Draketower had been Tyvian’s last refuge in Eretheria, and burning his bridges with Sir Cameron had put them all out in the woods. They’d been eating like gnolls, sleeping under trees, and scrambling just to stay alive, and all because Draketower had been such a gods-damned fiasco. And it was all Tyvian’s fault. Artus knew it, Hool knew it, Brana probably knew it, but Tyvian certainly knew it.
Artus had wanted to bring it up before breakfast, but he didn’t. That was a fight he wasn’t itching to repeat. It was coming, though. Sooner or later, Tyvian Reldamar had to admit that he could be wrong.
“Art!” Brana butted Artus from behind with his head. For Brana, no communication was complete without some kind of physical contact. Well, assuming he liked you, of course.
“What? Hey, quit it!” Brana was fumbling with Artus’s pack—the only one still usable after their escape from the woodkin—and Artus tried to push the gnoll pup away. Brana, though, saw it coming and retreated from the push, letting Artus get off-balance. Before Artus could recover, Brana kicked him in the knee and Artus found himself flat on his back. “Ow!”
The rope holding their drying clothes fell to the ground. Tyvian whirled, his eyebrows pinched together in his I’m not messing around face. “Dammit! Don’t soil the clothes, you juvenile louts!”
Brana had his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and was grinning wildly. “Horses!”
Taking off his pack, Artus rolled into a crouch, rubbing his head as though he were stunned, but then lunged at Brana’s feet and knocked him down. Artus pressed his advantage by grabbing a great fistful of Brana’s mane just at the base of his skull and yanking so the gnoll’s head went back and Artus could wrap an arm around the his neck. He squeezed for all he was worth, well aware that he couldn’t hurt Brana’s twenty-inch neck from this angle even if he wanted to; he was about to go for what he called a “gnoll-ride.” Brana kicked and bucked and rolled, trying to knock Artus off, and Artus simply held on for dear life, his legs wrapped around Brana’s midsection and his arms around his neck, laughing wildly. “I got you! Got you! You . . . oof . . . can’t win this time!”
“Will you two idiots stop that!” Tyvian snapped. He stood over them, frowning, as he pulled on his mostly dry shirt. “There’s somebody coming! Artus—get dressed! Quickly now!”
Brana grunted a bark that indicated a mixture of the sentiments obviously and I just said that and then added “Horses!” in his usual enthusiastic Trade.
Artus let Brana go, and the gnoll gave him a punch in the arm that hurt far more than the Brana probably thought. “Ow! Will you cut it out?”
Tyvian hoisted Artus to his feet. “Brana, where’s your mother?”
Brana jerked his head northward. “Watch for little people.” Hool had been carefully keeping an eye out for any Forest Children coming out of the woods for them, but none had materialized, just as Tyvian had predicted.
Tyvian nodded, kicking off his boots and shaking the dust off his breeches. “Go and find her and tell her there are some people coming and that the two of you should stay hidden. Understand?”
Brana didn’t say anything and was already scampering off in the direction his mother had gone before Tyvian had stopped talking. The smuggler watched him go, grimacing. “You know, I have really no idea what that gnoll is thinking most of the time.”
Artus smiled. There honestly weren’t a lot of things he did better than Tyvian, but this was one of them. “He was probably looking for an excuse to ditch us for a while now. He was getting pretty bored on this road.”
Tyvian grunted as he laced his shirt. “It’s about time we ran into something interesting. Gods, but this shirt is an abysmal ruin! My kingdom for a bloody tailor!”
Artus looked ahead on the road. A cloud of dust was rising into the pale sky and getting closer, but not very rapidly. “Riders?”
“Heralds. Something’s going on.” Tyvian shook his head and cursed at the wrinkles in his cravat. He muttered something about having to “tie it Verisi style” in a way that made it sound a lot like a curse.
“Heralds for who?” Artus scratched his head.
Tyvian glared at him. “For whom. Are you going to get dressed, or what? Move, boy—those riders could be on us in minutes, and I don’t want to have to disavow you as a traveling lunatic I met on the road.”
