by Cam Banks
“I don’t think so,” said Vanderjack. He stepped to the side, feinting with Lifecleaver, and the first baaz fell for the misdirection. Vanderjack took the draconian’s arm off with the follow-through, and kicked outward. The draconian fell backward into his companion, who yelled with surprise and fumbled with his own broadsword.
Vanderjack pressed the attack, catching one draconian after the other in the abdomen, where the armor was a poorer-quality chainmail. The links parted under Lifecleaver’s magically keen edge, and the draconians were stone-dead a second later.
The driver leaned over the side of the carriage. “Milord! That’s all of them!”
The baron was wiping at his face with his voluminous sleeve. “So it is,” he said. “And we have this one to thank for it.”
Vanderjack watched as the petrified bodies of the slain draconians crumbled into powder and became mixed in with all of the rest of the mud. He let the rain wash the greenish black draconian blood from his blade, and nodded once at the baron. “Well, I’m used to draconians.”
“How can I repay you?” asked the baron.
“The noble thing would be to help him out of the mud and see him on his way,” said the Balladeer.
“You don’t need to be paid for the rescue,” said the Apothecary.
“It wasn’t much of an effort,” agreed the Conjurer.
Vanderjack ignored the ghosts. “Steel is the universal thank-you.” He grinned, sliding the sword back into its scabbard.
The baron didn’t seem shocked. “Of course,” he said. “And in fact, I may have something even more lucrative for a stalwart fellow like yourself. Let’s talk about it somewhere dry.”
Vanderjack gestured behind him with his thumb. “The bar leaks.”
The baron opened the door of his carriage. “Ah, but my manor does not.”
Vanderjack shrugged and climbed up beside the baron. The driver stowed his crossbow and snapped the reins. The horses lurched forward, pulling the carriage out of the mud and along the road. With his sword safely sheathed, Vanderjack enjoyed the trip without the running commentary of the ghosts.
As they departed, a black-robed figure stepped out of the shadows of the bar, watching as the baron’s carriage grew distant. Oblivious to the rain, the figure walked out into the center of the muddy road, looked down at the remains of the draconians—mainly armor—and poked at them with one boot until it found what it was looking for—a corroded medal bearing the symbol of the dragonarmies. Pocketing the medal, the robed figure headed for the bar; the rain washed away all that was left.
A gnome walked brazenly along the boardwalks of Pentar with his poleaxe over his shoulder, heedless of the stiff breeze coming off the ocean. He was easily half the size of the other marketplace patrons, who jostled and shoved their way through the weathered stalls and booths, shouting out their offers to the vendors.
Pentar’s seaside market was unique in that it extended out over the water with wooden walkways connecting converted flat-bottomed boats and buoys. The gnome skipped over the gaps in the boardwalk, ducked under the arms of two humans engaged in the early throes of a brawl, and leaped up onto dry land.
The gnome, whose name was Theodenes, was a thousand miles from Mount Nevermind. The gnome homeland, built within and on the slopes of a dormant volcano, held no attraction for him; he was a mad gnome, his kinsgnomes had decided, and better off elsewhere. Theodenes, not one to argue too long with anybody, agreed, and he had taken his life’s work of journals and logbooks, piled them onto the back of a mule, and struck out for adventure.
That was several years and countless annoying tall people earlier. Odd jobs repairing and tinkering with buckets, skillets, plows, and yokes had kept him solvent along the road to wherever he was destined. There were no classes in entrepreneurship at the Mount Nevermind Collective Scholastic Learning Academy for Gifted Gnomes, despite Theo’s insistence that somebody would one day like to make a living off the pervasive gnome culture of invention. No, Theo had to come up with a working hypothesis for earning steel all by himself. It was unorthodox, but he was mad, after all.
Theodenes didn’t look mad. He looked like every other gnome. He was short and slender, with a large head and a big nose. He had a wispy white beard and a receding hairline, and his eyes were bright blue. His skin showed the signs of years of travel in the world outside of Mount Nevermind; he was even more tanned than his kinsgnomes.
