Red tinged the edges of his vision. Tyvian shivered. The world began to spin. “That . . . that sounds like . . . like you believe in Kroth the Devourer.”
“It’s a fable rooted in truth—too much sorcery will upend the Balance and destroy the world.” Xahlven laughed once more, a bit ruefully this time. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
Tyvian shook his head, trying to stay cogent for a few moments longer, at least. “So your solution is . . . is to destroy civilization to save the world? Am I understanding this right?”
Xahlven sighed. “Enough talk—let’s finish this.”
The poison in his bloodstream was enough that Tyvian could barely follow what happened next. He only knew he needed to get to the back of the chapel, where the roof overlooked the lake—everyone needed to see him fall, commoner and nobleman alike. A spectacular, public death—his only remaining weapon.
So he ran, unevenly, sliding and slipping across the steeply angled roof. One of the Xahlvens stabbed him in the back as he went. And another. And another. Tyvian didn’t bother trying to defend himself—it was either too late or it wasn’t. Besides, with the poison, he barely felt the blades.
He saw the edge of the chapel and the darkness of the lake beyond, both at the end of a tunnel somehow darker and brighter at the same time. He felt himself falling.
He felt nothing more.
All according to plan.
Epilogue
Sahand dragged himself from the lake, his life ward pulsing cold against his flesh, preserving him from death. Gods and devils, that had been close! Breathing hard, he rolled to his back and stared up at the night sky, rippling with lightning. He tried to breathe, but only coughed up more lake water. “That infernal beast. That Kroth-spawned animal . . .”
Staggering to his feet, he cast about for a weapon, keeping one eye on the water where, impossibly, his wyvern still managed to burn. Steam rose from the surface of the lake. The she-gnoll still lived, he knew. She and he had struggled in the depths for gods knew how long. Long enough for him to drown, that much was certain. Long enough for her to . . .
He reached up to find a mangle of flesh where his right cheek should have been—the thing had torn off part of his face, exposing his teeth. Blood poured over his jaw and down his throat. He gagged on it.
“Kroth!”
Sahand threw a bolt of fire into the water, and another, and another—they hissed and were gone. He struggled to channel the Dweomer so he could freeze the lake solid, but he was too wild, too angry. The gnoll, though, was somewhere out there in the dark, in the lake. Perhaps swimming off to lick its wounds before it came back again. He roared into the night, “I’ll be waiting, beast! You hear? I’ll. Be. Waiting!”
Armored footsteps behind him. Sahand created a ball of fire in his hand and whirled, ready to throw. One of his lieutenants dropped to his knees. “Sire!” He held up a rapier of pure mageglass—Sahand recognized the weapon, if only vaguely. He looked at the lieutenant, who continued, “The palace is ours, sire. The king is dead.”
Sahand frowned to the extent that his ruined face allowed. “You’re certain?”
“I saw him fall with my own eyes, sire. He landed in the lake, grievously wounded. I posted men to watch for some time—he did not emerge.”
Sahand grunted—good enough for now. “Hostages?”
“A good number, sire, as you requested.” The lieutenant looked up. “Also, there is something else.”
Sahand saw the grin working to burst from the man’s face. Some of his rage dimmed. “Tell me.”
Lyrelle awoke to find herself on her knees, an iron collar clapped around her neck connected to a chain that bound her to at least a dozen other women in ruined gowns. Her head spun; she tried to figure out where she was—somewhere in the palace. She heard Northron being spoken, but in the Delloran dialect. Sahand had won then. No! She hadn’t planned for that. She’d known she would lose, but . . . not like this.
She drew a deep breath. She needed to remain calm. Needed her wits.
A door opened and a broad man marched through, his mail coated in blood and ash, his boots soggy. His iron circlet was gone and his face was a ruin of blood and bone, but Lyrelle would know Banric Sahand anywhere. Around her, the other captives cowered, some weeping, others throwing themselves on their faces. Lyrelle tried to stand.
She was struck from behind with something heavy and knocked to all fours, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Pull her to her knees,” Sahand barked, his voice wet with the blood in his mouth. He was missing a cheek, his teeth exposed in a permanent half grin, dripping red.
Lyrelle was dragged by the collar back to her knees. She struggled to channel a spell, but she couldn’t—Xahlven had taken too much out of her. There was nothing left. She could only kneel and look her captor in the eye as she kept her posture as straight and defiant as possible, given the circumstances.
Sahand said nothing. He smiled his blood smile and unbuckled his belt. Around her, the women shrieked. Lyrelle forced herself to remain calm. Serene.
Sahand removed his manhood from beneath his armor and, shaking it at her for a moment, let loose a stream of urine that struck Lyrelle in the chest. It was hot, pungent. Lyrelle’s nostrils flared, but she kept herself still, never looking away from Sahand’s ruined face. He never looked away either. He kept grinning until he was done. “There.” He spat blood on her face. “You’re mine now.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Sahand spoke over her. “Take her thumbs. If she speaks a word, take her tongue, too.”
