A Sellsword's Hope

by Jacob Peppers

  The two men stared at each other silently, and Balen’s breath caught in his throat. He nearly collapsed with relief when both men broke into wide grins and embraced. The old man stepped back after a moment, all sense of menace gone from him now. “Ah, but it’s good to see you, lad.”

  “You too, sir.”

  The old man smiled, turning to look at Beautiful. “Ah, Beautiful, but you are as radiant as ever. You look as if you haven’t aged a day since last I saw you.”

  The woman beamed at that, displaying what few teeth she still possessed. “As charming as ever, I see. Good to see you, Eyes.”

  The man grinned. “At my age, lady, I’m thankful to still be around to be seen.” He turned to the hawk-nosed man and gave him a wink. “Shadow. Still playing with those knives, I see. Dangerous, that.”

  The hawk-nosed man looked up from where he’d been picking at his nails with one of his blades. “Almost criminal.”

  The old man laughed, a loud, bellowing laugh completely at odds with his small frame. Finally, he turned to Balen, Osirn, and Shits. “I don’t think I know these others.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” Urek grunted.

  “My name is Eyes, gentlemen,” he said, offering his hand to each in turn. He did so to Balen last, and the first mate took it, surprised by the strength of the man’s grip.

  “P-pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eyes.”

  The old man laughed again. “Just Eyes, that’s all. First and last name both. Some…acquaintances of mine used to use the name to mock me, after I lost this one in a street fight,” he said, jerking a thumb at the patch.

  “Not that they’re around to mock anyone anymore,” Urek said.

  Eyes shrugged. “Not unless someone finds a way to bring the dead back to life, at any rate. Regardless,” he said, turning back to Balen, “I decided to keep the name. After all, eyes see don’t they? And in my experience, there are few things more dangerous than a man who sees more than others.”

  “Except maybe a blade,” Shadow offered.

  “Oh, dear Shadow,” the old man sighed, amused. “I see you are still of a singular mind—it is why I respect you so much. Still, what damage might such a blade do without vision to guide it, I wonder?”

  The hawk-nosed man shrugged at that, and the mirth slowly left the old man’s face as he turned back to Urek. “I heard about Hale. I’m sorry for that.”

  Urek cleared his throat, nodding. “Went down fightin’ and took more than his share of the bastards with him.”

  “He would be glad of that, I think,” the old man said. “Never mind the fact that the world is always ready to make more bastards. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s brought you to my door?”

  “S-soldiers were chasing us,” Balen blurted. “They—”

  “Have been taken care of,” the old man said, his eyes never leaving Urek. “Now, is this the only reason you have come here?”

  Urek winced, hesitating, then finally sighed. “No. We need your help.”

  “At the gate, you mean,” Eyes said, and the way he said it made it clear that it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  “We are criminals, Urek. Pick-pockets, thieves, muggers and, yes, sometimes murderers. But unlike you, we are not soldiers.”

  “I know.”

  “And yet, you would have us come anyway.”

  Urek nodded again. “Yes sir.”

  “Why?”

  The big man frowned as if in thought, and it was several seconds before he spoke. “The boss believed in this fight, Eyes. And whether you know it or not, you’re in it. You can’t hide from what’s coming—none of us can. Silent and the others have gone to fight the mage, Kevlane. He wears Belgarin’s face and—”

  The old man waved a hand. “I know all of this already, and from all I’ve heard of this Silent he is capable. But is he capable enough, Urek?”

  Again, the big man took several seconds to answer, but slowly he nodded. “I believe so, Eyes.”

  The old man studied him for a time without speaking. Then, he shrugged. “Ah, why not? I grow bored sitting in this tavern. Besides,” he said, frowning now, and with that simple expression the menace returned to him in a rush, and Balen felt a tingle of fear run up his spine. “This mage has gone too far. His creatures wander the darkness, calling it home where once it was ours, and many of those who go out to do their work never return. Good men and women have vanished, never to be heard from again. Yes, we will help you, Urek, and I will pray that your confidence in Silent is justified.”

