The Iron Ring by Auston Habershaw Page A

room, and half-­drunk men were charging into the night to drive off the invader, whatever it was. Tyvian watched the excitement with a dispassionate eye, hoping the mob would keep any inhuman beasts from assaulting his person, but also incredulous that any such group of toothless yokels could ever constitute a competent fighting force.
    â€œShould we go help?” Artus asked.
    Tyvian snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. This has nothing to do with us.”
    No sooner had Tyvian spoken those words than a distressingly familiar gnoll appeared in the doorframe . . .
    . . . and it was looking straight at him.
    The galley was still as the patrons gaped at the gnoll’s muscular bulk. Snow blown in from outside played about its feet and glazed its golden-­furred shoulders; its copper eyes glittered in the guttering lamplight. About its waist was fashioned a crude lanyard from which hung an assortment of dead rabbits, but it was otherwise unclothed and unarmed. Unarmed, that was, if one didn’t count the white fangs it no doubt concealed inside its snout.
    It leveled a thick, hairy paw at Tyvian and pointed. For the second time, the smuggler’s insides twisted at the thought of the beast possessing such humanlike hands. Everybody in the tavern followed the beast’s gesture, and found Tyvian and Artus on their feet, faces pale.
    â€œIt wants them travelers!” The tavernkeeper yelled.
    What happened next, Tyvian had to admit, was a credit to Galaspiner hospitality. Two men advanced on the gnoll, stools in hand, aiming to brain the creature before it went another step. Tyvian, who had seen the beast in action before, knew what was going to happen. The gnoll dropped a shoulder and rammed one man to the floor while blocking the other man’s blow with the precise sweep of a massive forearm. It then followed up this block with a punch to the guts that folded the man in half and dropped him, weeping for air.
    Threatening travelers might have encouraged a pair of men to attack, but the casual pummeling of two of their own was enough to raise the whole place against the intruder. Angry drunks with bottles, bar stools, clubs, knives, and even fists descended on the beast, their courage bolstered by their liberal intake of beer in the hours before.
    The battle did not go well for the forces of humanity.
    The gnoll, possessing an agility that belied its massive size, felled men as easily as one might whack the heads off daisies. Its broad, sloping shoulders absorbed blows that might have killed lesser beings with little apparent distress, and its counterattacks never failed to remove a man from the melee permanently. It didn’t use its teeth, but then it didn’t need to—­the creature possessed a skill in hand-­to-­hand combat that no pack of drunken country Galaspiners could ever match. If they came at it with weapons, it took their weapons away. If they threw things, it dodged. If they jumped on its back, they found themselves hurtling through the air.
    Artus snatched up a half-­empty beer mug and moved to join the defense, but Tyvian caught his arm. “Artus, back door, now!”
    â€œBut it’ll kill them!”
    Tyvian winced as the ring bit down on his hand like an iron vice. He hissed through clenched teeth, “Better them than us.”
    A man with a bloody face flew at the two of them, causing Tyvian to dive to the floor. The unfortunate victim smashed chin-­first into their table, knocking it over and spilling stew, roast, and hearthcider in every direction. When his limp body at last came to rest in a sprawling heap, Tyvian could see that the man wasn’t likely to get up anytime soon, and even then probably not without some medical attention. Tyvian scowled at him. “Idiot. Trying to fistfight a gnoll, indeed.”
    â€œYAAAAAAA!!!!” Tyvian heard Artus yell, and looked up to see the boy charging into the fray, which had moved