The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  Voth eyed the pathetic little pile of mementos with a sardonic grin. She was standing on a large rock, her hands on her hips, as though she were about to give a stirring speech. She wasn’t. “Easy duty’s over, boys. It’s time for some real work.”

  Mort shifted his lantern jaw back and forth. It made a cracking sound. “What we doing?”

  Eddereon smacked him in the ribs with a swagger stick. “If she wants to hear you talk, she’ll ask you a question!”

  Mort remained at attention, but Tyvian could feel the huge man tense up beside him. “Easy, Mort,” Tyvian whispered.

  Voth kept talking. “Prince Banric has a mission for us. The details of that mission are none of your business. The purpose of that mission is none of your business. The only things that are your business are two facts: first, you do what I say, and second, if you don’t do what I say, I’m allowed to kill you. We clear?”

  Tyvian and his two companions nodded.

  “Good.” Voth hopped off the rock and headed toward her tent. “Each of you is going to come in here, one at a time, and we’re going to get you out of those clothes.” Tyvian half expected her to give him a wink at that last part, but she didn’t. For the rest of the day, Voth was very businesslike.

  Though Tyvian wasn’t given the details, he had been involved in operations like this often enough that he could make a pretty good guess. The cover story would be this: Hambone and Mort would be masquerading as hedge knights who deserted the service of House Hadda in order to sign with the White Army. Tyvian and Eddereon would impersonate their squires, while Voth would be in the role of runaway farmgirl or similar—probably recently escaped from the ravages of Delloran soldiers. Desperate for experienced blades, the White Army would welcome them with open arms.

  Then, once in the army, it was only a matter of finding a way to get close enough to whoever the target was to grab them, kill them, and vanish in the dead of night. Tyvian appreciated the tactical simplicity of the plan—armies on the march were confusing affairs, and everyone lived in tents. Slitting a throat in the night was very much within the bounds of plausibility.

  All of it, though, relied upon Hambone and Mort making convincing hedge knights. Given that hedge knights tended to be filthy and poorly educated, Hambone and Mort had a head start in their preparations. The rest, though, was up to Tyvian.

  During the day, Voth went out scouting and Eddereon ran the three of them through drills. These were mostly exercises in stealth and silent coordination. Tyvian had done things like this many times, and he found it fairly easy. Mort and Hambone were less able. They got an earful of Eddereon’s gruff bark: “Hambone, why can’t you have ankles like Duchess? Sounds like you’re walking with a bone loose!”

  Then, in the evenings, while Voth and Eddereon discussed tactics in her tent, Tyvian coached the two Dellorans in basic etiquette. On this particular evening, the challenge was eating with flatware.

  Tyvian sat with a wooden tray across his knees on which were displayed a wedge of cheese and some strawberry preserves. The fork was an awkward wooden thing—gods knew where Voth had even found it—but Tyvian was able to spear a slice of cheese precisely, dip it in some of the preserves, and maneuver it into his mouth as smoothly as a pilot berthing a ship in his home port. “There, see? Easy.”

  Hambone was throttling his own fork like a broadsword. “Why can’t we just use our hands? Don’t rich folk use their hands?” He looked down at his own little platter of cheese and preserves, his forehead furrowed.

  Mort had his fork held backward—as though intending to use it to murder someone in bed—and stabbed a piece of cheese with violent force. The tray shook and some of the preserves flew off and hit Hambone in the cheek. Tyvian winced. “Mort, it’s cheese, not your mortal foe. More gently.”

  “I don’t do things gently, Duchess,” Mort growled. He bit the cheese off the end of his fork, teeth bare.

  “If you don’t do this gently, you’ll likely wind up dead.”

  “Bah, what do you know?”

  The expression on Hambone’s face reminded him suddenly of Artus—particularly sullen Artus, when he was about fourteen and felt the world was devoted to his personal misery. He could see Artus scowling at him from across a campfire, rolling his eyes at his lesson. He remembered the boy’s laughter; his bright, open face. The memory hurt somehow—so sharply that, for a moment, he looked at the ring. But no, that wasn’t it. He only missed him. He only wished he could have spoken with him one more time.

