The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  He heard a faint echo coming from a parallel corridor. Xahlven slipped through a secret door to come out behind the noise. “I have you,” he whispered.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he found himself standing on a blazing rune of crimson energy. A trap! The explosion would have torn Xahlven’s legs off, were it not for his guards. As it was, his curse-weakened defenses barely held. He was slammed back against the wall.

  Myreon dropped on him as though from nowhere, swinging Androlli’s staff in a wide arc. Xahlven moved to block it, but she had twirled it to a different angle. The blow took him in the shoulder, knocking him to one knee. The follow up would have hit him in the temple, either killing him or knocking him unconscious, but he phased himself through her weapon and then displaced himself behind her. His counterattack was a fist of Dweomeric force powerful enough to kill a horse, but Myreon was quick—she had been a Defender, after all—and she deflected it upward, knocking a hole in the vaulted ceiling. The falling stones forced Xahlven back; they were separated by the cave-in.

  Myreon had vanished into the darkness again.

  Xahlven tried his shoulder—it hurt like hell. “Bitch!” he shouted into the darkness. “I’ll boil your bones into soup! I’ll eat your heart!”

  Myreon’s laughter floated through the air. “You’ll have to catch me first, Reldamar!”

  Xahlven slammed his staff into the floor. “Servants! Attend your Master!”

  The walls of the labyrinth writhed as a score of tiny demons of a dozen different phyla emerged. There were disembodied floating eyes, amorphous blobs, black winged things, and pools of darkness with eyes of bloodred. “Find the intruder! Kill her! Bring her things to me and be rewarded! Go!”

  The vicious little beings cheered as one and vanished into the darkness. In moments, the halls of the Archmage’s labyrinth echoed with wicked laughter. Let’s see her deal with that.

  A pair of pale yellow eyes coalesced in the darkness before him—the demon he had set to watch his mother. “I see you, wizard.”

  Xahlven scowled. “What now? Speak!”

  “First, my reward,” the demon responded.

  In a fit of rage, Xahlven seized the creature with tendrils of blue fire. “Speak now, and your reward shall be your miserable life!”

  The demon howled and struggled to free itself—it was losing power. Xahlven was, in essence, destroying his own servant, but he did not have time to haggle with child-eating monsters at the moment. “Mercy!” it shrieked. “Mercy!”

  “Speak!” Xahlven pressed it harder, until its eyes grew even paler.

  The demon’s voice was frantic. “The . . . the woman! The woman . . . escaped! Escaped!”

  Xahlven dropped the bands of flame. “What? HOW?”

  But the demon was gone, never to return.

  Xahlven stood there, hand outstretched toward where the demon had been. His mother had escaped. Escaped! It was impossible. How could Sahand be such a fool?

  And the time dilation! Who knows how long ago she escaped, or how much time she has had to plot!

  The nagging knot of uncertainty grew into full panic. What if she had planned this? What if this had been her endgame all along? No, no—it couldn’t be. Nobody allowed their thumbs to be cut off as a ploy.

  But this wasn’t just anyone. This was Lyrelle Reldamar.

  Xahlven whirled—his demons would deal with Myreon.

  He needed to get to Dellor.

  Myreon watched Xahlven carefully from a little alcove full of shadows, a simple camouflage spell making her effectively invisible so long as she didn’t move. Thinking he was unobserved, Xahlven’s demeanor was less guarded, less calculated. It spoke volumes.

  When the demon screamed that Lyrelle had escaped, Myreon almost squeaked with joy—she was alive!

  Xahlven’s face told a different story. He looked worried, possibly even afraid. He stood for a moment, thinking, seeming to debate with himself. Then he turned and walked with purpose toward a sliver of darkness Myreon had been sure was a solid wall. But it wasn’t—another secret passage in this thrice-damned labyrinth.

  She knew exactly where he was going.

  Slipping out of her camouflage, she cast a simple silence spell over her movements and stole across the room, quiet as a whisper. She was through the secret passage a second later and caught a glimpse of Xahlven walking down a corridor. She made her way after him . . .

  . . . only to find she couldn’t move. She looked down—a solid brick of darkness had formed around her leg, paralyzing it. She couldn’t even feel it. “What the . . .”

