The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  Back on the meadow where the village’s fallen defenders lay, the pain subsided somewhat. Tyvian managed an erect posture; he could look around. On either side of him he saw his tent-mates. Mort had a goat over his broad shoulders, his boots caked in blood. Despite the burns on his face, Hambone was laughing with another man. “Shoulda heard her squeal, mate! Gods, what a ride that was!”

  Tyvian threw up.

  This caught their attention. “Well, well,” Hambone said with a snort, “if it ain’t Duchess! Where were you hiding, eh? Missed all the fun!”

  Still leaning on his knees, Tyvian spat and struggled to catch his breath. “Yes . . . my . . . my loss . . .”

  Hambone laughed at him. “Seems like there’s something I do better’n you, after all. Ain’t there, Duchess?”

  Tyvian couldn’t help but choke out a laugh. “Yes . . . seems so.”

  They were mustered into loose ranks. The lack of Sergeant Drawsher was noticed immediately. Captain Rodall summoned a few of the senior Ghouls—Eddereon included in this—and sent them back to the village to fetch him. Tyvian knew this was bad, but was too wrung out to care. There were few tortures a bunch of Delloran thugs could devise that he had not just experienced tenfold. Having his ears cut off sounded like a refreshing change of pace.

  Eddereon and the others came back after a brief search, Drawsher’s body draped between them. The men stared. “Kroth’s teeth,” Hambone said, eyes wide, “who coulda taken Drawsher? He was a beast! An utter beast!”

  “Maybe he owed somebody money, eh?” Mort was stroking the goat’s head to keep it from bleating. Now that Tyvian could see him from the front, he could tell where the blood all over his boots came from—from his belt hung five headless chickens.

  Hambone’s eyes shot up. “You think . . . one of us did that?”

  Mort shrugged, refusing to comment.

  Eddereon and the other men carried the body away. The rest of them were ordered to form into a column and marched back to camp a mile or so distant. The mood, though initially jubilant, had soured notably. The men seemed downtrodden, heads hanging as they carried along their stolen chickens, pigs, and goats, the smoke from the burning village still thick in the air.

  Tyvian wanted to scream at them all. Seriously? You just raped and murdered a bunch of unarmed farmers and you’re depressed because the man who beat you with a switch every morning got stabbed through the skull?

  But, as he had the past number of days, he said nothing.

  He hated his own silence.

  With every step away from the village, the ring’s anger eased somewhat, though not entirely. It was there constantly, pushing him toward either justice or vengeance, though at this point Tyvian could not readily tell the difference between the two.

  Back at camp, the stolen provisions were confiscated by the company quartermaster and recorded in a massive iron-bound ledger. Each man was searched by a pair of burly sell-swords with hands the size of ham hocks—the process had more in common with a beating than anything else. Men were permitted to keep money and trinkets and such, but food and drink was dropped into labeled barrels. Altogether, the razing of a pastoral Eretherian village was extremely organized.

  When it came to be Tyvian’s turn, the men turned up nothing. The quartermaster, who had gold-rimmed spectacles clipped to a long, booze-rotted nose, actually looked up from his ledger. “Nothing?”

  Tyvian shrugged. “Nothing I wanted.”

  Everyone looked at him like he’d just pulled off his own head and tried to bowl with it. The quartermaster blinked, his eyes magnified by his spectacles. “You know that these provisions are important for the company’s survival, yes?”

  “I’m very sorry for not doing my part,” Tyvian droned. “Um . . . sir.”

  The magnified eyes of the quartermaster narrowed. “What is your name?”

  “Duchess.”

  “Your real name?”

  “Ty . . . ahhh . . . blast it . . . Arick of . . . somewhere.”

  If the fact that Tyvian didn’t remember his own name raised any suspicions, the quartermaster gave no sign—Tyvian imagined people joined mercenary companies under false names all the time anyway. The man scribbled a note and waved him off. Tyvian went back to his tent and waited for his comeuppance to arrive.

  It came at sundown. Tyvian’s whole block was mustered. Captain Rodall was there, hands resting on the pommel of his broadsword, which was currently stuck point-first in the ground. Beside him was Voth, who was sitting on a large rock and cleaning under her fingernails with a stiletto.

