Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  But I don’t want him to.

  She growled to herself and laid her ears back against her skull. She hadn’t done anything to save the poor shepherd and his two boys—why should she do something to save Sir Damon?

  Hool didn’t have any answer to that. As she thought about him and his bald head and his kind voice, however, she did find herself with something else instead—a plan. She reached into her satchel and drew out her shroud.

  Seconds later, she was wearing it as she walked toward the encampment, her hands raised, her illusory auburn locks fluttering in the breeze. Sir Damon by this point was off his horse and kneeling on the ground before the captain, who had drawn his blade and was resting its point on the knight’s shoulder.

  When she was spotted, the cry went out and men’s heads began to turn. A few of them whistled and made lewd suggestions. All of them stared. The scent of arousal coming off the camp was stifling, but Hool kept coming forward.

  When they were in earshot for their stunted hearing, Hool called out. “Do not kill him! He is my husband!”

  The captain laughed and lifted the sword from Sir Damon’s shoulder. “Well, well, well—I thought he wasn’t alone, but I didn’t think he’d be travelling with something like this!”

  He barked a few harsh words over his shoulder at his men—mostly about shoddy scouting and letting a girl slip through the pickets—and then fixed a grin on his face and sauntered forward to meet her.

  “You keep your greasy hands off her, you ugly—oof.” Sir Damon struggled to stand, but earned himself an axe handle in his face as a reward. He fell backward, blood pouring from his temple. “Run, Lady! Leave me! Run!”

  Hool kept coming forward, keeping her hands up. She spotted three men with bows or crossbows at the ready, all clustered more or less in front of her. Good. “I will do anything you want if you will not kill my husband!”

  The captain shot a look over his shoulder at his men, which caused them all to burst out laughing. He was probably winking at them or something else juvenile. Let him.

  When the man was three paces away, he stopped. His broadsword, still drawn, rested flat against his armored shoulder. His posture was relaxed. He extended a hand. “You must be the loveliest flower in this valley, milady.”

  “I want to bargain for my husband’s life,” she said, hands still raised, her eyes fixed on his feet in what she hoped looked like submission. She took a step closer to him.

  He did not draw back. “What exactly have you got to bargain with, my beauty?” The captain’s leer was blatant, even for Hool’s tastes.

  Hool took another step closer. Only four steps away now. “Would you take me, instead?”

  He laughed and stuck his broadsword point-down in the earth. “I’d take you right here, right now. I’ll even let your man go.” He licked his lips, letting his eyes ride up and down her body. “I’ll even let him watch, if he likes.”

  Hool took two more steps. He was close now—so close Hool could see the creases at the corners of his eyes, the faded scar along his chin. She bared her teeth, which to the captain must have looked like a bright, toothy grin. “I am sure he will want to see this.”

  Hool grabbed the captain by the sideburns, and pulled him close. He was grinning . . . until she opened her mouth and tore off his jaw.

  The captain couldn’t exactly scream, but he gurgled at an impressive volume for a second as the blood poured out of his face and down his throat. He passed out immediately after that. Hool picked him up around the waist and started running toward the camp and Sir Damon.

  It took the Dellorans about two seconds to realize what they were witnessing was not a particularly violent courting episode but, rather, a frontal assault. In those two seconds, Hool covered half the distance to Sir Damon. She felt the captain’s body jerk three times—the men had fired their crossbows and their leader, in his role as shield, had absorbed the damage.

  The crossbows would take a few seconds to reload. The archer got off two more shots—one wide, one feathering his captain’s calf, before Hool threw the body at him.

  The man with the axe who had hit Sir Damon swung at her and she darted aside into a crouch and drove the blade of her hand into the side of the man’s knee. With all her strength behind it, it was enough to crack bone and cause him to stumble. She then picked him up by arm and leg and swung him around and into the next two men coming at her.

  A Delloran threw an axe at her. She caught it out of midair and threw it back, hitting him in the hip. She grabbed Damon by the baldric and threw him over one shoulder. Four Dellorans surrounded her, brandishing broadswords and hatchets. They moved with caution this time.