  “What’s the matter with you, eh?” Mort was eating the cheese with his fingers now. The fork was nowhere to be seen.

  “Mort, did you eat the fork, or are you just stupid?”

  The big man rolled to his feet. “You want to say that again?”

  Hambone stood up, too, and placed himself between Tyvian and giant mercenary. “Hey, big man—take it easy. He’s just following orders, right? It’s what we’re all doing, eh?”

  “I don’t like it when folks call me stupid,” Mort said, more to Tyvian than to Hambone.

  Tyvian remained seated. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t do so many stupid things.” He slowly tightened his grip on the fork. It might not be all that useful in hard cheese, but if Mort got too close, the big oaf was going to lose an eye.

  Hambone patted Mort gently on his chest. “C’mon, Mort—the sergeant’ll have your ears.”

  “Sergeant, my arse! His name’s Ed, and he used to fart in our own tent.”

  Hambone laughed nervously. “You want to tussle with that old fighter? You heard the stories about him, right? Eddereon the Black . . .”

  Mort, still glaring at Tyvian, backed off. “I’m going for a walk. Sleep with one eye open, Duchess—you hear?” He rolled his shoulders and backed away into the falling dusk.

  Tyvian watched him go, shaking his head. “You know, Hambone—one of these days I’m afraid I’m going to have to stab that man.”

  Hambone turned around and forced a grin. Tyvian could tell the color had drained from his face a little—he was frightened. “Just like you done old Drawsher, eh?” He laughed, but it was too high-pitched to be genuine.

  Gods, Tyvian thought, he’s afraid of me!

  Quiet fell between them. The crackle of the campfire complimented a soft chorus of crickets by the riverside. Somewhere, out there in the dark, they could hear Mort blundering around. At length, Tyvian cleared his throat. “Why’d you stand up for me?”

  Hambone blinked and rubbed smoke from his eyes. “What?”

  “The captain was going to kill you. Why step up for me? You could have held your tongue like everyone else. Why?”

  Hambone got a stick and prodded at the fire. “Well, you and me are friends, ain’t we?”

  “I broke your knee with a shovel, Hambone.”

  Hambone shrugged. “I deserved it, right? Expect you’d done the same to ol’ Mort, eh?”

  Tyvian smiled. “You’re learning, at least.”

  “See, what I don’t get is this: How’s a man who knows his way in a fight as well as you do—a man who can best a professional sell-sword like Drawsher—go all weak-kneed in battle? Hann’s boots, Duchess—you was weeping like a girl. That part I ain’t made up!”

  Tyvian thought back to the village. It made him shudder. “You call that a battle, do you?”

  “C’mon—you know what I mean.”

  Tyvian looked into the fire, trying to burn away the sounds of the screams, the smell of blood. “Here’s what I don’t understand, Ham. How’s a fellow who stands up for his friends, who forgives them, who protects them from harm—how’s he do what you did back in that village?”

  “Do what?”

  Tyvian scowled. “Don’t make me say it. You know what you did.”

  “Oh.” Hambone frowned. “That.” He paused, searching for the words, then shrugged. “Weren’t everybody else doing it?”

  “That’s no kind of answer.”

  Hambone’s expression darkened. The silence dragg
ed out again. “I don’t want to talk about this no more.”

  “Sure. Maybe you should just think about it, instead.”

  Voth came into the circle of firelight. She was dressed plainly—a woolen cloak, a peasant’s dress, stained and dirty. A bloody bandage was bound across her dead eye. “Up.” She pointed at Hambone. “Get into costume. Do you remember your heraldry?”

  Hambone’s jaw dropped open. He looked like he had been shot. “I . . . uhhhh . . .”

  Voth rolled her good eye. “Kroth’s teeth. Duchess, you stick close by this oaf and make sure he makes the right grunts at the right times or we’ll all end up dead. Training time is over.”

  Tyvian stood up. “How close is the White Army?”

  Voth’s head snapped around, and she glared at him. After a moment, she laughed. “How much of the plan do you know already?” When Tyvian shrugged, she laughed again. “Just don’t get any stupid ideas. I’ll be watching you. Closely.”

  Tyvian made a courtly bow. This only made Voth laugh harder. “Gods, I do like you, Duchess. It will probably be the death of me, won’t it?”

