. Then again, he was in a vile mood, and thought perhaps teaching the brat some humility might do him so good. He leaned forward and sneered at him. “That's just the kind of stupid bravado I would expect some toothless, ugly peasant wench to teach her boy.”

Artus roared and charged, seeking to draw his knife as he ran. Tyvian stepped into the charge, simultaneously seizing the boy's knife hand by the wrist and bringing his knee into his groin. Artus doubled over from the strike, and Tyvian pulled the boy's knife arm out to the side. He forced the blade out of the lad's hand with a twist, and as Artus struggled to free his arm, Tyvian kicked him in the back of the knee.

Artus collapsed, face-­first, into the snow, with Tyvian on top of him. The boy struggled, but Tyvian had one knee in the small of his back, one on his free arm, and a fistful of his hair in his hand. Tyvian drew his own knife and placed the flat of the blade along the side of Artus's cheek. The ring burned and pulsed in warning, but nothing more. Tyvian grit his teeth against this minor pain and hissed in the boy' ear, “I could kill you here, and nobody would ever know or care. Draw a blade on me again, and I just might do so.”

Tyvian pushed Artus's face into the snow and stood up. He walked away, assuming the boy would stay down, but Artus was not so easily cowed. He scrambled for his knife and charged again. Tyvian hadn't been expecting this and was less prepared to deflect the attack. For a boy of thirteen, Artus knew his way around a knife, and his first two slashes came dangerously close to relieving Tyvian of his nose. He ducked and retreated before the boy's assault and waited for the opening. In every rage-­filled attack, no matter how fast or skilled, there was always an opening; the more passionate and emotional the enemy, the bigger the opening became. Tyvian was certain that a young teenage boy defending his family honor would leave a fatal one.

When it came, it came in the form of a lunge that left Artus overextended. Before he could recover, Tyvian yanked on his arm, pulling the boy even more off-­balance. Tyvian's own blade rushed unerringly toward Artus's unprotected heart, and he saw the sudden look of terror in the boy's face as he knew his death approached . . .

. . . but the blade didn't strike. A bright, horrible blossom of pain that ran from his hand all the way to his eyes caused Tyvian to cry aloud and collapse to the ground. The world was bathed in bright orange spots, and his right hand curled as though afflicted with a severe palsy. Tyvian cradled it and rolled onto his back, waiting for the horrible, icy-­hot pain to subside. He tried to roll away from Artus, but neither of his agony-­locked arms would obey.

When at last his eyes cleared, Tyvian saw Artus standing over him, a look of wonder on his face. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Tyvian managed to uncurl his ring hand—­aside from a faint ache that filled his arm, there was no physical sign of the pain the ring had inflicted upon him. When he spoke, he was short of breath. “Nothing. It's nothing.”

Artus looked at him skeptically. “It's that ring, isn't it?”

“Weren't you trying to kill me a moment ago?”

Artus ignored him. “I saw Eddereon put it on you, after we was pulled out. It glowed in the dark, real bright, too—­like the sun. You probably want if off, huh?”

Tyvian looked up at the boy. If episodes like this kept happening all the way to Freegate, he was probably going to need a little help. Then, of course, there was the fact that he would need somebody to carry supplies, somebody to fetch things, somebody to keep watch at night . . . “I'll pay you ten marks if you help me get to Freegate.”

Artus looked around at the snow-­covered fields of Galaspin. The only thing in view besides the stream and the bridge was the tumble-­down remnants of a ruined watchtower. “Why should I?”

“Because it's ten marks, that's why.”

Artus snorted a harsh laugh. “True enough. Well, I ain't got nothing better to do. But lay off the insults, huh?”

He reached down and helped Tyvian up.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

IN PURSUIT

T
he warm spiced wine coated Myreon Alafarr's raw throat, but did little to calm her. She sat perched on the edge of the sturdy oak chair in the private library of the Thostering War Academy and found herself glancing at the ancient spirit clock every half minute. With her free hand, she tugged at the charred ruin of her braid. Cutting it off would have only taken a moment, but she didn't feel like she had even that much time.

Master Defender Ultan Tarlyth took a long drink from his goblet and set it down on the table. In his youth he had been a mountain of a man and a wrestler of some renown, and even now, in his old age, his wide shoulders filled the high-­backed chair. His lantern-­jawed face, though, looked on the young Mage Defender with kindness. “Saldor has opted not to continue pursuit.”

Myreon leapt to her feet, nearly spilling her wine. “Reldamar's alive—­I know it! With any luck, he's injured and stuck somewhere. I need fifty men, some horses, another seekwand—­”

Tarlyth held up a broad long-­fingered hand spotted with age. “Galaspin Tower's complement is only seventy-­five, and half of those are already engaged in other activities.”

“Switch them off, then! This is Tyvian Reldamar we're talking about!” Myreon barked, and then, remembering who she was talking to, added, “Master, he's almost in our grasp!”

“I know you are frustrated, Myreon—­I would be, too, if I had spent three of my five years bearing the staff chasing one man. You have to put things in perspective, however. Even presuming he is alive, Tyvian Reldamar is still only one wicked man in an ocean of wicked men. The fisherman who chases the whale to the exclusion of all others is the fisherman who goes hungry.”

