In the case of Mort and Hambone, Tyvian didn’t think that was a guarantee. But he had no intention of doing Voth’s plotting for her entirely. After all, he was only helping this much because he was trying to get her guard down.
So things went for the next few days—Mort and Hambone returned for regular reports in the guise of getting various things from their tent or giving Tyvian various orders.
As the sun set on that first day camped outside of Ayventry, the army was restless. The infantry had been called to ranks—according to Voth’s dimwitted spies, they were going to storm the walls in the night. The rest of the camp—the gaggle of entertainers, merchants, prostitutes, servants, pages, and even the few remaining knights—sat around their campfires and strained their ears for some sign of what was to come next. The White Guard had departed all at once, slinking into the darkness for some task as yet unknown. It seemed like the world was holding its breath.
Tyvian thought Myreon’s plan was obvious enough. The White Guard would serve as some kind of diversion or perhaps be used to burn the gatehouse or kill sentries. As Sahand moved to react to this probing attack, Myreon would command her army of angry Eretherians to assault in earnest. As plans went, it was reasonably clever. But if Myreon thought that Sahand wasn’t expecting something like this, she was woefully underestimating him.
Again, there was that urge to talk to her. To help her, somehow. He had seen her again that afternoon, coming back from observing the city. She looked so tired—gaunt, even. She was giving too much of herself to this army, to these people. Gods knew how much strain maintaining the control of the White Guard must put her under. He wanted to find her and tell her none of this was worth it. These people—this rabble of Eretherian patriots—didn’t love her and never would. That distinction they reserved for the Young Prince.
Of course, Tyvian had told Myreon all that. It hadn’t made any difference. Myreon wanted to bring justice to the land. It didn’t matter that she was the only one.
He thought again about his choice to fake his death. He had done it to avert a civil war, and it had worked after a fashion. But even this war—the battles fought and the battles yet to come—was a lot of blood spilled. He tried to think of a way he might have stopped it, too, but he couldn’t think of anything. Had he remained and become king, the civil war would have been assured and Sahand would have won out in the end. That would have been worse.
Or so he told himself.
Around Tyvian’s campfire sat their little band of spies. Hambone and Mort and Eddereon in their mail, Tyvian in his faux livery and mail shirt, and Voth in her washer-woman disguise. They passed around a little strip of salted pork—the only one they had—each gnawing off a small piece before sending it along. It did nothing to fill the echoing hunger in Tyvian’s belly.
Voth glanced up at the moon, as though checking something. The hair on the back of Tyvian’s neck stood on end. Tonight is the night. He looked over at Eddereon, whose black eyes were there to meet his. The former mercenary nodded almost imperceptibly. He had seen it, too.
Voth grinned at Hambone and Mort. “Can I trust you gentlemen?”
Hambone was gnawing on the pork. His eyebrows shot up and he answered with his mouth full. “Whatcha mean?”
“It isn’t typical for men in your situation to swear fealty to one master and still remain loyal to another, is it?” she said. Tyvian couldn’t see Voth’s hands—they were beneath her apron. She must have just slipped them there. There was a tightening in his gut. He wanted to warn them, but knew that opening his mouth would be a death sentence for them, anyway.
He wondered, briefly, when he had started to care so much.
The two Dellorans exchanged glances. They understood what was being asked.
Mort, always the more cunning of the duo, rubbed his fat orange beard. “The Young Prince is a fine enough boy, miss, but he’s no Sahand.”
Hambone considered this statement and, at length, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s right.”
Voth smiled. “Good. Because a certain other prince has promised us all a grand sum if we complete our mission to his satisfaction. And I’m afraid you won’t be able to do so if you lose your damned nerve again.”
Mort’s face was grim. “What do we have to do?”
“Just stand ready to do whatever I tell you to,” Voth said.
From somewhere in the distance, a man cried out in pain. There was a clash of steel from elsewhere. Some shouts of alarm.
Voth stood up. “That’s our cue. Follow me.”