  Eddereon had evidently been given a field promotion to sergeant—the benefits of being a legendary mercenary, Tyvian supposed. After Eddereon had inspected his unit and noted that all men were present, saving those few wounded in the action that day, he took his place at Rodall’s right hand. The captain nodded at his new sergeant and then flashed a silvery smile at the men. “Sergeant Drawsher was killed by a broadsword to the eye. One thrust, quick and hard—right through the back of his skull.” Drawsher nodded, scanning them, one by one. “No Eretherian pig’s boy or grandpa did this. It was one of our own.”

  Tyvian felt the tension in the unit ramp up. He could tell that men were holding their breath, that others were tensing for what was to come next. He didn’t do anything, though. With Voth sitting there, looking at the men, anything to distinguish himself from the crowd might be a death sentence in more ways than one.

  Rodall was still talking. “We can’t stay here long. We march tonight, so we’re going to settle this quick. The man who killed Drawsher can step forward now, and we’ll have it done with quick and painless. If he doesn’t, well . . .” Rodall’s silver grin sparkled in the fading sunlight. “I just kill two of you at random and call it even. If the rest of you find out who done it later and take things into your own hands, can’t say I’d mind that, either.”

  Silence. Tyvian clenched his teeth. Had anyone seen him? Would someone turn him in?

  Rodall walked down the line, sword over one shoulder. “Can’t say as I blame a man who’d put steel through Drawsher. He was a certain kind of son of a bitch, for sure. He was a cheap death, too—no children, no wife. No death pay for me to spend, eh?”

  Tyvian held his breath as Voth’s gaze passed over him and paused, just for a moment, before moving on. The ring was beginning to throw fits again, squeezing and burning and pinching. It wasn’t about to let two others die for his deed. Dammit, dammit, dammit!

  Rodall stopped two-thirds through the line and pointed his blade at one of the younger bones—Tyvian didn’t remember his name, just the size of his ears and his creaky voice. “You. Step forward.”

  The boy fell to his knees. “Oh, please, Captain sir, I didn’t do it! I swear, I—”

  Rodall thrust his sword down through the boy’s open mouth and into his chest cavity. Blood fountained up and the lad’s arms and legs twitched for a moment, then he was still. Rodall put his foot in the boy’s chest and pulled the sword free. The body tumbled backward, his legs pinned beneath him. The men nearby stepped back.

  The ring made Tyvian wince so hard he actually cried out. He closed his eyes, trying to swallow the pain somehow. There was no escape.

  Rodall stepped in front of him. “Something you want to confess, Duchess?”

  Tyvian clenched his teeth. “N . . . no.”

  Rodall snickered. “Step forward, then.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir!” Hambone broke in, his voice quavering. “But . . . but Duchess didn’t kill nobody, sir! He . . . he couldn’t have—he spent the whole battle curled up like a baby! Like . . . like a little girl, sir!”

  Tyvian looked at the stocky Delloran pig farmer with openmouthed shock. “Hambone, shut the hell up!”

  Rodall turned toward Hambone. “Would you like to take his place, bone?”

  Hambone was pale. “W-With respect . . . s-sir . . . I ain’t no bone no more. Blooded today, see?”

  Rodall laughed and looked b
ack at Eddereon. “You were right, Ed! These boys have spunk, don’t they? Ha!” He looked back at Hambone and the smile dropped from his face. “Step forward and on your knees, bone.”

  Hambone gulped. “I . . . I . . .”

  Rodall pointed to the grass. “Knees!”

  Hambone looked at Tyvian, his eyes wide, mouth hanging open—he looked like a man about to drown. He stepped forward on wooden legs. He slowly sank to his knees.

  Dammit all! Tyvian stepped between Hambone and Rodall. “It’s me! I did it. I killed Drawsher!”

  Hambone looked poleaxed. “Wh . . . what? You did no such thing! Duchess, don’t be stupid!”

  “Hambone, you insufferable dunce, between the two of us, the stupid one is always you!”

  Rodall laughed, his platinum-capped teeth flashing. He motioned Hambone up with the tip of his sword. “Back in ranks!” He pointed to a spot on the grass a bit in front of the line of men—somewhere they all could see. “Kneel over there, Duchess. And be a man about it this time.”