Sahand crouched in front of Lyrelle, his hard eyes so close she could spit in them, but she chose not to. “This wasn’t part of your plans, was it?”
Behind her, a man grabbed her wrist and tore it loose from her bonds. He bent her arm back. She felt the bite of a knife in the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. Then a white-hot pain and the sound of her voice screaming, as though from a long distance.
Sahand rose. “Pack them up,” he bellowed to his men. “We withdraw at dawn.”
Hool laid a wreath of wildflowers upon the cairn. She had spent the whole day preparing it. Artus didn’t think she had eaten in three days.
The cairn stood on a hillside a few miles outside of the city. The smoke from the fires was still thick in the air, even at this distance. A black smudge smeared across the western horizon. Artus couldn’t bring himself to look at it.
Hool stepped back from the grave of her pup; her great golden mane seemed limp in the humid air. Beside her, Sir Damon took her hand and held it. To Artus’s great surprise, she did not draw away.
Myreon was beside him, dressed in mail, her staff replaced with a poleaxe inscribed with all manner of runes. Her face was hard. “Should we say a few words?”
“Leave your stupid gods out of this,” Hool growled. It was the first sentence she had uttered in hours.
Myreon didn’t flinch. “We have all lost people, Hool. But we can make their deaths have meaning.”
Hool turned to face her. “You mean join your stupid army? Fight your stupid war?”
“Justice, Hool,” Myreon said, her eyes flashing. “Justice is never stupid.”
Hool shook her head. “Yes it is. It’s stupid right now.” She looked back at the cairn. “Go and die for your stupid justice. Leave me out of it.”
Artus came forward and hugged the big gnoll. He felt her great body sag against him for a moment and then return the hug. “I’ll miss you, Hool. I . . . I love you.”
Hool held him by the shoulders. “When Sahand is dead, I will find you again. I swear it.”
Artus felt a tear swell up in his eye. “Can’t I go with you?”
“I will not have the blood of any more pups on my hands,” Hool said softly. “It will be Sahand or me who will die next. No one else.”
Sir Damon cleared his throat. “I may have something to say about that, my lady.”
Hool looked at him for a moment, her e
ars back, and then nodded. “That is true. Sir Damon might die first.”
In spite of himself, Artus smiled. He reached up and ruffled the fur behind Hool’s ear. “He was my brother. I’ll never forget.”
“Neither will he,” Hool said, licking Artus’s hand. Then she and Sir Damon started away, heading north. Artus watched them go for a long while. Before they crested the next hill, Sir Damon paused on horseback to salute them. Then he was gone.
Myreon put her hand on Artus’s shoulder. “The milita leaders will be mustered by now. We should get back. Besides, Michelle is waiting.”
Artus sighed.
“Cheer up, Artus.” Myreon climbed onto her horse. “Turns out you’re quite good at being a convincing crown prince. Tyvian would have been proud.”
“I know. Can’t wait to tell him all about it.”
“You’re going to win this war for us. You’re not going to die, Artus.”
Artus laughed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
Artus shook his head and patted the letter Michelle had found. Just it’s being there gave him a sense of comfort.
“Tyvian ain’t dead.”
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my agent, Joshua, without whom this book may never have seen the light of day. Also big thanks to my editor, David, whose efforts made this book sparkle. A big thank you also goes to my beta-readers (Brandon, Katie, and Jason) as well as all my readers, past, present, and future. Finally, and most importantly, I’d like to thank my wife for all her support and her endless willingness to let me lock myself in my office and wander the green fields of Eretheria for hours on end, even if there were chores to do.
About the Author
On the day AUSTON HABERSHAW was born, Skylab fell from the heavens. This foretold two possible fates: supervillain or sci-fi/fantasy author. Fortunately he chose the latter and spends his time imagining the could-be and the never-was rather than disintegrating the moon with his volcano laser. Auston is a winner of the Writers of the Future Contest and has had work published in Analog, F&SF, and Escape Pod, among other places. He lives and works in Boston, Massachusetts. Find him online at aahabershaw.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/aahabershaw, or follow him on Twitter @AustonHab.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
By Auston Habershaw
The Saga of the Redeemed
The Oldest Trick Consisting of: The Iron Ring
Iron and Blood
No Good Deed
Dead But Once
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
dead but once. Copyright © 2018 by Auston Habershaw. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-267701-3
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-267702-0
Cover photographs: © MirasWonderland / Getty Images (mask); © Volodymyr Baleha / Shutterstock (background)
Harper Voyager, the Harper Voyager logo, and Harper Voyager Impulse are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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