Tyvian thought about this as he cast about for his own spoon. “Eddereon, do you by any chance happen to have—”
“New person, remember?” Eddereon held up one hand and wiggled his fingers at Tyvian. “Learn to adapt.”
Tvyian cursed and looked down at the stew. It was thick and hot and he realized just how hungry he was. “Dammit all.” He pulled out a piece of meat and stuffed it in his mouth. It was tough, but good. Its taste made him remember all those meals Hool had hunted down during their vagabond years. He wondered where she was and if she was well. He wondered if Brana was with her.
“Once you’ve eaten, you’ll need to put on this.” Eddereon went into a stall and came back with a pair of boots, a thick gray tunic of wool, a mail shirt and coif, a sword belt with a broadsword, and a black tabard with an elk-skull device, the antlers reaching almost to the collar.
Tyvian looked at it—this had been the plan. “What company are we with?”
Eddereon tapped the device on the tabard. “This is the sign of Rodall’s Hunters, also called the Ghouls. They are camped not far away and are waiting for me—a personal favor.”
Tyvian poked through the outfit, paying particular attention to the sword. It was competently made, but not the work of a master. It would need a lot of sharpening. “You know them?”
“We know each other by reputation,” Eddereon said. “Whereas you were something of a legend in your circle, I was something of a legend in mine. Few sell-swords do not know the name of Eddereon the Black.”
Tyvian picked out a bit more stew, resisting the urge to reach for a napkin. “And who am I?”
“Arick Cadronmay of Denthro, hedge knight and my bosom companion, just recovered from his injuries at the Battle of Eretheria.”
Tyvian pulled on the boots. They were well worn, but again of decent construction. They fit, too—Eddereon had a good eye for sizes.
Conversation died as Tyvian ate and dressed. He would have liked to bathe, but this being a barn, no tub was present, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to scrub down in a feed trough. Sacrifices needed to be made, he supposed. First his hair, then his hygiene.
Why was he doing all this, again? He stopped as he was belting on the broadsword, suddenly alarmed at a gap in his memory. He cast his mind back, trying to confirm all the details. He remembered everything leading up to his coronation with relative clarity, but the night of the ordeal itself . . . well . . . he remembered fire and death and his duel with Xahlven on the rooftop. But how had he gotten there? What else had happened?
He frowned. There was something there. Something on the edge of his memory . . . something Xahlven had told him, right at the end. Something important.
He pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter anymore, did it? He was done—free. He’d sacrificed himself for Eretheria, and now the rest of the world and its problems were no longer his own. He wasn’t Tyvian the First, he wasn’t even Tyvian Reldamar. He was Arick Cadronmay of Denthro, disgraced hedge knight—a common sell-sword and no one of consequence. Tyvian took a deep, cleansing breath.
For the first time in ages—decades, perhaps—Tyvian’s life seemed to unfold before him with wild, unrestricted promise.
Eddereon was standing at the barn door. He cleared his throat. “We’d better go. They won’t wait much longer.”
Tyvian nodded and finished belting on the sword. It seemed too heavy, and it dragged on his hip. He’d never much cared for broadswords—they were balanced more toward the tip than the hilt to give them a heavier stroke, but when compared to his preferred rapier, you lost a measure of control and a few inches of reach. He hoped those few inches and that extra control wouldn’t matter much. Given the arc of his life thus far, that didn’t seem likely. “Very well. Let’s go.”
The camp of Rodall’s Hunters was a typical sell-sword encampment. It straddled a road on the north side of a stream crossed by a narrow stone bridge. A cheval-de-frise was placed across the bridge on both sides, and it was manned by a half-dozen men clad as Tyvian was and armed with long spears and bows. Beyond this, the tents were arranged in neat rows, and a central pavilion of black and white flew the company colors and had the company standard staked out front—a larger, more detailed version of the device on Tyvian’s chest, this including streaks of blood dripping from the antlers and a border stitched with the images of human skulls. Not cheery, but then again, sell-swords traded on their fearsome reputations, and fearsome banners helped keep them in coin.
