A Sellsword's Wrath

by Jacob Peppers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Sellsword’s Wrath: Book Two of the Seven Virtues

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright © 2018 Jacob Nathaniel Peppers. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Visit the author website: http://www.jacobpeppersauthor.com

  Dedicated to Olin Sidney Brown

  One of the greatest men I’ve ever had the privilege to know

  You have been well loved

  And you will be missed

  Sign up for the author’s New Releases mailing list and get a FREE copy of Reaper’s Awakening: Book One of The Essence Chronicles for a Limited Time!

  Click here to grab your copy now!

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Adina frowned, watching the bout with an uneasiness she couldn’t completely explain. Two men against one, and though the two had clearly been taught something of combat, their opponent always seemed to avoid their blows, dodging in and out of their attacks as if he knew where they were going to strike before they knew themselves. At least, almost always. Even as she watched, the man sidestepped out of the way of a wooden practice sword, but he stumbled and the second attack struck him in the shoulder. He grunted, losing his balance and falling to the ground.

  Adina winced at the sound of wood striking flesh, fighting down the urge to call it off. Wood or not, the practice swords were capable of leaving deep, mottled bruises that were painful to the touch. Proof of this, if she’d needed any, was visible on the lone man’s bared torso in the form of several large, dark purple blotches covering his skin.

  The man grunted in frustration, struggling to his hands and knees, obviously in pain. “Are you alright?” Balen said, stepping forward and removing his helmet, a look of concern on his sun-weathered face. The first mate held out his hand. “Gods, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to hit so hard.”

  “I’m fine,” Aaron said, ignoring the proffered hand and struggling to his feet. He could have made an excuse that, less than four days ago, he’d been poisoned and nearly killed, but Adina knew he wouldn’t. Whatever else the sellsword was, he wasn’t a fan of excuses. “It was a good hit.”

  The third man stepped forward, removing his own helmet and revealing a sweaty, grime-streaked face, “Are you sure, lad?” Herb, the tavernkeep, asked between gasping breaths.

  “I’m sure.”

  “In that case,” Balen said, grinning between his own ragged breaths, “A point for us.”

  Herb returned the grin, stretching and rubbing at his back. “Makes a man remember why he gave up fightin’ in the first place, not that I was ever likely to forget. I swear my whole body ain’t nothin’ but one big bruise.”

  Aaron nodded, glancing between the two men, “Again?”

  The two men looked at each other, red-faced and covered in sweat, their grins still in place, then they turned back to the sellsword. “You know what?” Balen said, “I’m thinking maybe it’s time we had a break. I won’t do you no good for practice, I’m lying passed out in the dirt.”

  Herb nodded, laughter dancing in his eyes, “Sounds good to me. Best quit while we’re ahead. Besides, I’m fairly sure that Gryle should have the stew finished by now. And is the dead man going to eat, I wonder?”

  Aaron smiled, and Adina thought she was the only one that noticed how forced it was, “Maybe later. I’m going to stay for a bit longer—you two enjoy.”

  “Oh, I’m not a man’s ever been accused of passing up a good meal,” Herb said. “We’ll see you inside.”

  Adina watched them walk in, wondering if they’d even noticed that he’d been using his left hand. Then she turned back to see Aaron studying the wooden practice sword he held, a look in his eyes that was too close to desperation for her liking. Once the men had gone, he began his forms, pivoting his feet first one way and then the other, the blade following as a natural progression, a single part of some complex, often rehearsed dance.

  If he noticed her watching him, he gave no sign, and Adina frowned. Three days ago, the sellsword had nearly been killed, yet here he was, taking on Herb and Balen every day that he could convince them to, pushing himself so hard it was a wonder he hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion already.

  She was so wrapped up in her own worries that she didn’t notice that someone had walked up beside her until May spoke. “Ah, I thought I’d find you here.”

  Adina turned to the club owner, but the heavy-set woman was watching the sellsword as he practiced, a look of concern on her features that mirrored what Adina felt in her own heart. Unlike the first time Adina saw her, the club owner was dressed simply in a tunic and trousers, her long mane of bright red hair pulled back into a ponytail. “You worry for him,” May said. It wasn’t a question.

  Adina turned back to Aaron. “Yes.”

  “Good,” May said, “Somebody has to. Still, I wouldn’t worry overly much. If there’s a tougher man out there than our Aaron, I’ve never met him.”

  “Three days, May,” Adina said. “Three days since he nearly died, barely enough time for the poison to work its way out of his system and already he’s killing himself training. I’ve tried to speak to him about it, to tell him to take it easy, but he won’t meet my eyes, only nods and says ‘sure’ and then goes right back to killing himself.

  May sighed, “I know. He blames himself, you know. For letting Darrell be captured.”

