The Iron Ring Read Online Free PDF

than the first. It was deep and forceful, like a steel cart rumbling down a mine shaft. Whatever it was, Artus knew it wasn’t human; no person could make a sound that menacing.
    Wondering what sort of person this Zazlar might be, Artus willed his feet forward and slowly advanced on the noise. “Hello?”
    A hand as strong as an iron claw seized him by the hair and yanked his head back. At the same moment, a knife was placed against his throat. Its edge burned in the cold air. “Name, whelp!” a man’s voice snarled in his ear from behind.
    â€œArtus!” the boy blurted, and added, “You Zazlar?”
    Artus’s hair received a twist and another yank. The knife bore down. “And why would you know such a dangerous name?”
    â€œReldamar sent me! He’s brought me with him!”
    The knife relaxed and Artus’s hair was released. Stumbling forward, he turned to see a lean man dressed in a fine black cape. His face—­long and unshaven—­was impassive, but his icy eyes seemed to swallow Artus from head to foot. Slapping his dagger back into his belt, the man said. “I’m Zazlar Hendrieux. You weren’t expected.”
    â€œReldamar says we’re nicked!” Artus said. “He said Rameaux’s an impostor. He said you’d know what to do.”
    Zazlar laughed. “Is that so? Hmmmm . . .”
    There was another crash, ­coupled with another inhuman roar that tapered into a howl. The sound made Artus cringe. “What is that?”
    Zazlar smiled. “A little joke, is all.”
    â€œIt don’t sound very funny.”
    â€œSuch a clever tongue in such a young head,” Zazlar said. “Now, what’s this about being nicked?”
    Artus explained everything he knew, which was precious little. Indeed, the whole evening’s affairs were an almost complete mystery to him, but as he talked, it all seemed to make some kind of sense to Zazlar, who nodded sagely at each pause in the story. When Artus had finished, Zazlar clapped his gloved hands together.
    â€œExcellent! Tyvian was right to send you to me. Go and fetch him. Tell him once he’s here, everything will be fine. I’ve got a plan.”
    Artus blinked. “Really? What is it? What’s going on?”
    Zazlar grinned. “And ruin the surprise? Now go—­I’ve got preparations to make.”
    Artus looked around at the bleak interior of the cargo car, wondering what “preparations” needed making, but retreated. Zazlar vanished back into the shadows before Artus had replaced the feylamp and closed the door.
    He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something just a bit off about Zazlar Hendrieux.
    T yvian, meanwhile, had engaged Rameaux and his entourage in a staring contest of sorts. It was comprised, primarily, of Tyvian standing with his arms crossed and his chin elevated—­the very definitional image of restrained outrage. Rameaux, sweat beading on his powdered forehead, stood flummoxed and likewise outraged, bejeweled fists balled at his waist. The two of them had stood in this way for the past three minutes straight, ever since they ran out of constructive things to yell at each other.
    There was only so far either of them could push a bluff, and they both knew it. Tyvian knew Rameaux was a fake, but Rameaux wasn’t sure that Tyvian knew yet. The only way for him to be sure was for Tyvian to break character, which, by choosing to react as he had, Tyvian had avoided. Rameaux knew he was in a pickle. He could simply order his guards to escort Tyvian to the cargo car, and then Tyvian—­the contents of his pockets notwithstanding—­would be powerless to resist. However, that would blow his own cover, and he assumed that Tyvian, being Tyvian, had certain useful items in his pockets that would make overt action risky.
    For his part, Tyvian knew that Rameaux knew that his best bet was to