  Hool didn’t want to fight, though. She wanted to escape. She leapt at one of them—a stunning eight-foot horizontal leap that caused him to stumble over the captain’s body in his haste to retreat. It was enough of an opening to throw Sir Damon into the saddle of one of the horses and leap up behind him. “Ride!” she roared in the knight’s ear.

  He set spurs to the horse and off it shot, through a rank of Dellorans still trying to understand what was happening. Hool clipped a man on the side of the head as they went past, knocking him sprawling.

  And then they were away, galloping at full speed toward Eretheria.

  “How did you . . . what was . . .” Sir Damon stammered, even as they rode.

  “Shut up!” Hool snarled and tapped his arm. “Go that way.”

  They rode perhaps a mile over a hill and through a small copse of trees that Hool knew would hide them from any pursuers. She had them dismount from the horse into a tree and hoisted Sir Damon up into it with one arm. Then she roared at the horse so it kept galloping as fast as it could.

  Sir Damon’s eyes looked likely to fall out of his head. “My lady! Are you enchanted in some way?”

  Hool sighed. “No. I’m just strong.”

  Sir Damon tried to more gracefully wedge himself between two tree branches, but was doing a poor job of it. “You—damn—you were throwing men about like scarecrows!”

  “Stop moving so much!” she hissed. “You’re shaking the tree!”

  “I’m sorry—I mean, thank you, but I—”

  “Stop talking, stupid!” She slapped a hand across his mouth and held it there.

  There was a distant thunder of hooves, which grew louder and louder until a party of eight Dellorans on horseback rode through the wood. The man at the lead had his eyes fixed on the ground, following their trail. Hool hoped they were moving too quickly to notice something like the horse getting lighter as they hopped off. They were—they kept right on riding after barely a moment’s pause. When at last the hoofbeats had faded, she released Sir Damon’s mouth.

  Weirdly, he was smiling at her. “I feel as though there is a great deal more to you than I have realized.”

  “Why are you out here?” Hool leapt down from the tree. She then turned to offer Sir Damon a hand.

  He insisted on sliding down the trunk himself. With his injured shoulder, the descent was awkward and ended with the knight falling onto his back and groaning as he hit the ground. He was panting. “I . . . well . . . I . . . I was looking . . . for you . . .”

  Hool frowned. “Why?”

  Sir Damon rolled gingerly onto his feet and slowly rose, clutching the tree trunk to keep himself steady. “I am still technically in your service, milady.”

  Hool tried to parse out the meaning of this. “You are released from my service.”

  Sir Damon chuckled through his pain. “Then, as a knight errant, I choose to seek you anyway.”

  Hool cocked her head. This made very little sense to her. “But why?”

  Sir Damon sighed and, with visible discomfort, got down on one knee. He took up her hand and held it tightly. “Lady Hool of Eddon . . . I . . . well, it’s becoming very clear that I know very little about you or your friends or really, well, anything. I do know this, though: you are the most beautiful, most incredible, most admirable woman I have ever met
. . .” He looked up into her face, his eyes glassy. “. . . and I love you very much.”

  Hool yanked her hand back.

  Sir Damon put up his hands. “And even if you do not return this love, milady, it is my intention to stand by your side in your service for as long as you will have me.” He clasped his hands together in pleading. “Please, Hool—have me.”

  Hool looked down at him. She couldn’t decide if she should laugh or scowl or cheer. Laughing, she decided, would be too mean. So would scowling.

  She didn’t feel much like cheering either.

  “There is something I think you should know,” she said at last. “Get up.”

  Sir Damon rose painfully. “What is it? Are you a criminal? I honestly surmised that for myself. I really don’t care if you are, and—”

  Hool took off the shroud, and Sir Damon’s voice died in his throat. She stood there before him, clad only in her satchel, the Fist of Veroth in a sleeve between her shoulders. She towered over the knight, broader than him by half and taller than him by several hands. She waited to see what he would do.

  “It’s . . . you . . . you’re a . . . a . . . what? What?”

  Hool’s ears drooped a little. “I’m a gnoll. From the Taqar.”