Artus scowled. “What’s the big deal?”
“Provincial nobility. Have to be on our best behavior, look our best.” Tyvian pulled on his socks, cursing at a hole that revealed his big toe. “Gods, why does this nonsense always happen to me?”
Artus shook his head and began to pull on his breeches. “But you hate provincial nobility. You think they’re stupid wannabes or something, right?”
Tyvian had on his jacket and was adjusting his sleeves. “They also have money, Artus, which we currently lack and of which we need a great deal. Now get on your damned clothes and act like a manservant before that herald,”—he pointed to the silhouette of a rider on the horizon who was carrying a pennant of some kind—“gets here and thinks we’ve just waylaid some merchants and stolen their clothing.”
“I’m going, I’m going!” Artus snarled, hastily pulling on his shirt. “This has bloodstains on it.”
Tyvian threw his hands in the air. “We were attacked, all right? Hurry!”
Artus got himself presentable (by his standards, not Tyvian’s) by the time the herald was within earshot. Tyvian waved him down. He was a man in light mail—a man-at-arms, not a knight—and wearing red and yellow, with the head of a boar on the pennant and also on his tabard. Artus didn’t bother puzzling out the heraldry.
“Halloo, the travelers!” the herald called.
Tyvian waved back, showing both his hands. “Halloo, the rider! May I approach?”
“What are you doing?” Artus whispered. “What are you going to tell him?
Tyvian sighed. “My depleted state has reduced me to wheedling favors from provincial nobility as a matter of course these days. Don’t worry about it—I’ll be back shortly, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Tyvian set off to meet the rider, who stayed mounted during their conversation. Artus folded his arms and watched, wishing he could hear what was going on. He never got to know what was going on. It was Tyvian’s life, and he was just the damned help—his opinions were completely irrelevant, his ideas were stupid, and saints forbid he actually be told anything useful! He took to kicking over anthills while he waited.
In a few minutes Tyvian came back, riding behind the herald in the saddle. “Ronger here will take us back to the camp of his master, Sir Banber Galt of Korthold.”
Artus looked around. “Where do I ride?”
Tyvian laughed. “Artus, you run, obviously.” He nudged the herald. “Where do I ride? Eh?”
The herald laughed, his handlebar moustache quivering. Artus glared at them both. “Yeah,” he muttered, “har har.”
The herald nudged his horse into a slow trot, but Artus still had to jog to keep up. He had to keep it up for miles, too. All the while, Tyvian and Ronger the Herald entertained each other with pointless gossip and obviously exaggerated anecdotes. Artus noted that Tyvian wasn’t bothering to conceal his identity. Ronger had a lot of questions about the life of a famous outlaw, apparently, and was duly impressed with Tyvian’s answers.
They never once inquired how he was doing, though. The more he ran and sweated and stumbled, the darker his mood became. He figured the least Tyvian could do was offer to switch on occasion—have him run for a bit while he rested. Of course not, though. He was Tyvian Reldamar, famous smuggler and criminal mastermind, and Hann forbid he should soil his precious shirt with some actual physical labor. Artus would have spat, but his mouth was like a desert. Any residual sympathy he had for Tyvian over Draketower dried up along with it.
Eventually they crested a
rise and found themselves looking down at a small encampment. It involved a series of brightly colored tents and pavilions flying various heraldic symbols that Artus knew Tyvian had tutored him in at some point in the past but that he had immediately discarded as pointless information and forgotten about. There were at least thirty people milling around, and Artus counted a few dozen horses staked out to graze. He suspected Tyvian was going to stake him along with them and tell him to eat grass.
Tyvian dismounted at the edge of camp and saluted the herald. “Thank you for the ride, Ronger. Please tell Lord Bamber that I will attend him presently, should he wish it.”
Ronger saluted back and rode off.
Artus was leaning over with his hands on his knees, forcing air to wheeze in and out of his burning lungs. “You . . . bastard.”