  Eddereon stepped forward, “Sir, if I might—”

  “Shut it, Ed,” Rodall snarled. “This little priss cost me two men now. I’m going to get back my money’s worth.”

  Tyvian walked forward. The ring, for the first time in hours, fell silent. He wondered to himself if its resurrection powers extended to decapitations. He decided he just wasn’t that lucky. He got to the spot indicated and knelt. Voth was looking right at him, her good eye squinting, her head cocked.

  What the hell. Tyvian winked at her.

  Rodall’s armored boots clanked up behind him. “You know I lied about the painless thing, right?”

  Tyvian spoke over his shoulder. “My mother always told me not to trust a Ghoul.”

  Rodall kicked him hard in the kidneys. Tyvian gasped and fell on his face. The tip of Rodall’s sword, still slick with the blood of its last kill, pressed between Tyvian’s thighs and slid, slowly, toward the crease of his buttocks. Tyvian clenched—this . . . this was going to hurt. A lot.

  “Rodall!” Voth shouted. “I pick him.”

  The captain’s sword paused. “What?”

  “I have my pick of men—I pick him. Don’t damage him.”

  Rodall’s sword didn’t waver. “This is a discipline issue, Adatha! I settle it my way!”

  Voth hopped down off her rock and walked right up to the captain. “And when I report back to the prince and tell him you weren’t entirely cooperative with me, how do you suppose he will react?” She pointed at Tyvian. “Do you think he might have to settle a ‘discipline issue’ of his own?”

  “Are you threatening me? In front of my own men?”

  Voth chuckled. “Don’t bother, Rodall—I’m not a girl who gives an arse about your problems. I’m a representative of your damned employer, and you do what I say.”

  Tyvian lay on his face in the grass for another few moments, the feeling of a broadsword between his thighs. Then, finally, it was withdrawn. “Take him, then, but keep him out of my sight, understand? I’d hate there to be an accident.”

  Voth grinned up at the armored sell-sword captain and faked a curtsey. “Accidents can happen to quite a lot of people, Rodall. Especially when I’m around.”

  Tyvian rolled over and got a look at Rodall’s face. It was positively feral with anger—Tyvian had seen raccoons trapped in barrels who’d looked happier. He roared at the block of soldiers, “Dismissed!” Then, spitting on Tyvian’s chest, he stormed away.

  Tyvian staggered to his feet. Voth was there, helping him up. Her lips were close to his ear: “Well, well, well—aren’t you full of surprises, Tyvian.”

  Voth’s tent was a palace compared to the canvas doghouse Tyvian had slept in for the last two weeks. It was lit by a brass feylamp dangling from a chain. Thick Kalsaari rugs carpeted the ground; a circular bed with silk sheets occupied much of the available space. No sooner had they entered than Voth threw Tyvian on it and pounced on him.

  Tyvian had been expecting to be murdered or, if not that, at least yelled at. Instead, he found Voth kissing him with the kind of reckless passion usually reserved by starving men for bread. She had her arms locked around his neck, her legs straddling his waist, and her lips so firmly sealed around his own that Tyvian couldn’t have escaped if he wanted to.

  As it happened, he rapidly discovered that he didn’t want to. He let her midnight curls surround his face, soft and smelling of fresh leather, and put one hand on her back, pulling her close. She moaned appreciatively and kissed him hard. With that encouragement, Tyvian threw caution to the wind and put his other hand firmly on her arse.

  Voth broke the kiss. “Take off your clothes.”

  “Isn’t there . . . well . . . shouldn’t we talk about—”

  “No.” Voth pulled open her vest and shirt with a savage tug. She was wearing nothing underneath. “Strip. Now.”

  Tyvian did as he was told. He did not regret it.

  Outside the tent, in the camp around them, Tyvian heard a lot of commotion—they were breaking camp, getting ready to move. In Voth’s arms, however, the world outside seemed distant, unimportant. It was like another life—some kind of nightmare he’d woken up from.

  When they had finished their lovemaking—if that was the proper word for something that left that many scratches on his back—Voth rose from the bed and got dressed immediately. She wasn’t a cuddler, apparently. He also noted that the singular piece of clothing she was still wearing—and had been during the entire amorous episode—was a slender stiletto sheath strapped to her calf. He couldn’t help but smile at her.