Eddereon greeted the men on the bridge by name and they let him pass with some slaps on the back and good-natured ribbing about farmer’s daughters and so on. They didn’t say a word to Tyvian at all.
As they walked through the camp, Tyvian spared a look at the tents. They were small, housing four men apiece, though Tyvian guessed the men would have to be stacked like firewood inside if everyone were to sleep at once. There was precious little magecraft in evidence: the tents were not warded against the elements, the cook fires were stoked with plain wood, and only a few of the men’s weapons had the telltale sheen of having been treated with bladecrystal. That meant the company was either low on supplies or perhaps poor. In either case, Tyvian didn’t expect much in the way of comfort.
The men were in the process of striking camp. They knew their duties and they did them, rolling up tents and loading supply wagons in organized teams. Tyvian found himself counting fingers, ears, noses, and eyes—he came up with less than the expected number. Far less, and most of the injuries were not recent. These were veterans, then, not some green company out of Galaspin looking to make some quick coin in the spring campaigns. Tyvian, with his well-fed complexion and a full set of digits, was going to stick out here.
“Cheery bunch,” Tyvian grumbled to Eddereon as a man with no teeth and shoulders like a bull glared at him. “You could have found a less . . . conspicuous group, couldn’t you?”
“I did the best that I could. The Ghouls will do,” Eddereon said and led on, heading toward the central pavilion. Beside the elaborate banner was a pair of guards standing at attention, halberds at their sides.
Tyvian ducked past a pair of men carrying five rolled-up tents between them. “Why are they called the Ghouls?”
“The Siege of Gandor’s Gate.”
Tyvian tried to remember his history. “That was at the end of the Illini Wars, after Calassa, right? Sahand’s men held the castle for two months and started eating their captives . . . but why would this company be called the Ghouls if it was the Dellorans who were eating . . .”
Eddereon stopped and gave Tyvian a hard stare over his shoulder.
Tyvian came up short. The realization hit him like a wave—the Dellorans were falling back north in front of the White Army. The Ghouls were camped on the north side of the river, guarding their southern approaches. Gods. This is a Delloran Company!
I’m joining Sahand’s service!
When Eddereon saw that Tyvian understood, he nodded and introduced himself to the guards at the front of the pavilion. He was seen inside, but Tyvian was told to remain here. He did as he was told, if only because he was too shocked to think of another thing to do. They were in a Delloran camp! He kept darting his eyes around, expecting at any moment for one of the sundry thugs and murderers surrounding him to notice who he was and sound the alert. Nothing happened, though—the tabard, his shaved head, and the fact that his ordeal probably had adverse effects on his appearance were sufficient to confound anyone who might happen to recognize him, even assuming such a person existed.
But what if such a person did? He might pass casual inspection, but how long until his Saldorian accent gave him away? Did Sahand believe he was dead? Hard to say—it wasn’t Sahand he was attempting to fool. What were the odds they would come into Sahand’s presence?
What in the hell was Eddereon thinking?
A pair of huge wolfhounds emerged from the pavilion, wearing spiked collars. They did not wag their tails or pant or even come close to Tyvian.
Instead, they both stared at him with black eyes, stone-still. Tyvian also froze, uncertain what to do. He glanced at the two guards standing there, but neither man said or did anything.
Laughter filtered out of the pavilion and into the morning sun. The man Eddereon was with had a head like a whetstone—gray, with nothing but sharp corners and flat surfaces. He wore plate-and-mail of good quality, and his head was shaved in the manner of knights who still wore a helm on a regular basis. His teeth, evidently worn down with age, had each been capped with platinum crowns. Though half a head shorter than Eddereon, he bore a kind of violent menace that made Tyvian feel he was bigger. He gave the two hounds a low whistle, and the dogs instantly sat at his heels. Their eyes still hadn’t left Tyvian.
“Arick Cadronmay of Denthro,” Eddereon said, presenting Tyvian, “meet Captain Rodall Gern.”
Tyvian knuckled his forehead in salute and bowed for good measure—he was abruptly realizing he had no idea what the etiquette was here. Should he kneel? Would he be kissing rings?