Tyvian slapped him on the back. “Cheer up, Artus—the exercise is good for you. Once you’ve sufficiently recovered yourself, get some water and meet me at the big red-and-yellow tent at the center of this whole affair.”
“Why? You need me to carry you in on my back?”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes—poor Artus, so abused. Let’s forget that I dragged your unconscious body out of a lake no more than a month ago, or that I saved you from plant monsters yesterday, or that I—”
“Fine, fine! I get it!”
Tyvian nodded and then prodded at Artus’s sweat-soaked shirt. “Hmmm . . . I’ll have to get this replaced. Have to have you dressed your best, after all.”
“Why?” Artus blurted, sitting down. “What the hell are we doing here? Just bloody tell me!”
Tyvian smiled. “We’re going to a battle.”
Artus nodded, but it was a full second before the words actually sank in. “Wait . . . what?”
But Tyvian was already gone. Artus was left to dip his head in the horse trough all by himself . . .
. . . with the other pack animals.
CHAPTER 4
THE BATTLE OF THE SEASON
Eretheria was a patchwork land of petty fiefdoms—small earldoms and peerages and counties all in a constant game of intricate and ancient diplomacy that stretched back all the way to the fall of the last Warlock Kings and the end of the Second Age of the world. Tyvian had heard it argued that modern day Eretheria was, in essence, a better picture of what the world was like at that time than any other place. Essentially, everywhere started with Eretheria’s brand of convoluted feudalism, and over the centuries everywhere else in the world had refined and improved that system. Eretheria was a throwback, a political relic, a bizarre fossil of the ancient world here in this age of sorcerous enlightenment.
Tyvian found the place delightful.
One of the best things about Eretheria (in Tyvian’s opinion) was its complete lack of any kind of unified law. What was legal in one little provincial earldom could be illegal in the next one over and never even addressed in the backwater peerage up in the hills. Officially, of course, there was the High Law, which was decided by the Congress of Peers and was theoretically enforced by the Defenders of the Balance. The High Laws themselves, however, were primarily designed to safeguard the station of the nobility and of their ancestral lands.
That morning, Tyvian and Artus were astride borrowed horses on their way to witness one of the most common ways the High Law was settled between disputing nobility—a pitched battle on the field of honor. It was another beautiful morning, the sun spilling pink light across the dew-coated grass as far as the eye could see. There was a soft breeze coming from the south, making the pennants of those in the spectator party display their colors with rampant flair as they all rode together toward the town of Derby.
Yesterday afternoon Tyvian had presented himself to those going to watch the battle with the introduction of his new herald friend, Ronger. There was one peer, Sir Banber Galt of Korthold, and one peeress, Dame Margess Vane of Teller Valley, each from small holdings in the surrounding territories. They had with them a collection of their retainers, ensigns, heralds, and champions who were charged with the pitching of tents, the carrying of flags, and the fighting of duels, should any of those things prove necessary. The two low-ranking nobles were delighted to have Tyvian along in the same way children were delighted to find a raccoon living under their porch stairs—he was an entertaining oddity, both fascinating and a bit dangerous, and they couldn’t help but wonder about everything he did. Tyvian, conversely, was delighted to have their company in that it meant two things: firstly, that the food he would be eating for the next day or so would be a grand improvement over Hool’s roast squirrels, and secondly, that these people had the connections he needed to acquire money, favors, and gossip that could prove crucially useful to him in his diminished state.
Tyvian, therefore, was doing his best to appear dashing, heroic, and fascinating. Even in borrowed clothes and astride a Corrissar mare that had a tendency to bite, he felt he cut a dashing figure. Artus, in his stained servant’s garb, looked the part of rough-and-tumble manservant pretty well while astride a big Benethoran Red that was as mild as the Eretherian summertime and strong as a bull. Together, they looked every bit their reputation. Tyvian only wished his clothes fit better and that Artus were a bit less skinny and had more than patches of scraggly facial hair.