  From the ceiling dropped Xahlven’s legion of demonic servants. Horrid things that defied description, reaching for her with cold, damp tentacles and black talons, screeching in delight—they fell upon her as one.

  Her guards blazed with light, thrusting them away, but this also expended them and Myreon fell on her back, stunned. The leech-like things—the things that formed the anchor of darkness paralyzing her—began to ooze up her leg. Everything they touched went numb, conjuring horrid memories of the Seeking Dark and the death of Ayventry. Around her, the demons gathered, rimless mouths slavering with hunger. “Wait! I have an offer! An offer!”

  The beasts paused, giggling among themselves. “Let it beg!” one said.

  “Yes, yes, yessss! Beg! Beg for mercy!” the little things chorused.

  Myreon was no summoner, but she knew well enough what demons wanted—they were simple things, driven by vice. “Revenge! I offer revenge upon your Master!”

  The demons froze. “How can it do this? How how?”

  “He is right now seeking to escape! Take me to where he is going and I will tell you the name of his most dangerous enemy.”

  The demons drew back without hesitation. Myreon found her leg coming back, tingling with pins and needles all over. She staggered to her feet.

  “Follow, follow—do not be slow! The Master is almost there!” the demons chorused and took off down the corridor. Myreon followed at a limping gallop, leaning heavily on Androlli’s staff.

  Three turns and two more secret passages, and they were in another chamber of the Archmage’s labyrinth—this one with an actual door. Not just any door, though—the runes inscribed in the stones around it revealed it to be exactly what Myreon had hoped.

  An anygate.

  It had evidently taken Xahlven a moment to find the proper runes to connect the enchanted door with a door in the Citadel of Dellor, as Myreon arrived just as the door slammed closed behind him. She lunged across the room and yanked the door open before Xahlven could cancel the link.

  The demons behind her howled. “Payment! Payment! Payment or treachery!”

  Myreon smiled at them. “Her name is Myreon Alafarr.”

  She went through . . .

  . . . and burst into an airy gallery somewhere high in the Citadel of Dellor’s soaring architecture. It was, in fact, a footbridge connecting two of the larger turrets in the main keep, a yawning gulf of open air on either side displaying a dizzying view of the Whiteflood, the sprawling courtyard filled with soldiers, the star pattern of the massive curtain wall.

  Xahlven hadn’t heard her follow him—he was darting through the door on the other side and leaping up the stairs beyond. He’s going to check on her cell!

  Myreon followed him, Spidrahk’s Coffer banging against her back as she ran up the stairs. This is crazy, she said to herself. You’re bringing his weapon back to him.

  This thought should have stopped her short. She couldn’t hope to defeat Xahlven in a sorcerer’s duel—he was a bloody archmage. But she had a plan. A ridiculous plan that relied on a lot of luck. Tyvian would be proud.

  The stairs wound up and up, at last coming to a small chamber stuffed with sorcerous materials and drawings and the various grisly trappings of a working necromancer. Xahlven didn’t pause here and neither did Myreon. She was so close behind him now, but her silence spell was holding and he hadn’t looked back. Just as long as he didn’t
. . .

  Xahlven sprinted up the last flight of stairs, taking them two at a time, and stopped outside a locked door. Myreon hid around the bend of the stairs, holding her breath.

  Xahlven was examining the runes on the door. “It’s . . . the Astral wards are still in place! How is this possible?”

  He waved his hand over the lock and it sprang open. He looked inside. “What . . . who the hell are you?”

  A man’s voice whimpered from inside. “Please . . . please don’t hurt me! I mean you no harm!”

  “Where is she, you miserable wretch?” Xahlven screamed.

  In the midst of his rage, Myreon snuck up behind him and pushed Xahlven inside. She followed him in and slammed the door behind her. “Got you!”

  Xahlven whirled, his steely eyes wide. “You!”

  The cell’s current occupant—a gaunt, malnourished man with an enormous bruise on his bald head, held up a three-legged stool and backed toward the wall. “Who . . . who are you people?”

  Xahlven ignored him. “I expected more from you, Myreon. What does this nonsense gain you? You can’t hope to face me.”