  She tossed his hose at him. “Get dressed. We’ve got to get packed up or they’ll leave us behind.”

  Tyvian motioned to the bed. “Are we going to talk about what the hell just happened here?”

  Voth smiled at him. “It was good, Reldamar—is that what you need? I’ve never enjoyed a dirtier man. There—get up.” She began throwing things into a large chest.

  Tyvian got up, pulled on his hose, and started hunting around for his shirt. “Not that—though compliments are always appreciated. I mean . . . well . . . do I even need to ask?”

  Voth rolled her good eye. “Fine, fine—I was paid to kill you. That didn’t mean I didn’t find you attractive. Now that you are dead and my former employer is dead, there is absolutely nothing stopping me from having my way with you, and I intend to do so whenever I feel like it. Is that satisfactory?”

  Velia Hesswyn is dead? Tyvian pushed the surprise away in favor of more pressing concerns. “What’s to stop you from turning me in to Sahand?”

  “Absolutely nothing, and I’m so glad you understand our relationship at this point.” Voth banged the lid of the trunk closed. “You’re mine, Tyvian Reldamar. I have you by the balls in several different ways, and not all of them unpleasant for you.”

  There’s always a catch. “All right, so besides my occasional romantic attentions, what exactly do you need me for?” Tyvian pulled on his shirt.

  Voth was belting on a Galaspin sword—a kind of shorter, heavier rapier or narrower broadsword. “That is need-to-know information, and you do not yet need to know.” She waved him outside. “Now get out and get ready to carry my things.”

  Chapter 5

  Between the Living and the Dead

  The mudlark, filthy and toothless, pulled the canvas off the dead bodies like an artist unveiling his life’s work. He bowed low and gestured to the stinking, rotten corpses with fingerless gloves. “For inspection, Your Highness . . .”

  Artus wrinkled his nose at the smell, but didn’t retch—he’d seen enough rotting flesh in the past week to get past that particular affliction. Michelle had prepared him an enchanted handkerchief that would protect him from the stench—he had it in his sleeve now—but he refused to use it. Everybody might think him a prince, but he’d be damned if he behaved like one. Bad enough he was receiving guests in the ruins of the Peregrine Palace with a pair of undead bodyguards—the White Guard—fla
nking him.

  Artus crouched in front of the closest body. Like all the others, it had been dragged from the bottom of Lake Elren, where it had probably been rotting since the Battle of Eretheria City two weeks prior. It was hard to tell what this man had looked like in life; scavengers from the lake bed, probably freshwater crabs and various fish, had eaten away much of the man’s face. The pallid flesh was caked in black mud from head to toe. The clothing had been of fine quality, but now it was practically impossible to tell the color or precise style. Artus looked anyway, seeking identifiable characteristics—none.

  The mudlark twiddled his fingers in anticipation. “You can see, Your Highness, this one’s the right size, the proper height. Hair seems like it was red, yes?”

  Artus grabbed the corpse’s right arm and looked closely at the worm-eaten fingers. They were bare. “Not this one.”

  The mudlark hid his disappointment well. “It was but a guess, Your Highness, of course, of course. But this one,” he motioned toward the second body, “this one was found with quite a lot of valuable magecraft on his person.”

  Artus shifted his attention to the other body, which was, if anything, in worse condition than the first. This one appeared to have caught on fire before plunging into the lake, given the state of the skull. “Do you have any of that magecraft?”

  The mudlark smiled his toothless smile and bowed. “I’m afraid I weren’t the first to the body, Your Highness. Other . . . what’s the word—other entrepreneurs got there first.”

  In other words, the body had already been rifled over and anything valuable pawned. There was a whole industry of secondhand luxury sales that had sprung up almost overnight in Eretheria. A fellow who walked down North Street in Westercity could buy the heirlooms of at least twenty different noble lines off a cart for short money and pawn them again in Saldor or Ihyn for five times what was paid. Artus had seen survivors of the palace massacre—the lucky ones—clutching their signet rings and going through the boxes of discarded golden earrings and jeweled brooches, hoping to find signs of their loved ones’ fates.