The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  He had been forced to utilize more and more demons as surrogates, that last one the most dangerous of the lot. It was, of course, a matter of time before it betrayed him, but he needed it. He needed it to keep watch over his mother, to make sure she didn’t escape, and to possibly give him some clue as to how to remove the hex. The worst of it was just how damned petty it all was. Lyrelle was doomed, his plan was going to work—all the hex did was slow things down, make them arduous. It was the last, petulant act of a woman too spoiled to recognize her own failure.

  Xahlven sighed and poured himself some wine, taking care to purify it of any poison before drinking.

  “Well,” he muttered to himself just before taking a sip, “at least that fool Tyvian is dead.”

  Tyvian couldn’t help but wander among the tents of the White Army. Here were thousands of people dedicated to avenging him. The army Myreon built in the fires of Eretheria. The army convinced it would bring Sahand to justice.

  And it was an utter shambles.

  Ever since Tor Erdun, the best way Tyvian could think to describe it was a kind of rolling, riotous festival. Music echoed over the cheap canvas tents—tin whistles, old-fashioned lutes and newer Rhondian guitars, the occasional flute. There were, bizarrely, a lot of street performers—jugglers, fire-eaters, contortionists. There were priests, preachers, and monks. Prostitutes, too—with special tents set up on the outskirts of the camp. There was that skinny fellow he’d seen after the last battle, but this time with a wagonload of shoes, selling them for a copper a pair. And he wasn’t the only such entrepeneur, either.

  All this—this strange, festive atmosphere—was alongside grim-looking men, filthy and many shoeless, clutching a bill or pitchfork or honing an old wood axe on a whetstone. Boys and gray-bearded men with leather caps and makeshift barrel-top shields muttered the latest gossip over crusts of stale bread. These were the soldiers—the reason the army existed at all—and they didn’t look all that soldierly, despite having won all their battles thus far. Tyvian, in his false livery and mail, drew baleful looks from most of them.

  Here and there the White Guard stood in isolated numbers of two or three—stone-still, the eye sockets of their masks sightless and black. A little reminder of Myreon’s power, perhaps, or maybe they served some other purpose. In any case, Tyvian avoided them. This was easy, as everybody else did too.

  The taking of the Citadel of Tor Erdun was all anyone was talking about. The Young Prince had single-handedly defeated twenty knights in the castle while simultaneously rescuing the goodwives and grandchildren of Erdun town and everybody in between, batting away trebuchet stones with his enchanted shield as though he were playing tennis. Everyone swore that they knew somebody who had seen all this, though no one in the part of the camp Tyvian explored had actually been there themselves. It was, Tyvian was assured, Hann’s own truth. It was proof that the Young Prince was the true heir, they said. Only the pure of heart, guided by Hann’s grace, could perform such feats. Somehow, Tyvian had managed not to laugh at them.

  “Was the prince injured?” Tyvian asked.

  The two men—wearing bleached and threadbare Davram livery and leaning on halberds—both spat tobacco juice into the grass. “Naw,” said one, “he had that enchanted shield of his.”

  The other shook his head. “I heard he didn’t. I heard he walked straight through the fires in Erdun to save some widow and now he’s all burned.”

  The first grunted. “Shame if he had to ruin that pretty face. Think the Lady Michelle would still have him if he were all burned up?”

  The second grinned, showing a big gap in his teeth. “If she don’t, I know a tent where she could find some finer looking gentlemen, eh?”

  Tyvian shared the laugh and begged his pardon to get away from them, only to run almost headlong into a cordon of White Guard. He froze in place.

  They were leading a procession that included Myreon on a gray horse, her head hung low, her hands clutching some object on the saddle in front of her. No fanfare to announce her, no shouts of encouragement from her soldiers—the chatter of the camp died, the music stopped, and everyone parted for her, their eyes downcast.

