The Iron Ring (4 page)

He felt the urge to put a hand on the deathcaster sitting in his pocket, but restrained himself. He wanted to save that as a surprise, and he knew the two bodyguards were watching his every move. He forced a smile at Zazlar. “Don't keep our guests waiting. Let's see the first case!”

Zazlar skipped over to a stack of trunks and, summoning some assistance from Artus, pulled the top one free and dragged it under the light of the feylamp. He waved his hands over the locks, muttering the keywords, and the lid sprung open. Tyvian looked inside, expecting an array of ornate talismans, decorative amulets, enchanted rings, and the like. Instead he saw a velvet tray in which was laid row upon row of finger-­sized mageglass vials filled with a glowering, orange liquid.

Rameaux stepped forward to inspect them more closely, also surprised. “Gods, that's pure brymm.”

Tyvian blinked. Brymm—­pure, concentrated fey energy in a volatile liquid form—­was the kind of stuff armies lobbed over walls to incinerate cities. What the
hell
was Zazlar up to?

Rameaux gingerly fished a vial out of the trunk and held it up to the light. “I wasn't expecting this, I must say.”

Tyvian summoned up a scowl. “It is clearly the wrong trunk. Pardon me for a moment.” He grabbed Zazlar by the arm and pulled him aside. “What in blazes are you doing?”

Zazlar grinned. “Trust me, Tyvian.”

“Don't call me that. They're watching,” Tyvian hissed, making sure his back was to the guards.

Zazlar looked back at the three men marveling over the volatile trunk and called, “If you lift up the tray, you'll find some additional items I think you'll find interesting, my lords!”

One guard did so, balancing the tray very carefully as he lifted. The two other men—­and Artus—­looked inside. Tyvian heard them gasp.

Tyvian opened his mouth to ask what was there, but Zazlar motioned for him to follow. “There's something I want you to see.” They moved to the back of the cargo car, where an abnormally large crate was stashed in a corner. It was reinforced with iron studs, and its corners were shod in steel. As they drew closer, something inside of the crate moved, and a pair of copper eyes glittered through the slats in the flickering light. Tyvian stopped dead. “Is that what I think it is?”

Zazlar grinned in exactly the same way as before. “It's a joke.”

Tyvian licked his lips. “On whom?”

Zazlar, still smiling like a wax sculpture, called out, “Back here, my lords!”

Tyvian seized him by the collar. “Zaz, why did you pack a bloody
gnoll
in a bloody crate?”

Zazlar said nothing, and Tyvian was forced to free him as the two guards, Rameaux, and a bewildered Artus found their way over. The guards were carrying the trunk, no doubt considering its cargo too dangerous to leave unattended. Rameaux had in his hand a weathered, leather-­bound pamphlet. On its cover was a sigil that Tyvian couldn't place immediately until Rameaux held it up in front of him. “What is the meaning of this?”

Tyvian got a better look at the sigil on the cover and recognized it as a Kalsaari mark made by the Cult of the Devourer. His breath caught in his throat at the horrid implications. “Zazlar, what the hell are you up to?”

That same smile, that same answer. “Trust me, Tyvian.”

Tyvian's heart sank. The mannequin smile of Zazlar told him everything he needed to know. “You're a simulacrum.”

The revelation was punctuated by a thunderous growl from the crate behind him. Rameaux jumped at this, and then seemed to put two and two together as well. “This pamphlet is a forbidden work on the proscribed study of biomancy, which details the use of brymmic concoctions to alter wild beasts into demons of war. I can only presume you mean to sell me these things.”

Tyvian backed up against the wall of the car, putting some distance between himself and the gnoll in the crate. “I note, Marquis, that your Akrallian accent has suddenly eluded you. It seems that none of us here are who we claim to be.”

Rameaux scowled. “No indeed, Mr. Reldamar. Save Mr. Hendrieux, of course.”

Tyvian smiled mirthlessly. “Whoever you are, sir, you are less than observant.”

Rameaux cocked his head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”

Tyvian turned to Zazlar. “How do you feel, Zaz?”

“Quite well, thank you!”

Tyvian looked back at Rameaux and repeated, “How do you feel, Zaz?”