Seedy wharfside buildings loomed over him. He continued along, slipping into an alleyway flanked by oxcarts, over a midden pile of seashells and used fishing nets, and finally into a crowded square within earshot but out of sight of the floating marketplace. A sign bolted above a door read Monkey’s Ear Tavern, just like the name on the note in Theo’s pocket.
Inside the Monkey’s Ear, which was quite spacious for a gnome but cramped for the taller folk, a smah gathering of ne’er-do-wells, scoundrels, and rogues was clustered about a long table. At the table, a broad-shouldered old salt with a missing eye was taking names and writing them in a ledger, occasionally arguing with one of the miscreants and thumbing over his shoulder.
Behind the seated man, three of Pentar’s Seaguard stood with arms folded, cutlasses hanging from their belts, giving troublemakers a watchful glower. The Seaguard, once a dependable organization of maritime peacekeepers, were nowadays paid off by criminals and mobsters and had become little more than enforcers. The three in the bar could have been brothers and probably were. Pentar was a town filled with siblings who shared work, especially dangerous work.
Theo casually walked up to the table and looked about for a place to stand in line. As he turned his head from left to right, he swung the enormous poleaxe about, as if he’d forgotten he had it with him. Cries of outrage and yelps of pain ensued, and a space quickly cleared around him. The recruiter at the table glared in his direction with his one good eye.
“We don’t hire on kender,” he barked, looking Theodenes up and down.
Theo was short, yes, and had the same build as a kender, possibly. But nobody could mistake a gnome for a kender. Would a kender have his shock of white hair? Or his proud and sizable nose? Was any kender known for such brilliant blue cobalt eyes, or a most excellent mustache and goatee?
“I am a gnome,” announced Theo indignantly. “I am nothing like a kender. Indeed, I am offended by such an association! Why, even in my beardless youth, I could not have been mistaken for a kender. Kender are all burglars and thieves and scallywags. I, if you please, am Theodenes, a gnome and a master of locks, portals, gates, fasteners, sundry latches—”
“We don’t hire on gnomes,” interrupted the recruiter.
“Well now, I don’t believe that was the purpose of my visit.”
The recruiter snapped his fingers and pointed at Theo. Immediately, the Seaguard thugs behind him leaped forward with their cutlasses flashing.
Theo took a step to the right and swung the poleaxe up and over his head. The first Seaguard thug sailed over the recruiter’s desk and into the path of the swinging blade, falling to the beer-stained floor of the tavern with a cry. His severed right hand, cutlass still firmly in its grasp, kept on going, tumbling over and over and into the shocked crowd.
The second Seaguard brute narrowly avoided the poleaxe, grunting with surprise. Theo looked up at him, one bushy white eyebrow arched, and brought the pole-axe around again. As he did so, he twisted and tugged with a one-two-three on the haft of the poleaxe. A series of rapid clicks sounded; the axe head collapsed in on itself and formed a wicked spear point. It lanced right through the upper thigh of the Seaguard.
The gnome leaped over the pole of his trapped weapon to escape the third Seaguard thug’s cutlass. He grabbed the polearm, tugged it free, and looked directly into the eyes of that cutlass’s owner. Another twist of the haft, and the spear head became a wickedly curved hook. The bushy eyebrows narrowed.
“What are you waiting for!” shouted the recruiter, who was standing, sweating. “He’s half you
r size!”
The last Seaguard formed a scowl and feinted forward with his blade, hoping to at least goad the gnome into reckless action. Theo responded by sweeping the hooked polearm in a wide arc, scraping the floor, and catching his opponent around the ankles. The Seaguard toppled like a fallen vallenwood.
The recruiter blinked in astonishment. The gnome’s weapon—a poleaxe once again—was at his trembling throat.
“As I was saying. I, if you please, am Theodenes, a gnome and a master of locks, portals, gates, fasteners, sundry latches …”
He inclined his head to one side, in the direction of the three maimed thugs lying with a great deal of cleared space around them, the other scoundrels and rogues backing away and keeping their distance.
“… and other obstacles.”
CHAPTER TWO
Vanderjack stood in a dry, comfortable room looking up at an empty spot on the wall above a fireplace.
