The Sellsword

by Cam Banks

  The black-robed mage arrived at the grand cloister, the chamber in which the mirror hung suspended within its multiple arcane wards. He walked in and looked to the center of the room. The mirror was exactly as he had left it, so he proceeded over to a narrow table against the far wall, outside of the complex summoning circles and runic labyrinths. Lying upon the table was Lifecleaver.

  Cazuvel had not yet drawn the sword. One of the kapak scouts had tried doing just that after he had recovered it from the jungle, and within moments the draconian shrieked and collapsed, catatonic. The mage wasn’t prepared to have that happen to him, so he’d been careful to relocate the weapon from the baron’s castle to the grand cloister without physically touching it. It was wrapped up in thin layers of magically resistant cloth, preventing whatever effect that had felled the draconian from plaguing him.

  Looking over again at the mirror, Cazuvel spoke the incantations that would bring the imprisoned Cazuvel to the mirror’s surface so the fiend who had taken his place could draw additional power.

  “Cermindaya, cermindaya, saya memanggil anda dan mengikat anda!”

  The surface of the mirror became briefly incandescent, and the brilliant metal swam with an image. It coalesced, and the true Cazuvel, his cheeks sunken and eyes rheumy, appeared within the mirror.

  “I have nothing left. Nothing left to give you. You already took it all,” said the weary voice.

  Cazuvel snatched up the sword by the hilt, and stalked back to face the mirror, pointing one slender finger at the image of his captive. “Lies!” he shrieked. “I know how the enchantment works. You are a catalyst, an intermediary between me and the limitless powers of the Abyss. I need more power, and you will grant it to me!”

  The Cazuvel-image moaned as his captor seemed to claw at the air with his hand, as if clutching something thick and viscous. Arcs of lightning once again leaped from the hammered-steel mirror and into Cazuvel, filling him with the howling forces he demanded. The image screamed, Cazuvel laughed. The noise was so loud and the play of purple and orange electricity so bright that at first the fiend did not notice the eight spectral figures manifesting behind him.

  “Cease this!” bellowed the Conjuror above the din.

  “Leave him alone!” cried the Apothecary.

  “Your dark work is over!” said the Aristocrat.

  Cazuvel stopped, and the myriad threads of energy feeding into him abruptly vanished. The man in the mirror looked emaciated, his stark white skin stretched across his skull, eye sockets sunken, lips drawn back in a hideous grimace.

  “What is this? How did you get into my sanctum?” demanded Cazuvel to the array of spirits floating before him.

  “We are the Sword Chorus,” said the Philosopher.

  “You are not of this world,” said the Balladeer.

  “You don’t even smell human,” the Hunter sniffed.

  “Sword Chorus?” repeated Cazuvel. “So you are the sword’s enchantments?”

  “We are the souls of those slain by the sword before their time,” explained the Cavalier.

  “Fascinating. And you haunt the bearer of the weapon?”

  The wizard splayed his fingers over the blade, invoking the magical forces he’d just drawn from the mirror and using them to peer into the sword’s construction, revealing layer upon layer of eldritch craftsmanship.

  “A nine-lives stealer!” Cazuvel said, triumphant. “One of the legendary soul swords, said to have been crafted by the Smith God himself in the Age of Dreams. I should have recognized it, the blue-black star metal blade, and the sigils in ancient Ergothian. How fortuitous! There is magic bound into this blade, magic that the wizard whose form I have taken sought all of his life to master.”

  “This sword is not yours,” assured the Aristocrat.

  “We’ve been watching you, you know,” said a ghost who had not spoken yet. “Don’t think we don’t know what you’re up to.”

  Cazuvel narrowed his eyes at that eighth ghost, who appeared to be dressed in a cook’s apron. “You are but a bound spirit,” he hissed. “And I am—”

  “A creature of the Abyss,” finished the Conjuror.

  “You’re a fetch!” said the Cook. “Of course! A mirror fiend!”

  “Fetches are incapable of taking mortal form,” said the Balladeer.

  “Nightmares that strike from the Abyss through reflective surfaces,” said the Philosopher.