  “That’s ridiculous, May,” Adina said, “What was he supposed to do? For the gods’ sake, he was unconscious at the time.”

  “I know that, and you know that,” the club owner said, looking back at Aaron, “but he doesn’t. And once he’s decided something … well, I’ve never met a more stubborn man, in my life. Still, it’s his way. It’s the reason he’s the best at what he does; it’s also what makes him the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.”

  “He needs to rest,” Adina said, unable to keep the concern out of her voice. As soon as he’d been able to walk without assistance, Aaron had wanted to go into to the city to find out what he could about his old swordmaster, but Adina and the others had managed to convince him, barely, that many in the city would recognize him from the tournament, that it was too dangerous. Instead, Leomin, the Parnen captain, went out each night, questioning and finding out what he could about where Darrell was being held, but so far he had nothing to show for his efforts.

  Since that first night, Aaron had spent nearly the en
tirety of each day training, pausing only to eat and get what Adina was increasingly sure couldn’t be more than four hours of sleep before going back to it. “He needs to rest,” she said again.

  “Yes, he does,” May said, “but I wouldn’t waste my breath telling him that.”

  May said something else, but Adina didn’t hear it. She was watching the sellsword, watching the way he moved. Each step was fluid, graceful and though his movements appeared more like a dance than anything that would be used in combat, she’d seen him fight enough to know that each seemingly graceful movement was capable of leaving men dead or dying in its wake. Still, despite his skill, she noticed him wince from time to time as his incompletely healed wounds pained him. Each time this happened, he’d frown, pressing harder and harder, his movements growing faster and faster until they were little more than a blur, the sweat flying off of him.

  She wished that Leomin would find out something about the swordmaster. For now, Aaron had agreed to keep hidden but for how long? How many more days would he listen to Leomin explain in his sorrowful tone that he’d found out nothing about the old man’s whereabouts? How long before he decided to go into the city himself, risks or not?

  If Belgarin’s men had taken the swordmaster—as they must have—they were keeping quiet about it, and the failed attempts and lack of news were even taking their toll on the usually obliviously optimistic Parnen. Each night, he returned later than the one before, exhausted, shaking his head sadly and going to bed only to wake up before the sun rose the next day and start again. Adina sighed. Gods help us.

  ***

  Aaron spun, his wooden sword lashing out in a straight thrust. He held the pose until his left arm began to shake then he held it longer, gritting his teeth. Finally, he hissed a curse and let the arm drop.

  You push yourself too hard, Co spoke into his mind, her voice concerned, She’s worried about you. So am I.

  Aaron didn’t turn to look where he knew Adina was standing, choosing instead to continue his forms. I appreciate it, firefly, but I’m fine. And while I sit here doing nothing, Darrell is probably being tortured—shit, for all we know he’s dead already. I should be out there looking for him instead of sitting around waiting for news of his execution.

  They’re doing everything they can; you know that.

  What? Sending the Parnen out night after night? Gods, Co, who knows what the man’s doing out there? I’ll admit that he’s proved himself to be a damn hard son of a bitch to kill escaping Aster like he did, but for all I know he’s going out and drinking himself into a stupor each night.

  You know better than that, Co said, her tone admonishing, You’re not being fair.

  Aaron paused, panting for breath, sweat pouring from him, and let the practice sword hang loosely at his side. Maybe I’m not. But I can’t help feeling like it’s happening again. My parents … Owen … now Darrell….

  This is different.

  Is it? He sighed and tossed the practice sword on the ground before turning and heading back into the mansion. He walked by Adina without speaking, could feel her wanting him to, feel her wanting something from him, but he found that he didn’t have it to give. If he’d been faster, if he’d been better, then Adina and Gryle, her chamberlain, never would have been taken. Darrell never would have had to step in and sacrifice himself. He’d failed and, because of it, his master, the man who’d taken him in when he was an orphan living on the street, was going to die. Everybody who gets close to me dies.

  Co didn’t respond, and Aaron walked inside the mansion to find the others, Gryle, May, Herb, and Balen standing near the front door. Herb had a pack slung over his shoulder, and the heavyweight innkeeper was shaking hands with the others, their expressions solemn.

  They turned as they heard Aaron approach, and Herb’s expression was almost one of shame. May was the first to speak, “Herb is going back to his family, Aaron. With winter coming in, each day that passes will make the trip more dangerous.”

  “Of course,” Aaron said, nodding, and Herb seemed to wince as if struck.

  He took a hesitant step forward, offering his hand tentatively, as if expecting Aaron to refuse it, “Aaron … I’m sorry. I want to stay but with the weather comin’ on, and the missus and Paula to think about—”

  Aaron forced a smile and shook the man’s hand, “Don’t say anymore, Herb. And thanks for everything you’ve done for us. We never would have made it here without you.”