The baron, who had introduced himself on the three-hour carriage ride to his manor house as Lord Gilbert Glayward, had left the sellsword in the cozy room to dry off. Vanderjack quickly determined that there was more expensive artwork in that one room than he had ever seen in his life. There were portraits of long-dead aristocrats, quaint scenes of rural Solamnia, and random pieces of sculpture depicting kingfishers and crowns and roses. A handful of odd-looking Nordmaaran tribal statues, such as cats and apes, provided contrast.
Some of the art was missing, however. Vanderjack wondered if Lord Glayward had been selling it off. There were few nobles in this day and age whose family coffers were still full. Glayward’s manor house was nice, but judging by the occasional dusty mantel or picture frame in there, he’d have a hard time impressing any of the muckety-mucks in far Palanthas.
The sellsword wasn’t sure what he thought of the Knights of Solamnia, or Solamnia in general. During his time with them, as one of their auxiliary, he’d had to endure their Oath and their Measure and their rigid fraternal behavior. It was said that in the past three hundred years, their reputation had grown from bad to worse; accused by the common folk for bringing about or failing to prevent the Cataclysm, the Knights had been chased out of their ancestral estates and forced into the role of expatriate nobility on the island of Sancrist. There, alongside the gnomes of Mount Nevermind, the Knights had spent three centuries obsessing over what had happened and wallowing in their own guilt while the rest of the world dragged itself out of famine and despair.
All of that made them extremely difficult to get along with. Even worse, when their glory was restored by one knight’s sacrifice at the High Clerist’s Tower, most of Solamnia expected that knight’s brothers to be as brave, noble, and courageous as he was. Far from it. Vanderjack had run into a handful of valorous men in plate armor while he was in the pay of the High Council of Knights, but most of them kept away from the front and let mercenaries such as he make the charge.
“Magnificent,” said the Cavalier.
The Sword Chorus floated about Vanderjack, voicing their own impressions of the baron’s wealth.
“Clearly a man of refined tastes,” said the Balladeer.
“Keep your hands to yourself!” warned the Aristocrat.
“Contemplate this life of austere devotion to Solamnia,” added the Philosopher.
The others all joined in. Vanderjack half listened, ignoring most of the commentary, which was evidently about how he could be living a more productive life in any number of professions that would offer more useful employment. When Lord Glayward returned, the sell-sword removed his hand from Lifecleaver’s hilt, and the ghosts vanished once more.
“I see you’re admiring the art,” the baron said.
“I’m not really a good judge of it.” Vanderjack smiled. “But I can tell you’ve got roots in Solamnia. How did you end up here in Nordmaar?”
Lord Glayward dismissed a servant, who had delivered a plate of meats, cheeses, and other things arrayed around a tureen of soup. He helped himself, and indicated for Vanderjack to do the same. Vanderjack shook his head.
“My family is all Solamnic nobility.” The baron shrugged. “But of course, after the Cataclysm, when the commoners blamed them for bringing about the anger of the gods, or not doing enough to stop it, they were among the many that left it all behind them.”
“I see. And your family made it all the way here.”
The baron nodded. “Nordmaar was very welcoming to displaced nobles like my great-grandfather. The natives aspired to be more like the Solamnics. Or so the legends say. Before the Cataclysm, none of this land was above the water, you know! So it was all here for the taking.”
“I’m sure that’s what the Red Dragonarmy said ten years ago too.” Vanderjack grinned.
The baron flinched but managed a conciliatory smile.
Vanderjack quickly changed the subject. “So, Lord Glayward. You said you had a job offer?”
“Oh yes! I’ll have my aide bring the paperwork. Do excuse me for a moment.” The baron crossed back to the big oak doors, and called through them. Moments later, a woman stepped into the room with a stack of papers.
The new arrival was the ugliest woman Vanderjack had ever seen. Her reddish-brown hair was chopped off at the jawline and had no shape to it; it was as though she’d gone at it with a dull knife. Her eyes seemed spaced too far apart, her nose was enormous, and her mismatched ears stuck out. Her limbs were slightly crooked, and even when she stood up as straight as possible, she had no womanly figure to speak of.