  “It was the real Cazuvel, wasn’t it?” said the Cook. “Black Robes are always making dark pacts with evil. Did he realize what he was doing?”

  “He tried it once before,” said Cazuvel. “The painting in the baron’s castle. An imperfect medium, the wrong subject. He needed a true reflection, a reflection of himself. He—”

  “He needed a mirror,” said the Cook. “He’d created that painting of the baron’s daughter, but that was just practice.”

  The other ghosts were quite different from the Cook, Cazuvel realized. Cazuvel spoke a word of divinatory magic at the Cook, but it failed, dissipating before it could reveal anything. “You. Ghost. You are the most recent addition to this Sword Chorus, aren’t you?”

  “Silence, fetch!” said the Cavalier.

  “You shall not gain the sword’s power,” said the Aristocrat.

  “Vanderjack will find and defeat you,” said the Hunter.

  “I doubt that,” said Cazuvel. “Even now, I would hazard a guess, the highmaster has thrown him into a cell beneath Wulfgar so that he might rot away for his interference.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong!” said the Cook.

  The other ghosts moved close to the Cook, muttering at him. Cazuvel stared, curious, as they tried to stop the cook from blathering and boasting. Still, he reflected, they were behaving quite oddly for bound spirits.

  “I’ve figured it out. You fetches are fiends from the Abyss,” the Cook continued, despite the protestations of his fellows, “servants of the powers of darkness and chaos. You’ve been using this mirror to keep your connection to the Abyss active? Give you power!”

  “Yes,” said the fetch, pleased that somebody had noticed his extraordinary work. “It is not perfect power, but it has its definite uses. No other wizard on Krynn has access to it in the way I do. I can use the Black Robe’s imprisoned soul as a template, channel raw power from the Abyss and through him. In doing so, I eschew the magic of the moons, the magic of the gods.”

  “Ingenious but aberrant,” the Conjuror said begrudgingly.

  “An active conduit like that could backfire,” warned the Cook, “funnel magic back into the Abyss, or worse, open a permanent gate. The consequences could be catastrophic!”

  “He speaks the truth,” said the Conjuror. “What you are doing will have far-reaching effects. You cannot do this.”

  “He’s right,” echoed the Cook. “That conduit you’re using now, the mirror, is almost expended. The wizard’s just a mortal being, and you’ve been abusing him so much that he’ll be consumed the next time you draw power through him.”

  Cazuvel looked toward the mirror, saw the almost mummified visage of the real Cazuvel, and muttered, “Perhaps. But I have his memories, his knowledge. This mirror was to be his crowning achievement.”

  The other ghosts had begun drifting slowly away, spreading their circle outward. Cazuvel didn’t notice, focused as he was on the words of the Cook. “And now I have the sword,” Cazuvel continued. “Its soul-draining properties may be just what I need to refine the process, perfect the conduit.”

  Etharion’s spirit looked quickly in the direction of the retreating ghosts and back at Cazuvel. “Well, in order to do that, you’ll need a lot of souls. Lots of … people. All in one place. Oh, and … another conduit, like this one, something to replace the mirror, only one that the real Cazuvel didn’t mess up.”

  Cazuvel’s eyes widened. “Yes! You have the right of it! A place of great death.”

  The Cook egged him on. “And another conduit.”

  “The painting!
Of course. You are right. I had not planned on using it, believing it to be nothing more than a bargaining chip and an amusing trophy. But it was his first success. It could be improved upon, perfected.”

  “I’ve said too much,” said the Cook, raising his spectral hands. The other ghosts had gone. The Cook began to fade also. The wizard waved good riddance to them.

  Cazuvel passed his hand before the mirror, once again obscuring his decrepit prisoner behind thick clouds in the polished surface. He returned to the table, gathering up the sword’s scabbard and belt.

  “Now, Highmaster,” said the fetch. “In due course, you shall see just how powerful my magic is. When you stand before the great storm of the Abyss, a storm that I conjure forth, you shall know. We shall see who pleases the Dark Queen then, won’t we?”