Captain Rodall extended his hand to shake. Tyvian grabbed his forearm and Rodall squeezed his—too hard. “Well met,” Rodall said, his voice far higher pitched than Tyvian had expected out of such a face.
“Milord,” Tyvian answered.
Rodall hooted a laugh. “You weren’t kidding, Ed—high-born and polite. I’m worried I might break him!”
“No danger of that, sir!” Tyvian said, trying to sound more eager than he was.
“Arrogant, too.” Rodall shook his head. “On any other day, I’d break your knees and leave a ponce like you behind for the crows. I lost too many men in that shit-eating town full of wigs and women, though, to pass up free help. Can you handle a pike?”
Tyvian nodded. Any moron could handle a pike—what kind of stupid question was that? Still, he couldn’t resist a follow up question. “Free, sir?”
Rodall looked at Eddereon. “Thought you told him?”
Eddereon stepped in. “You don’t get paid in Rodall’s Hunters until you’re blooded in your first battle. Gives new recruits an incentive to stick the engagement out rather than run.”
Rodall came close to Tyvian and stared down his flat nose. “And once you’re blooded, you’re ours—no deserters in this company, understood? You take off without my leave, and I hunt you down.”
Tyvian did his best not to roll his eyes. If he had a copper common every time somebody threatened to hunt him down . . .
“Not impressed, eh?” Rodall yanked out a piece of Tyvian’s beard, making Tyvian wince. He held the hair out to his hounds, which eagerly sniffed it. He then stuffed the little sprig of hair into his belt.
“They know you now, boy,” Rodal said, grinning his metal-capped grin. “If you run, well . . .” He reached up to his neck and teased out a leather string that wove through a half dozen mummified human ears. “We’ll see how brave you are when I catch you.”
Rodall looked at Eddereon, slapped a hand on his shoulder, and nodded. “I need to get back—got a company to run. You’re both in tent twenty-five. Would make you sergeant, but the boys would take it wrong, some stranger riding their rumps.”
Eddereon saluted. “Of course. Thank you, sir.”
Tyvian spoke up, “Hold on—tent twenty-five? I’m . . . errr . . . we’re to march with the infantry?”
Rodall paused. “We’re an infantry company—what the hell else would you do?”
“Well, sir—it seems to me that a man leading a company abroad through enemy territory could use a guide.”
“I could cross rougher terrain than this in my sleep,” Rodall said. But he turned around and folded his arms—he was listening, at any rate.
Tyvian was getting a death-stare from Eddereon, but he pressed on anyway. “I don’t mean the physical terrain. I mean the political terrain. I know this country—I know its people and its laws. I might be useful to you in the command tent.” Deathly silence from Rodall. Then Tyvian remembered to add the word “Sir.”
Rodall favored Tyvian with another shiny grin. “Maybe you would at that. Very well, Arick—you will report to my command tent each evening after camp has been set. Understood?”
Tyvian saluted. “Yes sir.”
And then Rodall and his giant dogs went back in the pavilion, leaving them alone save the guards. Eddereon put an arm around Tyvian’s shoulder and steered him away. “You made a good impression. Well done.”
Tyvian hissed at him. “Sahand’s service, Eddereon? Sahand? Kroth’s teeth, man, what were you thinking?”
“Shhh . . . I can explain.”
“Explain bloody well quick, you great hairy oaf!”
Eddereon cast a look around—the bustle of the camp was intensifying. There were horns blowing, and men scrambled to load wagons and shoulder their packs. No one was paying them any heed. “Your plan has changed a bit, Tyvian.”
Tyvian smacked him in the side of the head. “Call me Arick, you dunce—and who told you to change any plans! The idea was to get out of Eretheria and then we’d lie low. Travelling with the enemy is not lying low!”
Eddereon grimaced and sought to explain, but the big man was having trouble finding the words. “Your mother . . . after the battle . . . she . . . well . . . she was captured by Sahand.”
The news hit Tyvian harder than he expected. She’s dead. He took a step back. A thousand methods of painful, torturous death flashed through his mind, each of them a potential fate for his mother. He wondered which of them it had been, or maybe Sahand hadn’t bothered choosing and did them all. He wondered where the body was being displayed. He shook his head. “She . . . when she told me that was the last time we’d speak, I . . . I didn’t believe her.”