  Tyvian did the same, fading back a bit into the crowds in hopes of going unnoticed. The White Guard looked neither left nor right, but moved with an unnatural precision—each of their steps in perfect synchronization, though they were merely walking and not marching. They seemed not like people, but rather like automatons in an Eddonish clockwork. He supposed, in a certain grisly sense, that was what they were now—tools. Extensions of their mistress’s will.

  Myreon passed by. She looked spent and lost in thought, her golden hair in disarray around her shoulders. Her eyes were ringed by dark bags and remained fixed on some distant thing—some knowledge or goal that she bore alone. He felt an impulse to step forward and call to her, to see if he could help her or listen to her troubles. Indeed, the ring flashed with heat, prodding him to do just that.

  But he clenched his fists and held fast. No, he told himself, I won’t be king again. I won’t do that to these people. I won’t do that to myself. So he only watched Myreon pass, knowing she was struggling with something, suffering under some burden. He grimaced at the ring burning him. Let her bear it—she made this army, she wanted this war. Let her wage it.

  A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and Tyvian spun, hand on his knife.

  But it was only Eddereon. “You and I must speak.”

  Tyvian looked around. No one was paying much attention—everybody was too busy chattering over what that iron box was in the general’s lap. It occurred to Tyvian that this was the first time he and Eddereon would be able to have a candid conversation for weeks. “You’re goddamned right we need to speak!”

  Eddereon pulled him behind a wagon full of battered pots and pans. “We have a problem.”

  Tyvian shoved him. It felt good to shove the sergeant. “Stop saying things I already know! You know what she was planning? Artus was the target all along!”

  Eddereon grimaced. “Mort and Hambone were supposed to bag him in the castle and then Fawnse was going to demand a surrender, but they didn’t have the guts, I guess. If they had, I’m guessing it would be Fawnse’s army walking to Ayventry, only to find Sahand’s taken over . . .”

  “Eddereon”—Tyvian pointed at his filthy, bearded visage—“is this the face of a man who wants to discuss military strategy with you? Now, what are we doing now? Voth never shares anything with me—she’s too suspicious.”

  “She’s already reported back to . . .” Eddereon looked around and then lowered his voice. “. . . Her employer. I was sent to find you—something new is in the works.”

  Tyvian frowned. So Voth has a sending stone too . . . interesting. “And?”

  “We are to remain embedded with the White Army.”

  Tyvian shook his head. “Really? She won’t get another try at Artus—not now.”

  Eddereon nodded. “Worse than that, the longer we’re stuck here, the slimmer the chance of getting to Dellor to help your mother.”

  The comment brought Tyvian up short. He looked at Eddereon. “What? Are . . . are you still on that particular fantasy? Gods, man—let it go. Nobody can save my mother. Not even my mother.”

  A troop of women came by, crowding the pot-seller’s wagon. They seemed angry over something—a dispute over the provenance of the man’s wares, it seemed. Eddereon put an arm around Tyvian and they walked away. The big Northron whispered in Tyvian’s ear, “Just because it is unlikely to succeed, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try!”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “This entire bloody army is an argument against that particular maxim. I don’t know what Sahand has planned, but after seeing the Ghouls, I’m quite certain his forces are going to chew these people apart.”

  “Also true.” He flexed his ring hand. “I’m just not equipped for this life anymore. Gods, I’ve been in agony ever since that village—”

  “You and me both.” They wai
ted for a column of footmen practicing their marching to pass and continued on their way. “So we can’t stay here, but if we give Voth the slip, we can’t continue north without having to pass through occupied territory while marked as deserters. Is that about the shape of it?”

  Eddereon nodded. “She’ll report you immediately. Sahand would spare no expense to hunt you down.”

  Tyvian shook his head, eyeing a drunk man sleeping between two tents. “But if I’m caught here, the whole premise this army is founded on evaporates—I faked my death and thus tricked them into this foolhardy revolution. Sahand is even more likely to win. Hell of a pickle you’ve gotten me into, Eddereon. The hell of it is that we can’t even strangle Voth in the middle of the night and solve our problems—thanks to these.” Tyvian waggled his ring at him.