  The big man let out a heavy breath and nodded. “As will I, Eyes.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  Wendell always thought he’d die in battle. Of course, he’d also always hoped he was wrong, hoped that instead he’d die underneath a particularly skilled whore, with a soft mattress below him and soft flesh above. There had even been one or two times—when he’d found himself with more coin in his pocket than normal—that the gods themselves couldn’t have said he didn’t give it a good go. But, so far at least, he hadn’t managed it. And as the morning wore on, as the corpses piled higher on both sides, he grew more and more certain he wouldn’t get another chance.

  His sword arm ached, his legs felt as if someone had tied weights to them, and he’d long since lost count of the times he’d nearly been killed in the fighting. But he fought on, telling himself that if he was killed, at least he’d be able to take a rest.

  An enemy soldier came at him out of the melee, and Wendell slung the mud he held in his left hand—easy enough to find, now that the ground beneath their feet had been trampled. The mud struck the man’s face, and he recoiled. The sergeant took advantage of his surprise to lunge forward and stab him through the gut. The soldier blinked at him as if surprised, and Wendell winced.

  “Sorry about that, fella.”

  The man’s mouth worked, as if he would speak, but then he fell off the blade impaling him, collapsing to the ground amid the scattered corpses of friend and foe. Wendell was just reaching down for another handful of mud when a roar split the air, and he spun to see one of Kevlane’s giant monstrosities appear out of the throng right in front of him. A thick shaft of wood impaled it through the stomach—one of the huge bolts Caleb had directed the city’s smiths to fashion, along with massive wooden contraptions used to fire them—but the creature seemed oblivious of it.

  Its inhuman gaze locked on Wendell, and the sergeant did the first thing that came to his mind: he threw the mud he held. It struck the creature in the chest, and the monstrosity paused to look down as if confused by his tactics, then it let out another roar and charged toward him in a half-shuffle, half-run, swinging one of its massive fists.

  Wendell tried to move to the side, but his foot caught in the mud, and he stumbled, falling to his knees, the creature’s blow sweeping over his head and missing him by inches. He saw his boot stuck deep in the mud and gave a tug, falling over in surprise when his foot came free, leaving the boot mired in the mud. He was still rising when impossibly large hands grabbed him, lifting him several feet off the ground with no apparent effort.

  Wendell looked down to see the creature’s cruel visage studying him.“And they say I’m ugly,” he said. Then he kicked the creature as hard as he could in the face. Its nose smashed flat, but it didn’t so much as stagger, so Wendell kicked again. Then again. He was just about to kick for the fourth time, when the creature let out another roar and suddenly he was sailing through the air.

  He hit the ground hard, his head bouncing as he rolled until he finally came to a stop against one of the many corpses scattered around the ground. Groaning, Wendell blinked in a vain effort to clear his blurry vision and stared at the corpse’s face, slack in death. “Tell me, friend,” he hissed. “Just how bad is the afterlife?”

  He—and the corpse—were suddenly cast in shadow, and he craned his head that suddenly felt like it was two sizes too big to see the creature looming over him, the wooden shaft still p
rotruding from its stomach. Wendell tried to move, but his body felt battered, and his muscles wouldn’t obey his commands. “Never mind,” he wheezed to the corpse beside him as darkness closed around his vision. “Seems I’ll find out soon enough.”

  A fog seemed to come over his eyes, so that when the creature bent down to pick him up, it was little more than a vague blur. There was a shout from somewhere off to his left, and a metallic flash. Then darkness.

  ***

  Hands were on his shoulders, shaking him with unmistakable urgency. “Alright, alright,” he mumbled. “What’s the hurry?” It seemed to Wendell the one good thing about being dead ought to be that a man no longer had to rush to get anywhere. After all, he’d already gotten there, hadn’t he?