Eddereon took Tyvian by the shoulders. “No, you don’t understand. Your mother is alive, held captive in Dellor.”
Tyvian blinked. “What? Wh . . . why?”
Eddereon seemed not to hear the question. “We have joined the Delloran army because you and I are going to rescue her.”
That’s insane. Tyvian didn’t get a chance to say it, though. The horns were blowing. They were being called into ranks. Rodall’s Hunters—the Ghouls of Dellor—were marching north.
And Tyvian was going with them.
Chapter 2
In the Army Now
Marching, Tyvian quickly discovered, was unpleasant. The Ghouls—nobody in the company called them the Hunters unless the captain was in earshot—were a light infantry outfit evidently famed for their ability to cover ground quickly. The departure from their camp that first morning was considered leisurely by company standards, even though to Tyvian it had looked as though they were striking tents while people were still sleeping in them.
Somebody shoved a pike in Tyvian’s hand—an eighteen-foot-long spear that weighed about eight pounds—and slapped a pack on his back that contained a blanket roll, a quantity of dry rations, a canteen, and some assortment of camping knickknacks Tyvian did not have the time to inspect. Over this pack, that same somebody hung a small target shield and yelled at him until Tyvian was standing in a column with other people with absurdly long spears and large packs.
They were then made to walk. For hours. Eight hours, specifically, with only a brief midday respite to choke down a few iron-hard crackers and a handful of seeds before they were once again bellowed at until they were back in lines, marching again. By midday, Tyvian’s legs were screaming with exhaustion. By dusk, they were just numb.
There was very little conversation among the men while marching. Everyone was focused on keeping pace, since the sergeant—the man who had apparently made it his life’s mission to scream at Tyvian for any minor infraction—was pacing the edge of the column. He was a toothless badger of a human being with scraggly yellow hair that grew just about everywhere on his head except the top. His name was Drawsher. In another life, Tyvian would have killed him five minutes after meeting him. In this life—this wretched, reduced, quasiexistence he now occupied—he was Tyvian’s immediate super
ior.
“You! Fancy boy! Quit yer lagging!” Drawsher shouted in Tyvian’s ear as though Tyvian were deaf. He cracked Tyvian across the backside with a slender rod. A white-hot line of pain bloomed, making Tyvian wince.
“Oy, you think that hurt, Duchess?” Drawsher snarled. “It’ll hurt worse’n that if you don’t keep pace, damn your lazy arse!”
“I am keeping pace,” Tyvian grumbled.
“Quiet in the ranks!” Drawsher screamed and hit Tyvian three more times, all across the arse or the back of his legs.
The urge to club the brute over the head with his pike was enormous. Even the ring was ambivalent about it, as it often was in cases of self-defense. But Tyvian clenched his teeth and picked up the pace slightly. Drawsher, evidently satisfied, moved on to find other victims. It turned out there was always somebody in the Ghouls who had an arse that needed a few strikes.
Tyvian was not a perfect judge of such things, but when the command came to set camp, he was reasonably certain they’d gone about twenty-five miles in a single day. Tyvian had scarcely been in such a rush in his entire life, and he’d been hunted by the Defenders of the Balance across half a continent.
Compared to marching, setting camp was also unpleasant, but in an entirely different way. Drawsher singled Tyvian and a handful of other “bones”—a Ghoul term for raw recruits—to dig a latrine. Tyvian made the argument that the captain had ordered him to his tent each evening after they camped.
Dawsher was unimpressed. “If’n the captain wants to talk to you, then I’m a honey-glazed ham!”
The analogy garnered a hearty laugh from Tyvian’s new “companions.” This, evidently, was what passed for humor among the Ghouls.
Tyvian was too fatigued to be snarky at that precise moment, but he did devise some choice insults for later deployment while hacking at the rocky Eretherian ground with a glorified garden trowel referred to as an “entrenching tool.” It was, evidently, one of those pointless pieces of military paraphernalia that Tyvian had previously given little notice to, but now constituted the majority of his waking thoughts.
The Far Far Better Thing Page 2