  His laughter echoed throughout the halls of the Lyceum, even after his magic spirited him away.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Vanderjack tore the baron’s beautiful daughter from the wall of the gallery.

  It had been firmly attached to the paneling, and they were in a hurry. Gredchen covered her eyes, and Theodenes stood over by the top of the spiral stairs, making sure nothing came running in after hearing the noise.

  It made a very loud noise indeed.

  “Ackal’s Teeth!” cursed the sellsword. “It’s a good thing the frame’s made of ironwood, or that would be the end of it.” Vanderjack held the painting out. “Gredchen. The painted-on axe cuts match up to where you say the kapak chopped at you, right? I think it’s obvious that you and this painting are connected in some, dare I say it, secret fashion.”

  “If so, then I’m in the dark about it, Vanderjack,” Gredchen said. “I swear. It must be the work of Cazuvel.

  Theodenes snorted. “Wizards.”

  Vanderjack eyed her skeptically and indicated the painting. “So other than the new additions …?”

  Gredchen inspected the painting, frowning at points, but then nodded. “It’s the same,” she said. “Fine.”

  “Can we go now?” Theo grumbled, looking around worriedly.

  “After you.” Vanderjack indicated the spiral stairs and followed Theo down. Gredchen brought up the rear, and when they reached the landing below, she stepped over to the grand hall doors and peeked inside.

  “No sign of Star,” she called. “Where should we look?”

  “The roof,” Vanderjack said. “The dragonne will be flying about outside, more than likely. Besides, if those kapaks are still around, they’re going to be down that way.” He pointed over the balcony toward the entrance foyer and the big gates.

  The trio hurried through the great hall, on through the sitting room, making their way out with occasional stops for Vanderjack to adjust the painting or for Theodenes to scout ahead. When they scaled the stairs to the tower roof and felt the moisture-laden night air of the Sahket Jungle, Gredchen took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “No draconians!” she said. “But no Star either.”

  Theodenes walked to the edge of the battlements and began scanning the silver-edged landscape around the tower with his keen eyesight. Vanderjack left him to it and set the painting down against a crenellation. He looked at his hands, spread before him, and watched them shake noticeably.

  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

  He looked up and saw Gredchen standing there watching him. “Yes. This happened to another swordsman I served with, back in the war,” the sell-sword said. “He was a fine soldier, came from a family near Thelgaard. He had a big two-handed sword.” Vanderjack raised his arms and held his hands apart to show just how big. “His grandfather’s, he said. Family heirloom.”

  “Magic?”

  Vanderjack shook his head. “Oh, no. These days, every two-bit adventurer and freebooter from Kharolis to Khur says he has a magic sword. Back then, in the middle of the war, most of us had never seen one.”

  “Except you.”

  “I never told people Lifecleaver was magical. White-stone or dragonarmy. Not even the officers knew.”

  “So this other warrior?”

  “Right. His name was Orbaal. We were on a mission near Kayolin, the dwarf stronghold. This was before they had signed up. I don’t remember the details, but Orbaal and two others from our unit were jumped by bugbears. Big, furry, ugly goblins. You know?”

  Gredchen nodded. “I’ve heard of them.”

  “Orbaal fought them off, but in the process he put his foot through a thin patch of rock over a sinkhole. He fell in, took three of the bugbears with him. He ended up on a ledge, but the sword kept on going.”

  “You couldn’t get it back?”

  Vanderjack smiled weakly. “The dwarves have it now, I bet. It went down a long way.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Orbaal went crazy. We pulled him out of there and regrouped; the bugbears were taken care of, and we returned to the camp. Only Orbaal couldn’t sleep. He would rant at the officers, demanding we make a deal with the dwarves to get his cherished sword back. It was messy.”

  Gredchen looked down at her feet. “You think that’s happening to you.”

  “I know for a fact Orbaal didn’t have voices telling him how to fight, where to look. Me, I’ve had those seven ghosts with me for years now. I can’t shake this headache, my stomach’s rebelling, and my nerves are shot. Something’s going rotten, I know that for sure.”