  Still, the hands shook him, and he winced, opening his eyes. A blurry form hovered above him, and as his vision focused, it slowly resolved into an older man with scruff on his chin and cheeks from where he hadn’t shaved.

  “Where are all the women?” Wendell mumbled. Maybe he hadn’t gone to sermons as often as he should have, but Wendell felt sure there’d been something about women, beautiful ones, waiting on the other side of death. “Those priests were damned liars,” he said. “This ain’t nothin’ like what they promised.”

  “You’re not dead,” the man answered. “At least not yet. Now, come on. Get up.”

  Wendell didn’t really see the point, but he let the man drag him to his feet. He remembered the last thing he’d seen before the darkness had taken him—the huge creature leaning over him—and he snorted. “Not dead. Well, I think I’d know, wouldn’t I?”

  He frowned then, looking over the man’s shoulder at a massive body lying a few feet away. Its shoulders were impossibly wide, muscled to the point of grotesqueness, along with the rest of it, but the most striking thing about the body was that it was missing a head. He frowned at that. What kind of afterlife was this, anyway, when a man couldn’t even count on having his head, when he got there?

  “Apparently not,” the stranger said, and Wendell turned back to look at him.

  “Wait a minute, you’re that sailor, fella, ain’t you? Thom? The one as is in love with that fiery-haired woman, May?” He sighed. “Dead too, eh? Well, you’ve my sympathies, for what it’s worth. I suppose ships got their own dangers.”

  The man’s jaw flexed, as if maybe he had a bad tooth, and Wendell was just getting ready to tell him he ought to have that seen to when the man spoke again. “Yes, my name’s Thom, but I’m not dead—neither of us are. I…well.” He grunted. “I guess I saved you.”

  The sergeant frowned, looking at the massive corpse again. “That your work, is it?”

  The man’s face grew pale, but he nodded. “Guess so.”

  “Well, you were thorough, I’ll give you that. Now, look, about this whole not being dead thing—”

  “I can’t believe it,” the man said.

  “Well,” Wendell said, nodding, “they say denial’s the first—”

  “No, damnit,” the man hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around, “look.”

  Wendell did and, in the distance, he saw the western gate of the city opening. The gate was pretty far away, but he thought he could make out figures swarming onto the walls and out of the gate itself.

  “Come on,” the man said, “we need to get over there.”

  Wendell shrugged. “Why not? It ain’t like we can die twice, is it?”

  “Damnit,” the man growled, “we’re not dead, alright? Now, let’s go.”

  “You go on ahead,” Wendell said, scowling. “There’s something I got to do first. Tell me, before you go, you ain’t happened to seen a boot anywhere, have ya?”

  ***

  “Captain Gant.”

  Brandon heard the club owner’s voice, but only in a distracted sort of way. He was busy staring at the table before him, at the map spread out and the pieces representing the army scattered among it as if, by doing so, he might somehow create more troops out of thin air.

  “Brandon.”

  “A moment, May,” he said, rubbing his weary eyes as he tried to think of something to get them out of the mess they were in. It wouldn’t be long now before they were overwhelmed—already the line had grown dangerously thin in places, and there weren’t enough reinforcements left to fill the gaps. “The western side is hurting the most,” he mused aloud, “maybe if—”

  “Brandon!”

  He started, finally pulling his gaze away from the map to see the club owner standing directly in front of him. “What is it, May? No offense, but I’m busy trying to keep us—”

  He grunted in surprise as she took him by the shoulder, marching him to the front of the tent. “May, there’s really no time to—”

  “Look,” she said, throwing the flap aside and thrusting her finger out.

  Brandon followed the pointing finger to the western gate of the city, saw to his shock, that it was opening. “Spy glass,” he snapped, holding his hand to the side, and a moment later one of the messengers thrust it into his hands.