  “Not with sorcery I can’t,” Myreon grinned. “But this room is Astrally warded, so . . .”

  Myreon struck Xahlven on the wrist with her staff, making him drop his own. She followed up with a blow with the other end into the side of the archmage’s knee, knocking him to the ground.

  Xahlven thrust his deathcaster at Myreon, but nothing happened.

  Myreon jabbed Xahlven in the solar plexus, making the archmage go white with pain. “I’ve got you, Xahlven. Game over.”

  The door behind her slammed open. Myreon glanced over her shoulder—it was the skinny man fleeing. The distraction was telling, though.

  Xahlven had a knife in his hand. He plunged it into Myreon’s calf and then rolled to his feet, his black robes falling over his head.

  Myreon staggered back from the injury, gasping, but was able to block as Xahlven picked up his own staff and took a wild swing at her.

  Xahlven pressed the attack, pounding on Myreon’s guard. His technique was basic, but he had two good legs under him and was better rested. It was all Myreon could do to keep from being bowled over. She got in a few hits herself, but nothing solid—nothing to take him down. Xahlven’s face had taken on a wild expression—he was desperate, angry, crazed with frustration.

  Xahlven feinted and Myreon fell for it. His real blow struck her in the wounded calf. She screamed and fell down. The archmage knelt on her back and tore the satchel containing Spidrahk’s Coffer from her. He giggled. “Mine! You lose!”

  Myreon struggled to get up, but he twisted the knife in her calf and she nearly fainted. Then Xahlven was up and at the door. “Enjoy getting down those stairs again.”

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter 43

  That Was Your Whole Plan?

  Tyvian’s ears rang from the thunderclap that had come with the lightning. His whole body twitched as he struggled to get up. Damn, he thought, should have thought this through.

  Sahand laughed and walked toward him, Chance still in his hand. “I thought you were smarter than this, boy. Perhaps I gave you too much credit. Why in all the hells would you go to all that incredible trouble to fake your own death only to reveal yourself here, now?”

  Tyvian struggled onto all fours. His sword? Where the hell was his sword? He struggled for some banter, his face twitching. “Oh . . . just bored, I guess . . .”

  “Usually men have better reasons for suicide.” Sahand thrust out his hand.

  Another lightning bolt streaked through Tyvian’s body, setting his hair on fire and making him bounce five feet in the air. He had expected to be dead, but the ring seemed to think keeping him in a state of perpetual agony was more in line with the heroic idiom. He struggled again to his hands and knees, letting go any thought of strategy and just concentrating on controlling all his muscles at once.

  Sahand cocked his head to one side, giving Tyvian a good look at the hole in his face, the teeth inside clenching and unclenching like the beak of some undersea monstrosity. “Still alive? If you’re wearing a life ward, I must say that I pity you. I think you’ll find death to be preferable by the time I’m done with you.”

  Tyvian saw that Delloran soldiers were coming up the ramps to the top of the rampart. Artus was struggling weakly against his bonds. Michelle just stood there, blank and meek, as though the mayhem surrounding her held no interest for her. No help was forthcoming from either of them, it seemed. He wondered if there was some kind of backup plan he could use to survive.

  Nothing came to mind.

  Oh well, he thought, the plan will still work anyway.

  Sahand raised his hand, ready to throw more lightning at Tyvian. “Third time’s the charm, eh?”

  But that third lightning bolt never hit him—it was deflected away, into the troops of soldiers in the yard, throwing a half dozen of them into the air. Sahand looked around, enraged. “What in blazes?”

  “Hello, Banric!” said a voice, echoing across the courtyard. Tyvian thought he must be dreaming—he’d thought his mother was dead. He had been sure of it.

  Sahand’s expression was no less shocked. He spun around, searching the parapets and towers and galleries of his fortress for the source of the voice. “You witch! That fool of a necromancer! I should have him killed!” He pointed to his men. “Fan out! Search the palace! I want her dead!”

  “A little late to the party on that score, my old friend,” Lyrelle said. “You had your chance to destroy me. Now it’s my turn to destroy you.”