Myreon frowned and swirled the wine in her goblet. “With all due respect, Master Defender, Reldamar is not a fish. Two nights ago he killed two of my men, injured three others, released a wild gnoll into the Galaspin countryside, and was responsible for the destruction of an entire spirit engine—­and that was among the more minor of his offenses. I caught him peddling biomancy, sir—­
biomancy
. What if Sahand of Dellor were to get his mitts on that?”

Tarlyth nodded and put a hand to his chin. “Yes, the biomancy bit
is
troubling. It is also, however, an unusual choice for Reldamar, is it not?”

Myreon sighed and nodded. “It is—­he usually restricts himself to artifacts and basic magecraft. This is the first time we have him dealing in the High Arts, or with Kalsaari arcane texts.”

“What does that indicate to you?”

“I haven't worked up the proper augury to tell me—­”

“No, no,” Tarlyth warned, waggling a finger at her, “not with sorcery. What does that indicate to your reason—­your
mind
.”

Myreon blinked. “What do you mean?”

Tarlyth sighed and sat back, taking up his goblet. “Do you know why Tyvian Reldamar consistently eludes us—­note that I say ‘us' and not just ‘you,' Myreon—­you are not the only Mage Defender whom Reldamar has thwarted. Well, do you know?”

“I . . . I can only conclude that he is uncommonly lucky.”

“No, he is uncommonly smart. He knows that we rely on the High Arts—­on our auguries and sorceries—­to find and catch him. What he has realized and that so many of us have not is that the High Arts and, indeed, even the Low Arts of magic, are just
tools
. Powerful tools, certainly, but tools nevertheless, and tools are only as good as the men wielding them. Too many of our order—­especially since the end of the Delloran and Illini Wars—­have come to rely too heavily on their arts to perform their duties. They have forgotten that, before the wars, when more conservative elements controlled the Arcanostrum, Defenders were taught to be investigators first and magi second.”

“Of course, sir.” Myreon nodded, restraining the urge to throw her goblet at the wall and scream. Reldamar was still at large and here she was, being
lectured
?

Tarlyth laughed. “You are young—­I don't expect you to agree with me. Not yet, in any case. Let me ask you this, though, to see if I can't prove my point: what does a seekwand do?”

Myreon shrugged. “It is an enchanted device of about twelve inches, usually made of bone, that can read the Etheric ley of an area to see if someone has passed. If you have something that belongs to a person, you can isolate their trail and track them with the Law of Possession. ­Coupled with some simple auguries, you can usually track anybody over any distance with very little error.”

Tarlyth nodded. “Good, but what are its limitations?”

“Like any Etheric device, it functions poorly in areas where Lumenal energy is dominant—­cornfields, dense woodlands, fields of wildflowers in direct sunlight, that sort of thing. It's also rather breakable, and it requires a good bit of time to narrow down on the proper trail if the quarry is moving along a heavily trafficked route, and the Law of Possession only works for a short time. Still, it is perfectly accurate. I've found smugglers in—­”

“I am well aware of its benefits, Myreon,” Tarlyth interrupted, “but consider this: to most of our quarry and, indeed, to most ­people, the function of a seekwand is mysterious and frightening. They think that they cannot hide, and fail to realize just what protection a sunny field of daisies might afford them. They hide in the dark and away from prying eyes, which is just where the seekwand works best. The problem with this is that Reldamar, and those like him,
are not most men.
He is perfectly aware of how a seekwand works—­his great uncle, Hann rest him, invented the damned thing—­and so you can bet a pretty penny that right now Tyvian Reldamar is in a crowded garden party, standing in the sun, with a stick of burning incense in his pocket. Gods, I bet he's only buying things in sevens, too, just to make sure. Your precious seekwand won't find him in a hundred years.”

Myreon scowled and threw up her hands. “Well, then what would you have me do? Get a team of trained dogs from somewhere and try to chase him down like a wild boar?”

“Mind your tone, Magus!” Tarlyth warned, and then sighed. “In fact, that's what we
used
to do, but we don't keep dogs anymore, more's the pity. No, what I'd have you do, Myreon, is find yourself a tracker—­a
real
tracker, who finds ­people with his eyes and his nose and his tongue. You need a man who can glance at a dirt road and tell you how many ­people have passed in the last hour, how much they weighed, and whether they were carrying a pack or not.
That's
the kind of man who will find and catch Tyvian Reldamar.”

Myreon bowed her head for a moment and sipped her wine. “Do we have such a man in Galaspin Tower?”

Tarlyth shook his head. “No. A ­couple good tails, some fine rumormongers, three or four men who can spot counterfeits from twenty paces, and a wagonload of strong sword arms—­no trackers worth a damn. If you wish to continue pursuit of Tyvian Reldamar, you are going to have to hire a bounty hunter, and do so ‘off the record,' or so to speak.”

“Really, sir, if I could just have twenty men, then I could—­”

Tarlyth held up his hand, and stated firmly, “You have exhausted more resources on Reldamar than the Lord Defender in Saldor thinks he is worth. I agree with him. As wicked and dangerous as Reldamar is, he is but one smuggler among hundreds operating in the Trell River Valley alone, and so the official pursuit of Reldamar ends here for the time being. That said, I cannot abide the thought of abandoning his trail entirely, which is why I've come all this way from Galaspin to speak to you in person. You will hire a bounty hunter to track him down, and direct him to bring Reldamar in by any means you find prudent. You will be afforded no Defenders to assist you and will be operating as a Magus Errant; Reldamar is now yours and yours alone to deal with, and you report directly to me. Is that clear?”

“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.”

T
he 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.