  The innkeeper nodded, his expression tightly controlled, “Anytime,” he said. Then he turned and headed for the door. Aaron stood with the others and watched him go, watched him climb onto the mule-drawn cart and start down the path toward the manor’s gates.

  May had sent Celes away the second day when it had become clear that Aaron was going to recover from his wounds. Ostensibly to watch after May’s club, but, in truth, Aaron suspected the club owner just wanted her friend safely away from the city. Aaron understood the reasons for Celes and Herbert leaving, even agreed with them, but he couldn’t help feeling that their chances of finding the swordmaster were getting less and less likely.

  He was still standing there, staring out at the city through the doorway, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see May standing beside him. He glanced around and was surprised to see that the others had gone. “We’ll find him, Aaron. If anyone can, Leomin can.”

  “Three days, May. Three days and nothing. He could already be dead by now.”

  She said nothing, giving his shoulder a squeeze before turning and disappearing up the stairs. Aaron stared out the door for another few moments, stared out into the night, thinking of what that darkness might conceal, of what mysteries it held, then he turned and made his way to his room in search of the sleep that, for the past three nights, had not come.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Aaron awoke in the darkness to the sound of a knock at the mansion’s front door. He dressed quickly, throwing on his shirt and boots, slinging his sheathed sword across his back before heading down the stairs. The knock came again, louder, this time, an urgency to it that Aaron didn’t like, and he found himself running down the stairs as he heard the sounds of the others stirring from their own beds. Leomin. It has to be, and by the knock, he’s found something.

  He made it to the door and hesitated before opening it, reminding himself that there was an entire city worth of soldiers that would be more than happy to kill him and the others and, if things had gone bad somehow for Leomin, they could very well be standing outside waiting for him to open it. The knock came again. Aaron hesitated then, his need for answers outweighing his caution, he drew his sword, slung the latch on the door, and threw it open.

  He was surprised to find that the person standing on the manor’s porch was neither Leomin nor a squad of soldiers hungry for blood. Instead, it was a kid of no more than twelve or thirteen and, judging by his clothes, a street urchin from one of the city’s less reputable areas. The boy crouched with his hands on his knees, his breath coming in great heaving gasps.

  I don’t like this, Co said in his mind, and Aaron was forced to agree with the Virtue.

  He frowned, “What is it, boy?”

  The youth looked up, and his eyes went wide as he took in the naked steel in Aaron’s hand. He held his own hands up, taking a quick step back, “I don’t mean any harm, mister. Honest.”

  “Relax, kid,” Aaron said, “I’m not going to hurt you. Now, what is it?”

  “The … man,” the kid gasped, pausing to take a breath, “He wrote a note, told me to bring it to this address. Paid me and in real gold! He said it was urgent, told me not to dilly dally, had a funny way of talking. Mister, I’m not sure I know what dilly dallying is, anyhow, but he acted like it was real—”

  “The note?” Aaron said, cutting off the boy’s stammering, his eyes roaming the empty streets. The youth nodded, swallowing hard, and held up a crumpled parchment in his shaking hand.

  The space between his sho
ulder blades itching, Aaron took the note and nodded to the boy, tossing him a coin, “You’ve done well and my thanks. Now, I think it best you get out of here.”

  The street urchin nodded quickly and was off and running down the street without a word, disappearing into one of the nearby alleyways. A memory of his own time spent on the streets after his parents’ murders came to Aaron’s mind, time spent sneaking and hiding, begging when he could and stealing when he had to. The boy would be alright, whatever came. The orphans of any city, its poor and dirty children, learned early how to hide, how to disappear. When you were the weakest and the smallest, running was all you knew.

  His sword hanging at his side, he used his other hand to open the note.

  They’re coming.

  -L

  Aaron felt a cold shiver run down his spine. They’d been staying here on borrowed time, he knew that. If not for Darrell, he and the others would have no doubt left by now. In fact, he suspected by the looks he was beginning to see in the eyes of the others, more and more with each passing day, that were it not for him, they would have left regardless, counting the old swordmaster as the latest victim in Belgarin’s bloody conquests. Aaron knew they were right, had known since Darrell was taken—a man who’d done the kind of things Belgarin had wouldn’t be inclined to show any mercy to an old swordsman who’d helped his sister and the others escape his grasp.

  Most likely, Darrell was dead already and staying around did nothing to change that except for giving Belgarin a very real chance of finding them all, including Adina, and taking out several of his enemies at once. To stay had been stupid and reckless, he’d known that, but he’d not been able to find it in himself to leave his old master behind, not when there was a chance—however small—that they could save him. He owed Darrell that much for taking him in when he was a child, for taking the time to train and teach a stubborn, foolish boy who knew only anger at the world that had taken everything from him, who felt only hate and hunger and little else. The truth was, he owed the old man a debt he could never repay—and now it looked like he never would.