  “You’re tough, Vanderjack. You can get through this. And when you get the sword back again, you’ll be fine. When you’re in the middle of your next fight, just ask yourself what they’d be saying if they were still there.”

  The baron’s aide was grinning, that one attractive feature she had in an otherwise ugly face. “Just ask, what would this ghost say? What would that ghost do?”

  “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Vanderjack said, awkwardly glancing away from her.

  Gredchen leaned back, her hair blowing in the rooftop breeze. For several seconds neither of them spoke. Then Vanderjack glanced over at her, intending to mumble his gratitude. Only she wasn’t there. One moment she had been there, sitting on the battlements, and the next she was gone.

  “Gredchen!”

  The sellsword rushed to the edge, gripped the crenellations with his calloused hands and looked over. Nothing. “Gredchen!”

  Theodenes raced over, patting around his belt and back for weapons that weren’t there. “What is it? Where is she?”

  A small explosion of fire, ash, and concussive force knocked both the gnome and the sellsword flat. Chunks of brick and masonry blew outward. The explosion detonated somewhere in the middle of the tower roof. Vanderjack rolled onto his back and curled up into a sitting position, shielding his eyes from the smoke.

  “Ackal’s Teeth! Theo, are you all right? Theo? Blast it all!”

  He couldn’t see anything; there was too much of that thick, acrid smoke. Something had blown up. He looked to his left and checked on the painting. It was still there and unharmed. He got to his feet. “Theo?”

  “Right here,” said a voice from the smoke. Theodenes, his face black with soot, emerged. “Vanderjack, I think that was a display of invoked pyrothaumaturgics.”

  “A what?”

  “A fireball. We’re under attack!”

  Vanderjack grabbed Theodenes and ducked behind a low brick wall as a whistling sound heralded another explosion.

  “Where’s it coming from?” asked Vanderjack.

  The gnome poked his head around the corner of the wall then quickly drew it back. “It’s him. It’s Cazuvel.”

  “Oh, fantastic. I thought I’d have a little time before he showed up.”

  “Sellsword!” called the Black Robe’s voice above the sizzling sound of many small fires burning the rooftop tar. “I have the girl! Give me the painting! We’ll call it a fair trade.”

  Vanderjack blinked and looked behind him. He clasped Theodenes on the shoulder and whispered, “He’s got Gredchen. Duck over there and g
et the painting before he sees it, Theo. I’ll … distract him.”

  Theodenes looked from the sellsword to the painting, which was indeed out of sight, and nodded.

  Vanderjack jumped out from behind the wall. “Over here!” he shouted. “Looking for me?” In his mind, he recalled Gredchen’s advice and tried to imagine what the Balladeer might prompt him with. The ghost was always suggesting one insult, taunt, or jibe after another. What were some of the best ones he’d used before?

  He saw Cazuvel stalking across the tower roof, his black robes flapping in the wind. His cowl was pulled over his head so all the sellsword could see were those violet eyes and the peculiar grin. With a twinge, he also caught sight of what might have been the hilt of Lifecleaver, strapped to the mage’s belt, beneath the robes.

  “So the highmaster left you behind, did she?” said Cazuvel, shaping a gesture with one hand while the other gripped the sword hilt. Vanderjack saw him look briefly to the side and say something under his breath then shake his head.

  He was talking to the ghosts!

  “She figured you and I should have a little parley!” Vanderjack said, holding up his hands. A memory of the Balladeer’s voice came to him, and he ran with it: “But I thought, why tease you with big words you don’t understand?”

  The kender race produced the most accomplished insulters and taunters in all of Ansalon. Vanderjack was no kender. But his sarcasm seemed to have struck some nerve. The wizard completed whatever spell he was casting, and a streak of black lightning arced from his fingertips to a spot just to the left of the sellsword. Where it struck, chunks of rock exploded upward, catching Vanderjack across his side and along his upper arm.

  “She sent you after me, did she? Madness! You haven’t a chance against my magic, sellsword. Give me the painting, or I will wipe you off the face of Krynn!”