  Sir Damon looked down at the enchanted belt on the ground. “A . . . a shroud? But why? All this time? Why?”

  “People don’t get to pick their packs. We all have to do what we can to live.” Hool sighed. “Do you still mean all that stuff you said before?”

  Sir Damon was still staring at her, from foot to ears and back again. “I, well, I’m a man of my word, and—”

  “No.” Hool stopped him. “You will not stay with me because you said stupid words. If you stay with me, you will because you want to. We will never be lovers, Damon, but you are a kind man and a good one and I like you. If you want to stay, say so. If you don’t, then go away.”

  Sir Damon sat on a fallen log and ran his good hand across his balding pate. “Damn . . . damn, what a fool I must look. Confessing my love to you?” He shook his head. “Story of my life, eh? Always signing up for the wrong commitments. Here I am, almost forty-two, and no land, no family, no money. But I was respected at least. Tolerated in good company.” He laughed. “And I throw it all away for a beautiful lady . . .” He motioned toward Hool. “. . . and look what happens.”

  “It isn’t my fault you’re stupid. And I don’t like being insulted.”

  “No, no, milady . . . Hool. That’s not what I meant.” He shook his head and then smiled at her. “I’m in.”

  “You are in my service?” Hool’s ears climbed up. “Really?”

  Sir Damon sighed. “It’s like some kind of fairy tale in reverse but, dammit, you have no idea how boring my life was before I met you.”

  Hool grunted. “If you think this is exciting, you have no idea what you’re getting into.”

  He smiled at her again, from his chin all the way to his eyes. “Well, milady, perhaps that’s why I’m getting into it.”

  Hool snorted a laugh. “I will get that arrow out. It will hurt.” She took off her satchel and started rummaging around for the pliers.

  Chapter 35

  All You Can Wish and More

  Tyvian woke up on the palace grounds, beneath a lovely cherry tree in blossom, a cool wind tossing its branches. It had rained at some point early in the morning—Tyvian was soaked through—and as the branches shifted, more droplets of rain spattered on his face. That was probably what woke him.

  He immediately started cursing at the tree. He tried to get up, but only made it onto his side before vomiting among the roots. His head felt like an anvil in use. The morning sunlight was a dagger in each eye.

  He managed to squint and look around. The Guardian was standing nearby, at attention and clad in his ceremonial mail, as usual. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Go straight to hell.” Tyvian rolled onto all fours, puked again, and then managed to pull himself to his feet using the tree. “How the hell did I get here?”

  “You arrived after midnight in the company of some peasants. You insisted I pay them a gold mark apiece for being your ‘stewards’ and then subjected me to verbal abuse for about half an hour before you wandered out here to ‘clear your head.’ You are fortunate the Defenders still seek you in the city, otherwise they would have found some pretense to arrest you.”

  Tyvian closed his eyes, trying to recall any of it. All that was there was a giant, oggra-shaped hole where his memory should have been. “Kroth. Draw me a bath, will you? I need to become presentable for those stupid duels.”

  The Guardian’s expression was entirely neutral. “I beg your pardon, sir, but which duels?”

  “Artus’s duels, obviously. Gods, man.” Tyvian began to walk back toward the palace itself, his legs stiff as oars.

  “The duels were fought yesterday. It is currently the morning of the twelfth, not the eleventh.”

  Tyvian froze and, for a moment, thought he might vomit again. “Wh . . . what? I lost a whole bloody day?”

  “I was quite concerned,” the Guardian said, with no outward indication of any such concern.

  Tyvian touched his temples with his index fingers and rubbed gently. They felt like warhammers. He’d missed the duels. Artus needed him, and he’d been out drinking and plotting. He’d been so . . . so miserable for himself, for the world, he had left Artus alone to face death—the express thing he sought to avoid. The ring quaked to life, pricking him, but it needn’t have bothered. Tyvian felt horrible enough as it was. He knew the question he had to ask next, but he was afraid to ask it. “And . . . and Artus? Is he . . . well . . . did he . . .”

  “The Young Prince is alive, sir, but grievously hurt. Valen Hesswyn ran him through, and that, coupled with the poison—”

  “Where?”