Artus was a surprisingly good rider, and sat so easily in the saddle that Tyvian wondered why they hadn’t used horses much before. Then he remembered Hool and Brana, and remembered why. Gnolls and horses didn’t get along very well, in the same way that wolves and sheep were disinclined to keep each other’s company. Tyvian found himself recalling his gnoll-free existence rather fondly, even if it seemed only dimly memorable. Gods, had it been so long since he was civilized?
A trumpet sounded on the road ahead, and Tyvian could see a horseman in green livery and mail watching their approach while a fellow on foot in the same livery, minus the armor, was sounding the horn. The fellow on foot was also holding a banner bearing the tree-and-sword device of Sir Mardan Pherielle—one-half of that day’s scheduled military conflict.
Artus sidled up beside Tyvian, causing his horse to skip sideways a pace and snort. Tyvian did his best to make it look like she had done that on purpose. “You sure about that horse?” Artus asked.
Tyvian scowled. “I only need her for the afternoon.”
Artus nodded ahead, where advance riders from their spectating party were heading to meet the Pherielle men. “Is this trouble?”
“No, Artus, just a formality. The fellow up there is just informing our party of the battle that will be taking place nearby, while our friends’ retainers are telling him that we’re here to watch and not participate. The rest of their conversation, I imagine, is going to be a discussion of where we can pitch our tents.”
Artus cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure we aren’t going to be fighting?”
Tyvian nodded. “Of course. Eretherian warfare is the most civilized example of the art in the world. We’re neutral parties of good breeding, and so long as we don’t go charging off to support one side or the other—which would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette, mind you—we’ve nothing to worry about from either side.”
Artus mulled this over for a second. “Are people going to get hurt?”
“Obviously. It’s a battle, Artus, not an equestrian competition. I expect that the Lord Pherielle and His Grace the Earl of Derby have consented to all the standard rules of combat. People will die, but probably not as many as you would expect.”
“And why are they fighting?”
Tyvian shrugged. “Money, ultimately—everything’s about money. Evidently there’s a natural spring a few miles from here that once was part of the Pherielle fief but was annexed by the current Earl of Derby’s grandfather in a dispute over debt. The current Lord Pherielle has declared the current earl’s claim over the spring to be expired, citing some law
dating back forty years, but the earl has refused to relinquish his rights.”
Artus scratched his head. “Is fresh water rare around here or something?”
“Hardly. This is more an issue of family credit history than it is of necessity.”
“Why don’t they settle it with a duel?”
Tyvian sighed. “The Earl of Derby is an old man. Lord Pherielle can’t very well challenge him to a duel without looking quite the cad at court, which means the next time the earl petitions the congress for a law pertaining to . . .” Tyvian shook his head. “Look, it’s complicated, all right?”
Artus was frowning. “So these two rich guys are gonna get a bunch of peasants killed for no reason and . . . and then they’re going to shake hands and that’s it?”
Tyvian nudged his mount away from a retainer’s horse that was drawing too close. “You’d rather they fought an actual war, then? Should the Earl of Derby sack Pherielle’s castle and murder all his servants? Should Pherielle set fire to Derby, pillage the elderly earl’s granaries, and then poison his wells? Would that be better?”
“I think they should just leave the small folk out of it,” Artus countered. “Don’t seem fair to die for some lord who don’t give a care about you over some stupid spring you don’t even need.”
Tyvian was about to open his mouth to respond but thought better of it. Artus was still angry with him for . . . for whatever reason—existing, apparently. It wouldn’t do to have an argument here. A peasant boy snarling at his betters would not be well-received among the peerage.
Truth be told, Tyvian didn’t especially approve of the comparatively recent inclusion of peasant levies in Eretheria’s little squabbles either. In the pre-Illini War age, it had all been handled by professional mercenaries. It’s not why I’m here, he reminded himself. Well, perhaps not himself—perhaps he was simply reminding the ring to mind its manners.
All That Glitters Page 4