“Quite well, thank you!”

“Kroth!” Rameaux swore, and looked at his guards. “Somebody must have tipped him off. Inform Galaspin Tower that Hendrieux might still be in the city.”

One guard produced a glowing blue sphere from his robes, the size of his hand—­a sending stone—­and moved off to a corner to operate it. If the mention of Galaspin Tower weren't enough, Tyvian knew expensive objects like sending stones weren't common to bodyguards.

“You're a Defender, then.” Tyvian remarked casually. “Pardon me, sir, but since you know who I am, might I ask you to return the courtesy?”

Rameaux grunted and waved his hand. The air shimmered, and the fat, toadish form of Rameaux evaporated into the tall, athletic build of a young woman in her mid-­twenties clad in the silvered mageglass armor and white cape of a Defender of the Balance—­a mirror-­man, or woman, in this case. The glittering staff at her side indicated her rank as a Mage Defender, and, therefore, wielder of the High Arts. Tyvian saw her high cheekbones, glaring blue-­gray eyes, and the golden braid thrown over her left shoulder, and recognized her as Myreon Alafarr. She and Tyvian had met before, and on similar terms.

“Look, Tyvian—­it's your old friend!” The simulated Zazlar smiled and pointed.

“The real you set me up, Zaz,” Tyvian growled. “I'll not forget it.”

The simulacrum shrugged. “Sorry, chum. Had to be done.”

One of the guards threw back his cloak, drew his sword, and advanced on Tyvian and the simulacrum. Alafarr tapped her staff on the ground once, and “Zazlar Hendrieux” vanished from existence with a sharp crack.. “It's over, Reldamar. Come along peaceably.”

Tyvian's mind raced—­had been racing—­since the simulacrum revealed itself. Escape routes from a moving spirit engine were few, and from this particular corner were proving to be even fewer. He had his back against the wall, in both figurative and literal senses. There were two armed men and a mage-­defender between him and any exits, and, if Alafarr's methods were consistent, there were likely some more undercover Defenders aboard as backup. Tyvian's assets were the deathcaster as well as the surprises stored in the crystal spheres in his pockets—­and that was it. By themselves, they weren't enough. Not with Alafarr, with all her arcane power, looking right at him. The only other thing he could think of was the crate to his right containing an angry, growling gnoll. As far as Tyvian understood them, gnolls were bipedal dog-­beasts that came from the distant wilderness of the Taqar. Given its current attitude, Tyvian doubted it would be likely to assist him. That was unless, by “assist” one actually meant ”maul and devour.”

Then again . . .

The guard was two paces away when Tyvian thrust his hand into his pocket for the deathcaster. Before he had even grasped it, however, Alafarr thrust her staff in Tyvian's direction and thundered the word,
“Azmor!”

The spell slammed Tyvian against the wall and held him there. Keeping a keen eye on him, Alafarr said, “Search his pockets! He's likely armed.”

Tyvian felt as though a one-­ton wineskin were pressed against his chest, but he managed to turn his head enough to look Alafarr in the eye. “You're only surmising that
now
?”

The guard—­the
Defender
, Tyvian corrected himself—­sheathed his blade and rifled through Tyvian's clothing. Tyvian thought about requesting he take it easy on the lace fringe, but didn't think the brute was likely to listen. When he was through, Alafarr's underling had found the marble-­sized crystals and that was all. He delivered them to Alafarr. “Just this stuff, Magus. Nothing else.”

“That's not true!” Tyvian was aghast. How could the man have missed the deathcaster? He had put his grubby hand
right in
the pocket!

Alafarr and the Defender looked at him, blinking. “What do you mean?”

“I had a deathcaster in there! Your fool of a man missed it!”

Alafarr looked at her man, who shrugged and said. “You must be mistaken.”

“I most certainly am
not
mistaken! I put it in my right pocket just before coming to meet you. I'm
certain
!”

Alafarr smirked. “Perhaps you lost it.”

“
Lost it?
Do you have any idea how
difficult
it is to get one of those little beauties? It's not the kind of item you just casually toss around! What did it do, crawl out of my pocket and run away? I
demand
you search me again.”