  Tyvian smiled. “One can dream.”

  Eddereon had the horses saddled and Voth’s tent packed up. Due to some Astral enchantments on it, it was unusually collapsible—small enough to be slung across the back of a saddle with little trouble. Mort and Hambone were each in mail, but of a higher quality than the stuff the Ghouls had issued. Where they had found a suit large enough to accommodate Mort’s massive shoulders, Tyvian could only guess. None of his guesses seemed plausible.

  The illusion of Mort and Hambone as Lake Country hedge knights on hard times was completed primarily by Eddereon and Tyvian, each of whom dressed in a tabard with the heraldic markings of their supposed masters. A good eye for heraldry would identify the two sell-swords as errant lances from somewhere in the Forest of Barrents, related very indirectly to the Earl of Barrentry on his mother’s side, and from a largely disgraced corner of that line. Tyvian guessed the family names they were using as aliases hadn’t been seen or heard of in the capital for at least two decades.

  They set off south while it was still dark and rode until dawn. How they knew their way in the dark was a secret possessed by Eddereon alone, since he was in the lead. By the time the sun was up, Tyvian could see spirit engine tracks, cutting through the farmland like a black ribbon. That would put the Freegate Road to the west. How far indicated how far north they had come. If Tyvian had a slightly better eye for distances, he’d be able to pinpoint their exact location in Eretheria. As it was, he was reduced to the same kind of vague dead reckoning that had kept him alive before Hool had entered his life and travelling through the wilderness got a thousand times easier.

  A wave of nostalgia threatened to overtake him yet again, and Tyvian stuffed it down before it could crest. What, was he supposed to live his life in regret now? Constantly moping for the old days? Tyvian felt that, more than anything else, was a sign of a man getting too old. Hang the past. Focus on what’s ahead. A new life. A new you.

  Thinking of Hool, though, did raise a concern. He walked ahead with Eddereon for a bit, scouting the land alongside the old Northron. “We may have a problem if we enter the camp. Hool—she could sniff me out.”

  Eddereon shook his head. “She’s not with the White Army.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “There is a trail of dead Dellorans stretching from here to beyond Ayventry that suggests your friend the gnoll has other plans. I overheard Captain Rodall discussing the reports on several occasions.”

  Despite himself, Tyvian smiled. “She’s on a rampage. Avenging me.”

  Eddereon looked grave. “No. Not you.” He turned and waved to Voth and the two “knights.”

  Tyvian’s smile sank away. Not me. Then who?

  Oh Gods—Brana . . .

  For the rest of the morning, Tyvian’s stomach felt tied in knots. Had he eaten anything, he might have thrown up.

  They found the White Army shortly before midday. A troop of ragtag men in hunting greens came upon them from a copse of trees. When it became clear they weren’t Dellorans and were travelling with a wounded peasant girl, they cheerfully informed them where the army could be found without any further questioning. “So much for security,” Tyvian grumbled when they were out of earshot.

  “Cheer up, Duchess,” Voth said, “at least we didn’t have to kill them.”

  Tyvian was holding Hambone’s fraudulent banner aloft. He looked up at the “knight” to see he was pale and sweating. “I don’t know about this,” Hambone said.

  “Shut the hell up,” Mort growled. “You want to get us killed?”

  “Both of you shut up!” Eddereon snapped. “Follow Duchess’s lead.”

  The White Army was huge—twenty times or more larger than the Ghouls, judging from the number of tents. It was also twenty times more disorganized. Tyvian’s brief stint in the Delloran army had shown him the militant precision Sahand expected of his bannermen and sell-swords—the army moved like a single organism or machine, oiled and seamless. The White Army seemed to be some kind of mass migration of angry men with spears. Tents were arrayed haphazardly, and other than a few masked men in white walking around who seemed to know what they were about, the rest of the army seemed uncertain whether they were meant to pack up camp, dig in, or practice marching.

  “They need more sergeants,” Eddereon said.

  “The only thing they don’t need more of is people,” Tyvian countered, noting one group of men limping along without any shoes, their feet bloody and raw.

  They had gone a good ways into the camp before they were stopped by a fellow in a dented breastplate and carrying a mace. He directed them to the quartermaster’s tent, where they could “sign on.”

