The Sellsword aot-1

by Cam Banks

  “Great solution!” said Vanderjack. “We’ll send the Ergothian with the strange name.”

  Theodenes frowned. “I would rather send out somebody I had no financial investment in.”

  Gredchen spoke up. “If Etharion wants to go, let him go. He can tell them he saw us running off in the other direction.”

  Etharion, who didn’t in fact seem all that eager to follow through with his own suggestion, pushed past the others and out onto the street. Vanderjack watched as the cook loped along for a few yards, passed under a low-hanging canopy, rounded the street corner, and walked out of sight.

  “So is he any good?” asked Vanderjack of the gnome.

  “Actually, so far all he’s made is cookies,” said Theo. “Not bad, as cookies go.”

  “Cookies? Did you mean to hire a pastry chef?”

  “He assures me he knows how to cook a wide range of dishes.”

  “Did he mean a wide range of cookies?”

  Theo just shrugged.

  There was a faint sound of a scuffle, a loud crash, then yelling. The cook came running around the corner, chased by dragonarmy soldiers, and straight into one of the canopy support poles. The canopy collapsed, enveloping the cook and the soldiers, and the entire affair slammed into a vegetable cart.

  “Pretty good for a diversion,” Vanderjack said. “Go! Go!”

  The sellsword, the gnome, and the baron’s aide ran across the street from the alley and away from the confusion. Crowds, attracted by the noise, milled into the area, creating further obstacles. Three streets later, Vanderjack called for the other two to stop and catch their breaths.

  “Do you think Etharion will be all right?” asked Gredchen anxiously.

  “I’m sure,” Vanderjack said, not really caring. “This road here leads to the eastern gate, and we can take that out of town and be on our way. I really did want a little more help than just Theo, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “But we can’t just leave Etharion back there,” said Gredchen.

  “I agree,” echoed Theo firmly.

  “Besides, Lord Glayward’s castle is at least six days from here and I could use some help in cooking this salmon.” She patted her satchel.

  “And there’s my investment,” added Theo. “I paid the cook two weeks in advance.”

  Vanderjack sighed. “All right. Stay here and I’ll circle back around and see how he’s doing. Keep out of sight.”

  Leaving the gnome and the aide hiding under the eaves of a clothier’s shop, Vanderjack grabbed a plain-looking gray cloak, threw it over his shoulders, and sneaked back in the direction of the dragonarmy soldiers. Gredchen was right; they could use a good cook-assuming, of course, that Etharion knew how to make anything other than cookies.

  Highmaster Rivven Cairn stalked the halls of the governor’s palace in Pentar, searching for the governor.

  She had left Cear before sunrise in one of the sprawling courtyards on the palatial estate, telling him not to eat the gardeners, and then set off to find the man the red dragonarmy was paying chests full of steel each month to send reports. Yet almost four hours after her arrival, the governor still managed to elude her completely.

  According to her sources, the real rulers of Pentar, the twin brothers Tochel and Tochi Pentar, were presently enjoying an extended vacation with Saifhumi pirates. After the fall of Neraka, the Red Highlord Rugoheras (Ariakas’s immediate replacement, also dead) had informed Rivven that she was to install a governor in Pentar and lock up the brothers who had caused the Red Wing so much trouble during the war. Rivven didn’t remember them causing any special trouble at all. In fact, she preferred the town before it was thrown into disarray, becoming a haven for mercenaries. Orders were orders, she reminded herself.

  Rivven’s first thought had been to give the town to Baron Glayward as yet another means of securing his cooperation, but the baron would have none of it. He said it would interrupt the flow of information from the west. He also said the Solamnic folk living in Nordmaar wouldn’t enjoy having one of their lords govern a town full of ne’er-do-wells and rogues. She reluctantly agreed but had her men stationed on his grounds for two weeks to reflect her disappointment.

  Rivven’s next choice was the wizard Cazuvel, who had been her spy among the orders of High Sorcery and somebody she’d worked with closely near the end of the war. She needed Cazuvel to keep her apprised of the Tower mages’ actions, especially those of the young mage Raistlin Majere, who many claimed had brought down the emperor-with Tanis Half-Elven’s help. The irony of Ariakas’s falling victim to the combined efforts of a wizard and a half-elf was not lost on Rivven, who was both.

  Cazuvel had declined her offer, as she had half expected him to. The Black Robe liked his autonomy, and only Nuitari himself knew what the albino did when he wasn’t assisting Rivven with one task or another. Black Robes nowadays were living under the constant shadow of the Majere wizard, and Cazuvel was no exception. If he had become governor, he wouldn’t have had the time to plot his eventual mastery of all black magic, or whatever it was he was always so busy doing.

  No, Rivven couldn’t have either of her first choices. She was forced to recruit from outside her circle of contacts and informants, and so she had turned instead to the next most sensible pool of candidates-the family of the people who were really in charge.