Alafarr and the Defender drew closer to him, making certain to maintain a bit of distance between them and the rattling, growling gnoll-­crate. “May I remind you, Mr. Reldamar, that you are under arrest. You are in no position to demand
anything
.”

Tyvian strained against the spell. “Well I
refuse
to let five months of scouring the black market of Tasis for an authentic deathcaster be lost to the winds because your fool of a man knocked it out of my pocket while he was pawing my waistcoat like some deputized ape!”

Alafarr rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculous.”

Tyvian tried to move his head so he could see down. “Look on the floor—­maybe it was jostled free when you hit me with the restraining spell.”

“You know something, Reldamar,” Alafarr sneered, and leaned close enough to Tyvian that he could smell her atrociously floral perfume. “I am really going to enjoy watching you turned to stone and placed in a penitentiary garden.”

“Nobody move!” The voice was shrill and tremulous, but Tyvian recognized it at once—­Artus.

The boy was standing with his feet spread apart and his hands wrapped around the sinister black form of a deathcaster. He was pointing it at Alafarr primarily, but the business end of the thing wavered between her and the other Defender. Alafarr put her hands up, but still had her staff. “Boy, don't do anything foolish, now. Put down the weapon.”

“Shut up!” Artus snapped. “Drop the staff!”

“Boy—­” Alafarr began.

“Now!”

Alafarr dropped it, and Tyvian was released from the spell in the same instant. He immediately checked his own pockets, just to make sure, and then leveled an accusing finger at his savior. “You picked my pocket, you little bastard!”

As Tyvian took a step forward, Artus pointed the deathcaster at him, too. “Stay back!”

Tyvian stopped short, putting his hands up. “Artus? Maybe you don't understand how saving somebody works, but you're supposed to—­”

Artus blinked. “I'm not saving
you
. I'm saving my own skin!”

“Ah, well—­that makes much more sense. I apologize. There's one problem, though.”

Artus was slowly backing up. “What's that?”

Tyvian pointed. “There's a Defender behind you.”

Artus's expression was incredulous for the split second before the Defender behind him—­having completed his message to Galaspin Tower—­jumped on his back. Tyvian, Alafarr, and the first Defender all sprung into action. Alafarr crouched to retrieve her staff, while Tyvian threw a heel back into the groin of the first Defender, interrupting his attempts to draw his sword.

Spinning around, Tyvian caught Alafarr's staff by one end even as the mage was standing up with it. As Alafarr attempted to yank it free from his grasp, Tyvian went with the pull and drove the mage against the wall. A brief wrestling match ensued, with Tyvian trying to press the staff against the mage's throat. He was getting the better of it until Alafarr slammed a mageglass-­tipped boot into the smuggler's shin, causing Tyvian to drop to one knee. Grimacing with pain, he rolled to one side before the back end of Alafarr's staff could be brought into contact with his skull, but this left him on his back, staring up at the recently groin-­kicked Defender, who had managed to draw his sword after all. He looked quite angry.

Before Tyvian could be run through, however, the tumbling brawl between Artus and the other Defender over the deathcaster resulted in the magical device being discharged. A wild, blazing bolt of green lightning cut an arc across the cargo car, splintering crates, cutting support beams, and causing the Defender standing over Tyvian to throw himself on top of the smuggler to avoid being seared into halves.

The Defender had about thirty pounds and four inches on Tyvian, and his bulk was sufficient to block out all light and sound for a moment as Tyvian struggled to throw him off. In the midst of their grappling, Tyvian's fingers came across the crystal spheres that had just been taken from his pockets. He managed to snag three of them in one hand before kicking the man off him. Then Tyvian rolled to his feet . . .

. . . and found himself face-­to-­face with Alafarr and the two Defenders, all with their weapons in hand. Artus, Tyvian noted, was a bruised heap on the floor. Tyvian raised his hands. “It's not too late to come along quietly, is it?”

Alafarr's lip curled. “Tyvian Reldamar, I'll see you in—­”

The Mage Defender's words were suddenly drowned out by the spine-­tingling bass of the gnoll's growl. They had all heard it consistently since arriving in the cargo car, but this time it was somewhat . . . closer. The sound was like a thundercloud looming overhead. All four of them froze, eyes wide.