  Sahand shouted into the air, loud enough for any and all to hear. “You’re bluffing! You’re barely able to stand, barely able to cast. A cold wind would kill you dead as a canary. What possible threat could you—”

  “How about . . . this.” The men on the rampart braced for the impact of some kind of destructive sorcery. Instead, the Lady Michelle was suddenly . . . not. Some kind of shroud fell away, some kind of subtle glamour. Instead of the waifish Eretherian lady in a wedding gown, there was the animated corpse of a woman very clearly dead and very clearly not Michelle Orly.

  “The wedding is off, Banric. No claim of legitimacy now—no play for the Falcon Throne.” Lyrelle chuckled. “And shame on you, anyway—the girl is a quarter your age. Really, now.”

  Sahand stared at the undead construct standing there, a look of horror on his face. “No! NO! How is it possible?”

  “You treat your servants very poorly, that is how. What’s the matter? You didn’t . . . sample the wares before the wedding night, did you?” Again, Tyvian heard his mother’s airy laugh echoing off the walls of the vast courtyard. “Goodness, how awkward this must be.”

  Tyvian had recovered enough to crawl, and crawl he did—right to the edge of the rampart. The soldiers were mostly watching Sahand. A few, Tyvian noted, were chuckling among themselves. The mighty Banric Sahand, embarrassed in front of his entire army. It was a thing of beauty.

  Sahand managed to recover himself. “What are all you fools looking at, eh? Go find that woman!”

  Tyvian sought to roll off the rampart and hopefully slip away unnoticed, but Sahand stepped on his chest. Drool dripped from his ruined face. “And just where do you think you’re going? Slinking away in defeat? How like a smuggler.”

  “Sahand, I’ve got news for you. I’m not a smuggler.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a diversion.”

  From somewhere deep inside the Citadel, a bell began to ring. An alarm bell. Sahand’s mangled face went from angry to completely wild—he knew. He knew the mistake he had made.

  Tyvian didn’t get the chance to witness Sahand’s full tantrum firsthand, but he heard enough of it to smile as he and Artus were roughly dragged inside the Citadel where, he figured, he and Artus would either be stashed in a cell for yet another elaborate public execution or, alternately, they would have their throats slit and be thrown in a hole. Of the two, Tyvia
n guessed the second one likely, if only because Sahand would probably prefer to save money on catering.

  The good news was that the convulsions that had been paralyzing him were fading. He kept on twitching anyway—no need to let his captors know just yet. He just hung over the shoulder of the big fellow carrying him, limp as a dead snake, and threw in the occasional mimicked muscle spasm.

  As they moved through the corridors, Tyvian saw that there was very little order to the search, as it was being conducted in haste by literally thousands of men without the benefit of planning or foresight. Brute force, it was assumed, would win the day. Tyvian didn’t know they were necessarily wrong. He just hoped his mother had some kind of escape plan. At least, he hoped it was better than his own escape plan, which currently involved grabbing Artus, jumping in the river, and hoping for the best.

  Tyvian was thrown on the floor with a heavy thump that knocked the wind out of him. Artus was dumped next to him. They were in some kind of side room—unfurnished, small, with a single loophole overlooking the river. The two guards removed their helmets.

  It was Mort and Hambone.

  “Hey, Duchess.”

  Tyvian sucked in a painful breath. “Hambone. You lost weight.”

  The two men exchanged glances. Mort nodded. They drew knives.

  “The prince told us to make you die slow. But . . . well, you’ve done us right in the past. Both of you. So we’re gonna make it quick and painless.” Hambone managed a weak smile. “Wish it coulda been different, but orders are orders.”

  Tyvian sighed. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

  “Yeah, well . . . hold still.” Hambone came close.

  Tyvian kicked him in the knee—the knee he’d broken all those months ago in Eretheria. The Delloran howled and fell over. Tyvian rolled to his feet more smoothly than he had any right to and drew his own knife.

  Mort made a wide slash with his own blade, fumbling for his sword with his off-hand. Tyvian opted not to fool around and simply threw his knife, planting it deep in Mort’s throat, just below his jaw. The giant man staggered backward, hit the wall, and slid to the floor, mutely grabbing at the hilt of the knife as his life’s blood poured out.