  Brandon looked through it and saw that it hadn’t been his imagination after all—the gate was opening. And, what’s more, he saw figures moving about on the battlements. Frowning, he swept his spyglass around until he saw a heavy-set man covered in furs. The man’s face was red, and it looked like he was shouting something at those others scurrying around on the top of the walls. He realized with a start that the man was Captain Festa. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he breathed.

  As he watched, those on the walls readied bows and began to shoot down into the mass of the enemy army and its creatures. Hope flared in his chest for the first time in hours, and he spun to look at the nearest messenger. “Go get the queen. And you others spread out—let the squad leaders know we’re making for the city. Now.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-FOUR

  It felt to Aaron as if they had been walking for days. The gloominess of the sewers, lit only by the ruddy glow of Willard’s torch, seemed to stretch on and on forever. Talking had long since ceased as each focused on the task ahead of them. The only sounds were those of the murky river winding its way past and the annoyed squeaks of rats scurrying away at their approach.

  Aaron knew he should say something, should try to keep their spirits up, but he found that he could think of no words that might comfort them. His thoughts were on what they intended to do, on the mission they had set themselves, and on Adina and the others who were counting on them to succeed. And with each step he took toward their goal, he felt a dread building in him, a thought that was quickly becoming a certainty. They would lose. How could they not? The mage had hundreds, if not thousands, of creatures at his command, and even if he didn’t, what chance did they have against a man who had lived for thousands of years? Aaron himself had thrown the man from the top of a castle and even that hadn’t been enough to kill him. It was an impossible task, a hopeless one. How were you supposed to kill a man who couldn’t be killed?

  He thought of Adina, wondered if he would ever see her again, or was it too late even now? Had the army already been defeated? Were he and the others racing toward an unwinnable battle to save a war already lost? He considered casting his Virtue out to the western side of the city but decided against it. For one, it was unlikely that the Virtue’s power would reach so far and, besides, he knew he would need every ounce of strength he possessed when and if they reached the mage.

  “Alright then,” Willard said, coming to stop beside a ladder built into the stone wall. He turned back to Aaron and the others. “This’n here should take you up to the servants’ quarters, built off of the castle but inside the walls.”

  “Is there no ladder to the castle itself?”

  The man gave him a humorless grin. “Naw, there ain’t. Seems the builders thought maybe it’d be too convenient, havin’ a ladder leadin’ right up into the castle. You know,” he said, eyeing the sellsword, “in case anyone got it in mind to say, I don’t know
, assassinate the king.”

  Aaron sighed. Not surprising, really, but that meant they’d have to make it from the servants’ quarters to the castle in broad daylight. It was too much to hope that all the castle guards had decided to take the day off. “Alright, thanks.”

  The man grunted. “You want to thank me, maybe next time try keepin’ your elbows to yourself.” He started down the tunnels then paused, looking back. “Good luck to you all. If there’s ever a man needed killin’, I reckon that bastard up there is it.” And with that, he left.

  Aaron looked at the others. “Look, we’ve no way of knowing what’s waiting up there. For all we know, Kevlane knows all about the sewers and has a trap set and ready for us on the other side of that hatch. If any of you wants to turn back, now’s the time to do it.”

  He met each of their eyes in turn and felt a mixture of relief and regret when no one spoke. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-FIVE

  All along the battlefield, the soldiers of Perennia’s army, many of whom had long since resigned themselves to death, stared at the western gate of Baresh as it opened as if witnessing a miracle. For the first time since the battle started, they began to hope.

  They were still weary, even the luckiest of them sporting minor wounds. Their limbs still felt leaden, yet for all that, for all that they had endured in the last hours, they felt a renewed excitement, and men and women who had thought themselves too tired to do more than stand and watch their deaths come found they had some strength left, after all. Those who could fight did, the army line forming into a semi-circle surrounding the gate as the wounded went first into the city. Those who could walk did so, but those who needed help found it at the hands of the soldiers, sailors, and more than a few criminals, who rushed from the gate to their aid. Hands once used to pick locks or strip a man’s valuables from his pockets were now used to carry those who needed help to safety.