The gnoll was out of its cage.

 

CHAPTER THREE

WHAT TYVIAN DOES BEST

A
six-­and-­one-­half-­foot mass of fur and teeth pounced on one Defender, tackling him to the ground like a cat upon a rag doll. The man didn't even have time to scream before the beast's jaws tore out his throat. All thought of arresting or being arrested vanished from the thoughts of the others present. Tyvian, who liked to think himself calm under pressure, felt a sick, nauseous terror at the prospect of being devoured by a wild beast who no doubt had been underfed for who knew how long in its prison.

Therefore, he found himself cheering on the second Defender. Rapier in hand, he performed a textbook lunge at the beast, aiming to spit it through the heart. In a show of unnerving animal dexterity, however, the creature darted forward, ducking under the blade, and
grasped the man by the wrist
. Before Tyvian could fully rationalize his horror that the thing had opposable thumbs, the gnoll pulled the Defender off-­balance, flipped him over its back, and charged at Alafarr, fangs bared. All its physical superiority, however, was no match for the power of a mage wielding the High Arts. Alafarr took a forceful step forward, thrust the tip of her staff at the beast, and spoke a word of power too nuanced for Tyvian to hear properly. A blue light burst from the staff, striking the gnoll in the chest, and propelled it across the cargo car and through the door opposite into the snowy night beyond.

Tyvian and Alafarr stood silently for a moment, looking at the black hole where the gnoll had gone, and regathered their calm. Tyvian regathered first, and remembered the three crystal spheres he had in his hand. “Alafarr,” he said, tossing one of them, “catch!”

Alafarr blinked and caught it with her free hand. As soon as the sphere touched her, it popped like a soap bubble, and her mageglass armor—­fashioned, as all mageglass, from Dweomeric sorcery given physical form—­disappeared in a sudden puff of ozone. The mage swore and rubbed her hand on her breeches, as though hoping to dissipate any further effects. “Antispell!” she yelled to the other Defender. “He's got antispell!”

Tyvian was already moving. As the remaining Defender struggled to get up, Tyvian kicked the rapier out of his hand and scooped it up as he ran past. He looked back to see Alafarr sputtering in frustration as she tried to pull enough energy from the surrounding air to overcome the antispell. Chuckling, Tyvian ducked out of the cargo car.

Barricading the door behind him, he sprinted down the length of the spirit engine, making for his cabin to collect his belongings, and then to the end of the engine, where he hoped to leap off into the night. He barreled into the dining car and hit the floor just before the frame was splintered apart from a trio of explosive crossbow bolts; three Defenders, clad in their glittering armor, had set up a defensive position out of overturned furniture. Tyvian rolled underneath a nearby table while the men reloaded. “Dammit!” He yelled, noting the thick dust clinging to his shirt. “This floor is
disgusting
!”

An enchanted crossbow bolt splintered the table into kindling. Tyvian dove to another one, with two more bolts missing him by mere inches. He was running out of cover, and with Alafarr not far behind, he decided drastic measures were necessary. He took his second antispell sphere and chucked it against the wall of the car. He heard one of the Defender's snicker about him missing, but the laughter soon died on the man's lips when, suddenly, the whole dining car began to shrink. The antispell had undone the astral manipulations that gave the car its unusual size, and the result was a mass of tables, chairs, and carpeting being compressed toward the center of the room at high speed. As the Defenders stumbled to escape the crush of material, Tyvian nimbly slipped out the destroyed door he had just come through.

Now, back in the car he'd just left, he saw the barricade he had set against the cargo car entrance beginning to buckle. Knowing it was Alafarr and knowing that this time the Mage Defender would be ready for a projectile antispell, Tyvian shattered a window with the butt of his stolen rapier and climbed out.