  Pentar had always been ruled by identical twins. They were traditionally male, but a hundred years earlier, the rulers had been two women, survivors of a generation of sickness and plague. The grandchildren of one of those women were Tochel and Tochi Pentar, but the brothers weren’t the only family of twins in town.

  Oxoloc Pentar was cousin to the brothers Tochel and Tochi, descendant of the other of the female rulers, and like his cousins, he was one of twins. Oxoloc, however, was alone; his brother had died at birth. Such a tragedy had far-reaching repercussions in Pentar. Although he was technically eligible to be the tribal chief of the Cuichtatl people, the circumstances of his birth were a shadow over his life. They were a dire omen, inescapable. Oxoloc was, in many ways, only half a man because he was only one man.

  Rivven Cairn had extended her reach through her usual local channels a year or so previous, when the Red Wing leadership had given her the command to eliminate Pentar’s rightful rule. Those channels turned up Oxoloc, living a fairly depressing life in a luxurious yet tiny house near the palace. Shunned by his family, Oxoloc was more than willing to be placed in the role of governor. In return for his complicity and his almost completely hands-off approach to the problems of the town, the dragonarmy would support the leadership of the young Pentari man and maintain his opulent lifestyle.

  Thus, in light of all of the history the governor had with Rivven’s forces, and their deal, his not being available to the highmaster when she was in town was almost unforgivable. Rivven finally found him hiding in the orchards.

  “Governor Oxoloc,” she said, emerging from nowhere and blocking out the morning sunlight. A simple spell of concealment had allowed her to get close to the scruffy, dark-haired governor. She had been standing there, watching him eat from a basket of peaches until she was sure he wasn’t actually waiting for somebody.

  Oxoloc leaped to his feet, tossing his fruit to the side and trying to look aristocratic. He failed. He said, “My lady highmaster! What a … oh, there you are!”

  “Here I am,” she said. “Where were you?”

  Oxoloc struggled to loosen the collar of his governor’s robes. “Me? Ah, well, you see, I felt like taking a little morning walk through the orchards, in the fresh air. So stuffy and uncomfortable inside. Going to be another rainstorm, though. Can you feel it?”

  “Governor, it’s been over four hours since I arrived. Did you not see the enormous red dragon in the other courtyard? Whose did you think that was?”

  “Ah. I confess to being a tad underinformed.”

  Rivven pinched the bridge of her nose with her hand. “You are one of the least informed men in all of Nor
dmaar. I thought perhaps you were avoiding me.”

  Oxoloc pulled on a cloak, a formal affair with gold lining and a clasp of ivory. “Ah, perhaps we should retire inside. I really do think there’s going to be a rainstorm.”

  Rivven followed the governor inside the palace, through hallways she had grown quite familiar with. Sure enough, as they passed one line of stained-glass windows in a lengthy gallery, the heavy Nordmaaran rains started hammering against the glass. It was going to be another wet, humid day.

  “So what may I help you with today, Lady Highmaster?” asked Oxoloc worriedly, settling into an overstuffed chair in a drawing room.

  Rivven didn’t sit; instead she leaned against the garish white ivory carvings surrounding the windows. “I’m trying to protect some investments of mine. There’s somebody in this town-your town, Oxoloc-who poses a threat to those investments. Now I know I could just send in my army, but they’d get in the way of everyday business, and I like to work in smaller ways. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I wouldn’t want the people to be worried about armies and such. Terrible. So what would you like me to do about it?”

  “You and I both know your Seaguard haven’t been working for you for months.”

  Oxoloc wrung his hands. “Well now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, necessarily-”

  “They’ve become mercenaries, Governor.”

  “Ah. Mmm.”

  Rivven smiled. “Exactly. So this is how you can help. Who are they working for now? Who is the biggest employer in Pentar? I have been reliably informed that the threat to my investments will be looking to hire some muscle.”

  Oxoloc looked as if he had just won first prize in a kender-throwing contest. “Oh! Oh! I know of whom you’re talking! Yes! The gnome!”

  Rivven squinted. “The biggest mercenary boss is a gnome?”

  “Yes, yes,” Oxoloc said, grinning. “He really is very clever. He beat the last boss in a duel, my people tell me. Never heard of such a thing before, but that’s Pentar for you. We get all kinds.”

  Rivven smiled again. “Yes, Governor. Yes, you do. Now tell me everything you know about this clever gnome.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Vanderjack stood in the pouring rain, watching as soldiers bullied the cook.

  For the past ten minutes, he had watched from across the street as six soldiers harassed, mocked, intimidated, and jostled Etharion, presumably waiting for their captain to arrive. Captain Annaud was nowhere to be seen, nor were the two remaining soldiers, which the Hunter confirmed.

  “Well, are you intending on saving him pretty soon?” asked the Cavalier.