  The quartermaster was an older man, but built like a barn. He squatted on a stool and was hacking away in a ledger with a quill. Tyvian could tell from here that he was a man unaccustomed to writing. When he saw them, he picked a pair of spectacles off his nose and folded them up. “More? Gods, it’s turning into a busy day.”

  Tyvian bowed. “Sir, may I present Sir Hubert Macrole and his esteemed cousin, Sir Jorris Dalvert, both of the Forest of Barrents.”

  The quartermaster wiped ink off his fingers by rubbing them on his sleeve and extended a hand to shake. “Gammond Barth. I’m a carpenter, but you’d best get used to shaking my hand anyway.” He grinned.

  Tyvian shook—the old man had a grip like a vise. Tyvian looked up at the two Dellorans and gave them a hard stare. Mort was the first to react. “We’ve come to kill Dellorans.”

  “Then you’re in good company. We’ll be happy to give you the chance, just as soon as we find some.” Barth laughed. No one else did.

  It was now Hambone’s line. “Oh! Uhhh . . . we . . . we’ve got some smarts!”

  “Intelligence . . .” Tyvian coughed.

  Hambone’s cheeks reddened. “Right—intelligence. About Tor Erdun!”

  Barth stopped laughing and looked serious. “Truly, son? You’re not telling tall tales, are you? We had our fill of those, understand? We’ll throw you out if you’re lying, horses and armor or no.”

  Voth made a good show of looking shy as she came forward and curtsied. Just watching her performance made Tyvian’s ring clamp down. “Please, sir—I’m the one what told them. I’m from Tor Erdun. The Dellorans killed my father. He . . . he was a miller . . .” Tears welled in her good eye. Her body shook. The effect was perfectly realized. Though he knew it was a lie, even Tyvian felt moved.

  Barth put his arm around her. “Oh, you poor thing. Come on, come on—let’s get you something to eat and you can tell me all about it.”

  “You want us to stay?” Mort asked, though it was somewhat unclear who he was asking—Barth or Voth.

  Barth shook his head. “She’s in good hands, lads—you’ve done well. Get yourself settled and come back in a bit. I want to hear her story first and then yours later. All right?” />
  Mort and Hambone exchanged glances. “Yeah . . . uhhh . . . okay.” Hambone shrugged. He scooted in his saddle, as though willing the horse to back up but not being really sure how to do that.

  Tyvian grabbed the bridle before anything untoward could occur. “We’ll leave her in your capable care. Our thanks.”

  Voth and Barth disappeared inside the tent. If Voth’s target was the White Army’s quartermaster, that man was as good as dead. He had a sense it wasn’t, though. Looking around at the chaos of the White Army’s camp, it was pretty clear that the quartermaster was not Myreon’s primary military asset. It only remained to be seen who was.

  “That went well!” Hambone observed, smiling.

  Mort was more pensive. “Ain’t over yet, Ham.”

  Tyvian grimaced at the failure to use Hambone’s alias. “Come on—let’s find somewhere to pitch this tent.”

  Chapter 10

  The Jaws of Vengeance

  The Delloran patrol had not died quickly. Though Hool had come upon them unawares, they were good fighters and tough, for humans. But there were only eight of them, and two of them had been sleeping.

  And none of them could see in the dark.

  At dawn, Sir Damon Pirenne—now just “Damon”—joined her in the ruins of the little camp where it stood beneath a dead tree on the slopes of a windswept hill somewhere around the place where Eretheria ended and Galaspin began. As usual, he was nervous around the bodies. Especially the ones Hool had impaled on tree branches. He rubbed his bald head while looking at them, his face grave. “Was that strictly necessary?”

  Hool looked at the Delloran, upside down with a tree branch sticking through his stomach. “It was the easiest way. Would you rather he had stabbed me?”

  Damon sat down on a log—the same log where the Dellorans had been sitting the night before, when she had killed them. He kicked at the ashes of the campfire. “I’d rather we avoided these patrols, instead of hunting them down.”

  Hool shrugged and went back to going through the Dellorans’ packs for anything useful. She threw a packet of dried rations at Damon. “Keep these. Just in case.”