  Eddereon shrugged and stepped over the drunk. “This is why I came to you. You’re a smuggler. Smuggle us. We’ve got to escape, and before the next battle. I have a bad feeling about what’s about to happen.”

  He thought of the look on Myreon’s face. “Me too, and I had a feeling we were going to need to come up with an exit plan. I’ve been thinking on it for a few days.”

  Eddereon grinned. “So you’ve already got a plan?”

  “I do,” he said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

  Chapter 18

  A Night of Knives

  The city of Ayventry—a pleasant trading capital of colorful roofs, ivy-colored walls, and beautiful stonework—looked bigger than Myreon remembered, but perhaps that was because it was flying Sahand’s colors from every turret and spire in the city. All the black and silver, all the devices of a dozen different mercenary companies—each more sinister than the last—somehow transformed the city into something malevolent, like a beast sitting astride the Freegate Road.

  It was hard to count the black tabards atop the city’s low walls, but Myreon tried anyway. They looked endless—and well equipped and well disciplined and . . . gods. What have I done? Where have I led us?

  Barth lowered the viewing glass. “I think it’s clear where all the food went in this country. Never seen a better fed bunch in all my days.”

  “Should we ask for a parley?” Artus asked, shuffling in his saddle.

  “Why?” Myreon grumbled. “So Sahand can shoot us when we get within range?”

  “He’ll be making a deal while sitting on all the goods,” Barth said. “Never the best idea to do that, especially with a fellow they call ‘the Mad Prince.’”

  Valen rode up and handed Myreon a report of his inspection. “We’re in another impossible position here, General. We have ladders and some rams—we can probably get over that old wall—but we’ll never take the city. We can’t breach the castle even assuming we get to it, not with all of Sahand’s strength inside the walls.”

  “And we won’t be turning them against Sahand, either.” Barth spat on the ground. “Those bastards are collaborators—every one of them. Damned Ayventrymen. Stab you in the back for a copper, and no mistake.”

  Myreon again found all eyes on her, and on Spidrahk’s Coffer strapped to her saddle. “No.”

  Barth threw up his hands. “What’s the point of having the damned thing if you won’t use it? Why’d you bother getting it in the first place? We might have been here two days earlier if you hadn’t gone off to who knows where!”

  “Mind your tone, Barth,” Artus said, glaring down from the saddle at the old carpenter.

  Barth knuckled his forehead. Myreon could tell his heart wasn’t behind it, though. Barth had been troubled ever since Tor Erdun. He had raged at Artus and her more than once over their decision to spare Fawnse and to release their prisoners. She was beginning to wonder if the war was becoming too much for him. No one, though, had the same connections with the common people that formed the White Army’s rank and file. From simply a political point of view, relieving Barth of his duties would be a mistake. That sounds like something Tyvian would have said, she thought, frowning. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  The old carpenter also had a point. The battered, ancient box seemed to glower at her from her lap, cold and heavy. She knew very little about how it worked, but she had puzzled out the basics: if she used sorcery or force to pry open that box, it would be released. Once released, scores of people would die for miles around. She couldn’t be certain it would be just her enemies, either. The legends only spoke of it being used to decimate a whole kingdom in a single night. It said nothing of whether the bearer of the Dark survived its use.

  Xahlven, though, had said that this was only a piece of the whole. It might not be so destructive as the original, or perhaps it could be more easily controlled. The simplest solution was to send the White Guard bearing the box, have them sneak into the city in the dead of night, and then pry the box open. It sounded so easy it was actually frightening.

  But how many innocent people would die? How could she be certain it killed Sahand’s men and not the citizens of Ayventry? Collaborators or not, she was here to save Eretheria, not destroy its second largest city and everyone in it.

  She shook her head. “We can win without that kind of sorcery. We showed that at Tor Erdun—there’s no reason we can’t do it here, too.” Myreon watched Valen, Artus, and Barth. All three of them looked dubious.