  “In his chambers.”

  Tyvian funneled as much energy as he had left and ran to Artus’s room. Well, he intended to run. He mostly staggered, tripped, and fell his way upstairs and down stately corridors. He arrived on Artus’s doorstep, hands on his knees, dry-heaving into a chamber pot he’d snatched up along the way. He tried the knob—it was open.

  Inside, Artus was beneath the heavy quilts of his massive bed, his face gray, his eyes closed. Tyvian stumbled to the bedside and reached for Artus’s hand. He was cold as ice, but alive. “Oh gods. Artus . . . Artus, I’m sorry.”

  Artus said nothing. He barely moved. He barely seemed to breathe.

  Tyvian’s discussions with Eddereon came back to him in full clarity. “I . . . I had a plan. It seems so stupid now . . . now that you’re . . .”

  “He is going to be all right, Tyvian.”

  Tyvian turned. His mother was sitting in a chair by the windows that overlooked the gardens along the lakeshore. It was thrown open, to let in the light and fresh air. To Tyvian’s hangover, it was like gazing into the mouth of hell.

  He was too exhausted, too sick to yell at her. “What happened?”

  Lyrelle was wearing a relatively simple dress of royal blue, cut for riding, with a small white hat bearing a lace veil. She looked like she was about to go observe a hunt or possibly a battle. “What happened is that House Davram’s honor is preserved—they lost a lesser vassal, but Valen Hesswyn was vindicated. Meanwhile, your young man there demonstrated remarkable grit and poise. There isn’t a person in this city that isn’t speaking of him with admiration right now. And at least four fifths of those people now loathe Davram.”

  “You used him, in other words.” Tyvian climbed to his feet. “You made him into a martyr. You drove the wedge deeper between the nobles and the peasants. Why?”

  “Tyvian, you talk as if the wedge between peasants and nobles was not already acute. Need I remind you of what has been happening in the streets of this city?”

  “Myreon drove them to it.”

  “She merely lit the kindling. The hearth was already set, long ago.” Lyrelle came away from the window and around the bed. “
Now she has fallen in with the Sorcerous League.”

  Tyvian blinked. “She’s what?”

  “Myreon’s frustration and anger has driven her to it, as the League knew it would. They want a war—that has always been their plan, and so they will give the world the Gray Lady. I want peace, so I gave Eretheria you.”

  “I’m not king.” Tyvian’s voice was weak, though. His plan—perverse, final—loomed over him.

  Lyrelle pointed to the city beyond the gardens—picturesque from this distance, a city of broad streets and beautiful mansions, of church steeples and domes. “There are blocks full of people out there who think you are. Who need to believe in you. Without you, they believe they have nothing—no hope, no future that they can see. Those people will tear this city apart without you, and the peerage will drive them to it.”

  “And if I placate the masses, I will destroy the peerage! That isn’t better!” Tyvian threw himself into a chair and covered his face. His head pounded—he wasn’t up for this. He’d thought this all out already. It seemed inexorable, now—there was no other solution.

  Lyrelle knelt before him and took up one of his hands. “All your life you’ve been afraid of what I asked of you. I understand that, Tyvian—I truly do. I knew your life was never going to be easy. Your brother casts a long shadow and your name would always follow you and I . . .”

  She paused. Tyvian looked at her, searching for the lie. Gods, she was a magnificent actress—the way she bit the edge of her lip, the way she could get her eyes to be so large and so warm somehow. The softness of her touch, so nostalgic—of a world long dead, where he was a boy who loved his mother.

  He pulled his hand away. His voice was bitter with irony. “Save it. Go dupe another boy into almost dying for you.”

  Lyrelle slapped him.

  It was jarring to say the least—Tyvian nearly fell out of his chair. He stared at his mother, and saw that Lyrelle’s eyes were heavy with tears. “That boy over there loves you, Tyvian! He is, in all this wide and horrible world, the only person who would follow you to certain death and smile. Do you really think I would take him away from you? He is alive because of me. Because I stuffed his face with food enchanted to absorb much of the poison before he could be poisoned.”