Tyvian and Eddereon locked eyes once again. “Ready?” the big Northron asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” Tyvian said.
They followed Voth deeper into the camp, just as the alarm bell started to ring.
Artus was in his tent having his armor strapped on by one of Valen’s lesser cousins—a boy of about twelve with a weak chin and tangled mop of brown hair who trembled each time Artus looked at him. It was a weird feeling, being feared. He had so little experience with it, he had no idea how to act—should he comfort him? Scare him more? Say nothing?
Even though it was late, Michelle was up, hands clenched in her lap as she sat on the edge of the bed. “There’s no reason you should go to battle. You know this!”
“If I don’t go, everyone will wonder why I’m not there,” Artus countered. “I’ll be fine—it’ll be dark and I’ve got a magic shield.”
“That glows in the dark!”
“Oh, right—good point.” He lifted his arms so the boy—his page, Artus supposed, though such a thing hadn’t been formalized yet—could slip his mail shirt over his head and arms.
Which was when the screaming started.
At first, Artus wasn’t sure what to make of it. The page stopped in his duties, his head popping up like a deer in a meadow. Artus grabbed his sword off its stand, but didn’t draw it. “Did you hear that?” he asked Michelle.
Michelle stood up. “Are we . . . being attacked?”
“No, that’s impossible,” Artus said. “We’re watching the gates.”
Another scream. A clash of steel.
Michelle put a hand to her mouth. “All of the gates? Even in the dark?”
The alarm bell began to ring.
Artus drew his sword and moved to leave, but Michelle caught his arm. “No! Don’t—they’re after you!”
Artus blinked. “What? How do you know?”
“Calassa, Artus! Remember the Battle of Calassa—Sahand’s biggest defeat!”
Artus stared at her. Michelle had just said the only thing he remembered about the Battle of Calassa.
“Finn Cadogan, the famous mercenary captain, led a band of his Iron Men into Sahand’s camp the night before the battle and assassinated Sahand’s officers. Sahand’s doing the same thing!” Michelle looked around the tent. “We’ve got to hide you somewhere!”
Outside, some men in armor rushed past. Artus thought he heard Valen’s voice.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Artus turned to talk to his page, but the boy was gone already. “Great. Michelle, can you lace on my breastplate?”
“Are you crazy?” Michelle yelled as she dumped the contents of an armoire on the ground. “The assassins might be here any second!”
Artus frowned at the clothing all over the ground. “Ummm . . . that’s kinda the reason I feel like my breastplate might be, you know, important to have on.”
The sounds of fighting were becoming louder and more widespread. Gods, Artus thought, how many men are out there?
Michelle pointed into the empty armoire. “Get in! I’ll tell them you went to find Myreon.”
“What, am I supposed to hide in a bloody box while they kill you?” Artus shook his head. “You hide in there! But only after you lace on my damned breastplate!”
“Sire!” The Hadda knight who called himself Mort ducked inside the tent. “Glad I’ve found you!” Behind him was the one called Hambone, who looked troubled.
“What’s the situ
ation?” Artus asked.
“This.” Mort hit Artus in the jaw so hard he knocked him clean off his feet. The world spun. Michelle screamed.
He managed to roll onto all-fours. Mort loomed over him, a tidal wave of muscle. Artus got his feet under him and leapt upward, taking the big man in the chin with the top of his skull. Mort groaned and staggered backward. Artus, though, was already moving. Three hard uppercuts into Mort’s stomach and then a left hook to the jaw and the man went down. He was still dizzy from the cheap shot, though, so when he looked around, the tent seemed tilted to one side. “I . . . I really shoulda seen that coming . . .” he muttered, spitting blood.
Hambone was in front of Michelle, his arms spread. “Easy now!” he was saying. “Easy, easy!”
Michelle screamed and threw a folding chair at the chunky man. “Artus! Help!”
Artus kicked out Hambone’s knee and, as the man fell over, Artus went behind and locked his head in a sleeper hold. He heard Hambone gag.