The baron noticed Vanderjack staring and coughed. “May I introduce my aide, Gredchen?”
The woman bowed curtly. “An honor.”
Vanderjack said, “If you say so.”
“Gredchen, Vanderjack here saved my life on the road to Pentar this afternoon. It was quite a stroke of luck, as I am in the market for somebody with his talents.”
Gredchen studied Vanderjack the way she would a crack in the woodwork or a dent in the good silver. “Indeed, my lord.”
Conscious of her disapproval, Vanderjack decided to continue his discussion with the baron instead. “I can’t give you any references. I’m not with anybody at the moment, and I don’t have any of this new Shinarite protocol, but I’m familiar with most forms of contract.”
The baron relieved Gredchen of her paperwork and began sorting it at a table by the fireplace. The woman arranged writing implements and ink but continued to study Vanderjack. Vanderjack decided not to worry about that since people stared at him on a daily basis.
“I have in mind a short-term arrangement,” the baron said. “Short term because I can’t afford to wait. You see, there’s something I want you to retrieve for me.”
The sellsword frowned. “That’s not usually what I do.”
Vanderjack had carried out a search-and-retrieval job once before, for the elves in Southern Ergoth. Complete disaster. He didn’t like to think about it, and there was only one other person who knew about the details and he was safely tucked away in Mount Nevermind. If you’d call that safe.
“But it’s a matter of great import. And I believe I can offer you substantial compensation.”
Vanderjack crossed his arms. “Such as?”
The baron said a figure. Vanderjack coughed. He hadn’t been paid that much in twenty years. Gredchen looked equally astonished.
“My lord, how …” she began.
“Never mind the amount! Gredchen, the red wolves are at my door. You know as well as I do what the stakes are.”
Vanderjack leaned forward and lifted an eyebrow. “You may know the stakes, but I don’t. Are you going to get around to telling me what this is about?”
“I need to you to go into occupied territory,” the baron said, lifting a sheet of paper covered in cursive writing. “Just inside the Sahket Jungle, near North Keep. Castle Glayward in fact.”
Vanderjack’s eyebrows arched even further. “Your castle?”
“Before the invasion, yes.”
“You want me to go t
o your castle in Red Wing-occupied Nordmaar. Did you leave something valuable there?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the baron said. “I want you to rescue my daughter.”
Vanderjack looked up at the ceiling. “Ackal’s Teeth,” he said.
The baron and his ugly aide stood there for a while, watching the sellsword expectantly. Vanderjack rubbed his face and groaned. Women were usually nothing but bother.
“All right. Where do you want me to sign?”
It was raining heavily in Wulfgar, Nordmaar’s City of the Plains. Water ran in curtains from rooftops and turned the famous horse arena into a lake. The distant Khalkist Mountains blocked out the setting sun, but the heat of the earlier day gave strength to the humid air.
This is what passes for summer here, thought the Red Dragon highmaster. She stood on one of the balconies of the Palace of the Khan, looking down upon the city from an impressive height, taking in the steamy view while sipping from a tall glass of chilled wine. Highmaster Rivven Cairn was blonde and half-elf, the latter evident in her upswept ears and arched eyebrows. That alone would have been enough to make her stand out in Wulfgar. The highmaster wasn’t content with that, however; she was never seen without her garish red and black armor and the curving elven sword worn on her back.
The Red Wing of the dragonarmies under Highlord Phair Caron had occupied Nordmaar almost ten years earlier, one of the causes of the War of the Lance. Caron was gone, killed in Silvanesti and replaced by Verminaard. Verminaard was gone, killed in Abanasinia, and replaced by Emperor Ariakas himself. Ariakas was gone, replaced by a succession of would-be highlords. The current claimant, Karelas, was skulking in the ogre lands of Kern, while Rivven Cairn, highmaster to all of them, held Nordmaar alone.
Rivven watched as a messenger ran up the streets of the city, through the main gates that led to the sloping approach to the palace, and on through the various open courtyards. She set her glass on a side table and took her horned great helm from its stand by the bed. When the young boy finally burst in through the royal bedroom doors, flanked by a pair of baaz draconian guards, she was ready.