  Artus, though, was putting on a brave face. “All right then, General—what’s the plan?”

  “Once it gets dark, Barth, I want you to muster the infantry. Then we will make a frontal assault on my say-so, but not before.”

  “More of your tricks with the walking dead?”

  Myreon gave him a hard look. “You wanted me to use sorcery, and this is the sorcery I choose to use.” And if Saldor comes down on us, perhaps at least I will have spared the world another atrocity like Erdun town. “It is time our fallen brothers and sisters had their revenge, don’t you think?”

  “It ain’t natural and you know it.” Barth spat again.

  “War never is,” Myreon countered. “You all know your duties—attend to them.”

  In order for Tyvian and Eddereon’s plan to neutralize Voth and escape to work, they needed Voth to make the first move—they needed to nab her just before she took action against Artus. Voth, however, was biding her time as they came down out of the mountains. Therefore, Tyvian, Voth, and Eddereon spent a lot of time together on the road.

  All of them knew the game they were playing even though all of them pretended they didn’t. Voth had quickly identified Eddereon and Tyvian’s alliance, and of course she had—the big Northron was about as subtle as a war horse. Tyvian, for his part, took note of all the times Voth was out of sight and tracked her movements as best he could—that last was damnably difficult, too, as the petite woman seemed able to vanish in a blink of an eye. Tyvian’s solution for minimizing this was to be with her as often as possible, preferably in the midst of some amorous embrace.

  It was a strange thing, their relationship. Stranger even than his affair with Myreon. While that had been characterized by constant bickering, there was a certain trust between them—Tyvian always knew that, no matter what, Myreon was a good and decent person and could be relied upon to do the good and decent thing. With Voth, there was no arguing, no accusations, no anger. She was easy to be with—she had a sharp wit Tyvian loved, and smiles came easily to her lips. They never fought. But there were secrets between them—deep, dark secrets that went far beyond their current game of cat and mouse. He felt like he knew Voth, but he did not. When her body was pressed against his, it was all too easy to forget this. He got the sense that Voth felt the same way.

  Since her confession to him after Tor Erdun, they had spent every night in each other’s arms. Voth was always hesitant at first, lying tense and restless beside him, but gradually she relaxed and nestled against Tyvian’s sculpted torso, her hair flowing beneath his chin and filling his nostrils with its scent. He would lie awake as she slept, breathing her in.

  Sometim
es, late into the night, he would wake up to find her crying. He never stirred; he never asked what was wrong, as he would have done for Myreon. He only lay there and kept his breathing steady and let her press against him, her tears dropping gently on his chest. He knew it was not his place to ask.

  One morning, he went outside the tent to find Mort and Hambone there, squatting around the fire with Eddereon. Ham offered Tyvian a sheepish grin. “Hey, Duchess.”

  Tyvian decided to pretend nothing was potentially amiss by squatting beside them. His posture, however, kept his boot knife in easy reach. “We thought you’d run off.”

  “We’re in the Young Prince’s retinue,” Mort said. “He keeps us close.”

  “And busy,” Hambone added.

  I bet he does. There was, in that moment, a little surge of pride in Tyvian’s chest. Artus didn’t trust these two. Artus was having them watched. Which meant, of course, he was being watched right now, too. Hopefully not by anybody he knew in his old life.

  “We need to speak to—” Mort began, but Tyvian cut him off.

  “Yes, of course—you need those tunics laundered. Just a moment.” He got up and went into the tent.

  Voth was there at the seam of the door, listening. “Those idiots,” she said. “They’ve got a tail.”

  “I’m betting the tail is also an idiot,” Tyvian said. “And we can probably use this to your . . . or, well, our advantage.”

  The two fake knights were invited inside the tent, and the four of them had a hushed discussion while Tyvian found Hambone and Mort fresh clothing. It was decided they would remain close to Artus and behave like total angels. “Then, when his guard is down . . .” Voth was assuming they all knew what she meant.