But Mort was back up, this time with an iron candelabra. He hit Artus between the shoulders, which hurt like hell. He threw his weight to one side, causing Hambone to spin around and catch the second blow in the face. Blood spurted across the tent canvas and Hambone choked, spitting teeth.
Artus was under Hambone now, the choke hold still in place, but it was an unenviable position. Michelle was still screaming. “Run!” he yelled. “Get help!”
Mort threw the candelabra down and caught Michelle as she tried to run. She punched and kicked and bit, but Mort was in mail and Michelle’s twig-like arms had all the force of a kitten’s paws.
And it wasn’t just Mort and Hambone anymore.
A sword—his sword—pressed against his cheek. “Let him go, Artus. Sahand wants you alive, but he said nothing about wanting you pretty.”
Artus looked up. There, sighting down the length of his own broadsword, was a beautiful girl with one eye and a wicked grin on her face. He recognized her instantly: Adatha Voth. The woman who tried to kill Tyvian Reldamar.
Artus released Hambone, who rolled off him, coughing and sputtering. Artus kept his hands up, where Voth could see them.
“Michelle,” he called, keeping his eyes fixed on Voth. “Are you okay?”
“She’s tryin’ to bite me fingers, if that answers you,” Mort growled.
Voth backed away and motioned with the tip of her blade. “Up. Slowly now, or Mort sees how breakable your skinny little harlot is.”
Two more men entered the room. He heard a voice—also familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it—say, “The way is clear, but not for long.”
Artus didn’t take his eyes off Voth, nor did she take her eye off him. He watched for a slip, a distraction—nothing. He could see now how dangerous she was. He could see how she might have gotten the drop on even Tyvian. “You’ll never get out of this camp alive. There isn’t a man here who wouldn’t die for me.”
Voth smiled. “I believe that is the idea, yes.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the armoire. “In the box with you, boy.”
Artus shook his head. “No. You’ll have to kill me first.”
“Wrong.” Voth spoke to the two newcomers. “Put him in. The girl too, Mort.”
The two men grabbed Artus by the arms and muscled him toward the armoire. He wanted to shout, wanted to struggle, but then he saw Michelle, her delicate throat in the meaty paws of that oaf, Mort, and he held his tongue.
They pushed him into the armoire and Michelle followed quickly after. Then, for the first time, he caught a glimpse of the two men who had put him there. His eyes widened, but before he could find the words to say, the doors were slammed shut and locked.
Artus gaped into the darkness, Michelle trembling beside him.
The two men had been none other than Eddereon and Tyvian-goddamned-Reldamar.
Chapter 19
Over the Top
“General!” The boy—a page, Myreon thought—came to attention beside her stirrup. “It’s a sneak attack! The Ghouls of Dellor are burning the camp!”
Myreon tore her attention from the doings of the White Guard for long enough to look down at the page. “Is Sir Valen handling it?”
“Trying, sir—umm—ma’am! He needs reinforcements!”
Myreon cursed. She didn’t have time for this, especially not now. “Talk to Barth! I’m busy!”
“But General!”
Myreon shooed him away with her foot. “Go!”
She focused again on the linking stone in her hand. It glowed with a clean, white light—here, on the Freegate Road, they were astride a ley line that travelled from Eretheria through to Freegate, making the link between the subterranean ritual and her distant army bright and clear. Through it, she could sense the doings of her undead minions and could relay commands through the summoned djinn that acted as invisible sergeants, wielding the White Guard as a perfectly synchronized military force.
They were on top of the wall now in three different places, their bodies riddled with arrows but otherwise operating at peak efficiency. As she had predicted, the psychological aspect of fighting the living dead was overcoming their rather substantial weaknesses in actual combat. Sahand’s troops on the wall were in a panic, retreating and locking themselves inside the square, fat turrets of the old wall and calling for reinforcements.
The White Guard were not especially strong and did not possess the specialized weapons to breach a turret door. They also hadn’t really managed to kill or wound a great many of Sahand’s men, comparatively. That was not their task, however. When Myreon could see that the walls were clear and the defenders distracted, she willed her minions into the second phase of her plan.