Outside, the bitter winter air howled down the smooth sides of the spirit engine. Rapier tucked into his belt, Tyvian hauled himself onto the roof of the car and, back bent against the wind, made his way forward. If the Defenders had been waiting for him in the dining car, then they probably found his room, along with all of his possessions. As much as it pained him to abandon such fine quality items, he couldn't go back for them now. All that remained was to find a suitable way to escape the spirit engine without Alafarr tracking him. To his left there was a snow-­blanketed forest, and to his right white-­clad open pastures. Leaping off now would either leave him in the open or leave him broken in two upon the bole of some pine tree. There had to be a better way to escape and still leave Alafarr behind.

It hit him all at once. “The deathcaster!” He'd double back, grab the deathcaster, cut the cars behind him free, and leave Alafarr and her thugs trapped on an inert series of train cars in the middle of the Galaspin countryside. He was in the midst of congratulating himself when he heard his name shouted over the howl of the engine spirits.

Tyvian looked up to see the Defender whose rapier he had stolen. His green cloak flapped and jerked in the cold wind like it was being ravaged by a wild animal, and in his hand was the rapier of his friend—­the one killed by the angry gnoll. The big man's face was screwed up into an immovable mask of anger, his dark eyes boring into Tyvian's chest.

“Hello, there.” Tyvian drew the man's own sword and saluted. “I don't suppose I could bribe you?”

The Defender answered with an athletic lunge that aimed to put a blade through Tyvian's throat. The fellow's speed was good and his form admirable, but his movements were rather obvious—­Tyvian parried the attack effortlessly. “Really now—­you used that same attack on the gnoll and it didn't work then either.”

The Defender grunted in reply and pressed his attack with four more thrusts, each of which Tyvian deflected with ease. While his opponent possessed competence with a blade, he clearly relied more on size and power than on skill. Against most opponents this would probably be enough, but Tyvian Reldamar was not most opponents. Every attack the man launched was preceded by a controlled roar, as though yelling would somehow guide his blade. The result, Tyvian concluded, was one of the more boring duels he'd ever had, the fact that he was fighting on the icy roof of a speeding spirit engine notwithstanding.

Tyvian parried a tenth attack; he had been pushed back almost to the end of the car. “You know,” he called over the wind, “you really ought to watch yourself up here—­it's very slippery!”

Frustrated and enraged, the Defender performed a flèche. This was an aggressive, lunging attack, but launched from the back foot rather than the forward, with a result halfway between leap and charge. It was a bold and risky maneuver, but if used in the proper circumstance, could be deadly.

This was not the proper circumstance.

During the duel, Tyvian had been cataloguing the Defender's attacks and concluded that his defenses had exhausted the man's repertoire of offensive maneuvers—­all except the flèche, which every competent fencer knew. So Tyvian's opponent had allowed himself to be pushed back into a place where a flèche would appear wise; namely, backed up against the edge of the car. But the common retreat and parry defense for a flèche was not an option here. Tyvian knew this; the Defender knew this; any competent fencer would have known this. Tyvian, however, was more than merely competent—­he fought dirty. When the Defender's rear foot left the ground to launch the flèche, Tyvian dove at the man's knees. As the sword pierced the empty space where Tyvian's torso had been, Tyvian's body knocked the man's legs out from under him. The Defender landed with a thunk on his sword arm and slid off the side of the car.

Tyvian rose, walked to the edge and peered over. The Defender was clinging to a window frame on the side of the car by one, white-­knuckled hand. His feet dangled over the speeding tracks, his face set in panic. “Help . . .” he managed.

Tyvian chuckled and shook his head. “My dear fellow, just who do you think you're dealing with anyway?” He cut the man's fingers at the knuckles with one quick slash of his rapier and watched him tumble beneath the heavy wheels.

Tyvian swung himself inside the cargo car a minute later, whistling as he went. It was still dark, but the lone feylamp was still there, and it gave enough light for him to see his deathcaster lying on the floor next to the case full of brymm and the unconscious body of the boy, Artus.

He scooped up the priceless weapon-­artifact and, casting a cursory glance over the other objects—­a case of volatile alchemical ingredients and a worthless street urchin—­turned to cut the remainder of the spirit engine loose.

“That's far enough, Reldamar!” Myreon Alafarr stood in the door, her staff glowing softly in the dark. Tyvian couldn't help but notice the lighting was rather flattering to her statuesque profile.