Dozens of undead soldiers reached under their robes to produce coils of rope, which they then looped around a sturdy crenel or sconce or similar and threw the rest over the wall. Even if Sahand’s men had a sudden fit of courage and broke out of the turrets and gatehouses, they’d be hard pressed to cut all the ropes before the real soldiers—the living soldiers—got there.
Myreon let herself return to the world around her. “Now! Advance! Sound the advance—double time! Quickly!”
The drums began. Myreon herself rode down the back of the line, shouting at her men to hurry. “Bring your ladders! Men of Eretheria, your moment is now!”
Uneasy over the sneak attack to their rear, the White Army was slow to move—armies, at the best of times, were ponderous things, and in the dark and confused with an enemy to the rear was not the best of times. Yet move they did, urged on by the bellows of Gammond Barth and his lieutenants—all of them guilders of good reputation and fearsome character. Gradually, as it became clear that the walls were comparatively undefended, the men began to run faster and faster across the grassy field between them and the old walls.
Myreon followed the army forward, even while she desperately wished to know what was happening behind her. No, she told herself, that’s what Sahand wants—that was his plan all along. She put a Lumenal enchantment on her eyes to let her see better in the dark. It showed her the great mass of the White Army scrambling up ropes and ladders even as the arrows of the Dellorans in the turrets rained down on them. There was no stopping them now—the walls were as good as breached. She heard the thok of axes biting into wood—they were attempting to breach the nearest gatehouse. Good, all to plan.
Rubbing the linking stone, she commanded the White Guard down off the walls and into the streets of the city itself. They took up defensive positions on key streets, their spears angled outward to receive a charge. They were engaged in combat almost immediately by Delloran infantry. The White Guard would lose—no doubt about that—but it would take time for the Dellorans to hack them apart to the point where they would be unable to fight.
She feyleapt from her horse to the top of the walls and, waving her men aside, blew the door to one of the turrets with the Shattering. As the first man charged in, Myreon laid a blade ward on him, and just in time for a sword aimed at
his throat to be turned aside. On her other hand, a gatehouse door had been wrenched open and a bloody battle was joined. Sahand’s men were better trained and better armed, but they were outnumbered and unnerved.
In a brief moment of respite, Myreon looked back at the camp. It was burning, orange fire licking upward from dozens of tents. In the blazing light she could see the silhouettes of men fighting—a desperate, brutal kind of combat fought in disorganized pockets.
It’s all right, she told herself, the soldiers are with me—if Sahand burns the camp, we are still an army. By morning, we’ll have a city instead.
And that was when the White Guard, as one, ceased to function.
Only Myreon felt it, but the sudden change to the ley was so forceful she felt kicked in the gut. She staggered against a wall. “Wh . . . what?” She lifted up the linking stone—it had gone dark. Someone had interfered with the ritual back in Eretheria. Gods knew what the kickback from the miscast must have been, but it didn’t matter. The White Guard were now nothing but dead bodies. The reinforcements—Sahand’s troops—were all on their way now. From the top of the wall, she scanned the mayhem around her, the press of bodies in bleached tabards, until she found a man with a horn. “You! Blow the advance! We need to get off this wall and into the streets, now!”
The man put the horn to his lips and started to blow, only to get an arrow through his hand. He howled, the instrument knocked clear over the wall. Myreon grimaced and worked a basic illusion—that of a horn, sounding the advance. It was hastily done and didn’t sound especially realistic, but it was loud and she didn’t think anybody was going to be discussing sound quality in the midst of a melee.
It worked. The gates of the one gatehouse they’d claimed were thrown open and hundreds of White Army footmen swarmed through, halberds held low. They met the Dellorans in the marketplace beyond, and the clash of steel and the screams of the wounded grew louder still.
Myreon threw a ball of fire at the nearest block of Delloran pikes and then, reinforcing her wards, leapt down to the streets below. The battle had begun now in earnest.
The Far Far Better Thing Page 20