He grimaced. “Ah, Alafarr, I was just thinking about you. How exactly do you plan to explain your failure to your superiors this time?”

She snorted. “Still glib, I see. I've noticed, though, that you seem a bit more disheveled than usual. I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, but
I've
noticed that you seem to have run out of henchmen. You should take
that
as an insult.”

Alafarr leveled her staff at Tyvian. “Give it up. You're no match for me, and you know it.”

“You magi and your famous arrogance. If your so-­called ‘High Arts' counted for much, you would have caught me long ago.” Tyvian took a step back toward the case full of brymm.

“You've got a plan, then.”

Tyvian smiled. “One twitch from you and I'll blow the brymm.”

“They're in mageglass containers—­a deathcaster won't do anything to them.” Alafarr snorted, but didn't move.

“Who said anything about using a deathcaster?” Tyvian said, and produced the last sphere of antispell in the palm of his hand. He held it over the case.

Alafarr frowned. “You haven't enough antispell in that little sphere to nullify the whole case. It would be only three or four vials, at most.”

“Yes, but once freed, the combined brymm from those four vials will alter the magical ley of the case to a sufficient degree that the surrounding mageglass vials will destabilize, creating a chain reaction, and—­”

“Yes, yes—­I keep forgetting you've studied.” Alafarr made a sour expression. “Such a waste.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She sighed. “You could have been a great mage, Reldamar. With your intelligence and your connections, you could have earned your staff in Saldor and done a great deal of good.”

“And been a civil servant to the sweaty, unwashed masses, you mean? You sound like my mother, Alafarr.” Tyvian scowled.

“Your mother is a great woman.”

“You
would
say that—­she's not your mother.”

Alafarr, oddly, looked offended. “I grow tired of this. You're a blight upon your family name and a scourge upon the earth, and I'm taking you with me this time. Put the antispell away—­if you drop it, you'll kill us both, and you love yourself too much for suicide.”

Tyvian grinned. “You don't know that. The nature of the Fey is chaotic, and brymm is just concentrated Fey energy. We don't know what it will do, precisely. It will destroy us both, yes, but maybe not immediately. Who knows—­I might have time to escape while you, of course, would have to stay. You couldn't allow a whole spirit engine full of innocent ­people be blown to smithereens over little old me, now could you?”

“You're a monster, Reldamar.” Alafarr stated coolly, hands tightening on her staff.

“No, Alafarr, I'm a gambler.” Tyvian dropped the antispell and leapt clear.

The crystal broke on the lid of the case, and, for a split second, nothing happened. Then the whole case ceased to exist all at once and there was a rush of searing hot air as though belched from the open door of a furnace. Tyvian was thrown across the car and slammed, upside down, into the wall. While his head was still spinning, he observed that where the case had been was now the center of a fiendish display of fiery destruction. Tiny sprites of flame—­complete with little legs and arms of pure fire—­danced and twirled throughout the car, setting everything they touched instantly and completely alight. There were hundreds of these sprites and they moved with a gleeful and malicious intelligence. Tyvian knew he had only seconds to escape before he, too, would be little more than fuel for their consumption.

Black smoke stinging his eyes, he felt around for his deathcaster, but found instead a human hand. It was attached, he quickly realized, to the boy, Artus. Awakened by the explosion, the boy clung to Tyvian's arm and pulled himself closer, screaming, “Help! Help! What's happened! Oh gods!”

The boy was a panicky wreck, and Tyvian should have shaken him off, but he was unsteady on his feet from the explosion and the world was still spinning. “Help me up!” he screamed in Artus's ear, “Get to the door!”

Their one chance for escape—­their
one
chance—­was the open cargo door through which the gnoll had been propelled earlier. Holding on to Artus's shoulders, Tyvian pushed the two of them through the maelstrom of ever-­growing fire. Somewhere in the chaos he heard Alafarr chanting incantations over the roar of the flames. Laughing despite himself, Tyvian wondered if the mage would be successful or not.

Then the door was before them. Tyvian pushed Artus as hard as he could, but the boy had, in a fit of panic, dug in his heels. He should have left him again, but Tyvian found himself screaming in his ear, “Jump!”