  “I am sure he is merely waiting for an opportune moment,” responded the Balladeer.

  “Likely so that he can miss that opportune moment and say that it wasn’t one,” added the Aristocrat.

  “He’s just a hired kitchen hand,” Vanderjack said, wiping more rain from his face. “Bakes a lot of cookies.” He looked above, noting the holes in the awning he was standing under. Water puddled around his boots and found a way down the back of his neck. “What I wonder is, what’s so special about him, other than his ability to cook?”

  “Answer unclear,” said the Conjuror. “Ask again later.”

  “What does that mean?” Vanderjack demanded, turning to look at the ghost, hanging there, spectral and aloof. “Answer unclear?”

  “He means that we can’t tell you at the moment,” said the Apothecary.

  “You will have to trust our insight,” said the Philosopher.

  “Trust and act,” said the Hunter, materializing from Vanderjack’s left. The ghost lifted one semitransparent finger and indicated the approaching Captain Annaud, who was picking his way through the crowd farther up the street, making his way to rejoin his men.

  From that distance, Annaud looked like any other dragonarmy officer. He was dressed head to foot in black scale armor, curved steel plates protecting his shoulders, lower arms, and shins, and a half helm that kept his face visible. Only the highlords and their highmasters were allowed to wear the full helms that obscured their features.

  “Ackal’s Teeth,” muttered the sellsword, pulling his hood over his head and slipping out into the rain. “Why does it always have to rain when I’m rescuing somebody?”

  With the Sword Chorus circling the area, Vanderjack headed straight for the soldiers. He estimated it would be less than a minute before Annaud reached them himself, so he didn’t have much time.

  The sellsword passed by a wagon filled with sacks of grain. He set a boot on the nearest wheel and used it to spring over the heads of a slow-moving cluster of onlookers. He landed on his feet, drew Lifecleaver all the way out of its scabbard, and dashed forward.

  Bystanders scattered. Only Vanderjack, a half dozen heavily armored dragonarmy soldiers, and the cook remained in the courtyard. Etharion was sitting on a barrel, but as soon as he saw the sellsword charging at them, he fell backward onto the doorstep of a tea vendor. The soldiers all unsheathed their weapons, most of them armed with the curving Nerakan blades that Vanderjack knew all too well.

  “By the Dark Queen!” one of them said. “That’s the guy!”

  “Get him!” yelled another.

  Vanderjack and the closest soldier collided, their blades coming together with a loud ringing crash. Lifecleaver, crafted from meteoric iron, or “star metal,” and further bolstered by magic, was almost impervious to harm; the dragonarmy soldier’s scimitar was Nerakese iron folded hundreds of times upon itself. It was sharp but brittle. Vanderjack’s blade shattered it, sending shards into the soldier’s unprotected face.

  The sellsword spun about on his heel as the soldier clutched at his ruined features. The Cavalier and the Hunter called out the positions of the other soldiers, as they always did. There was no comment from the Conjuror, which meant no spells were being prepared for casting, which was good. He sought out the next opponent, locked eyes with him, and said, “One down.”

  Etharion scrambled to a crouch and moved toward a stack of crates standing alongside the high brick walls of a scrivener’s office. Vanderjack let the ghosts keep track of where the cook was, which meant he could worry more about the soldiers and getting rid of them before their captain reached the fight.

  Three of the soldiers came at him at once; the first two cut at the rain to his left and right while the third went for where his head would have been had he not ducked. They pressed the attack, Vanderjack blocking each swing with Lifecleaver. The sellsword kicked one soldier’s knee so hard he heard a sickening snap; that man was out. Slipping between the fallen soldier’s companions, he found himself pressed against the crates. Rain pounded upon his head.

  “Captain’s almost here,” the Hunter warned.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Vanderjack grunted. He had four opponents remaining. Two advanced, flourishing their scimitars. The others were off to the right and left, waiting. He was cornered. From behind, Vanderjack heard the cook stumbling over a crate and trying to stay out of sight.

  “Come on!” shouted one of the two waiting soldiers. “Cut him down!”

  Wet blades flashed; Vanderjack twisted, shifting Lifecleaver into a two-handed grip and disarming both soldiers. They stood there, mouths agape, looking at their empty hands. Vanderjack ran them both through, and they fell with a splash into the puddling rainwater.

  With only two soldiers remaining and the cook nearby, Vanderjack chanced a call back to the man. “Etharion!” he shouted. “Can you possibly lend a hand?”

  Etharion didn’t have anything to say in response. He crouched down even lower behind a crate and watched over it as the last two soldiers cautiously approached Vanderjack.

  “Last chance to run away,” Vanderjack said with a smile he didn’t really feel.

  “Ergothian scum!” one of the soldiers said.

  “Hey now,” Vanderjack said, ducking to one side to avoid the sweeping cut of a scimitar. “I’m only half Ergothian. My mother was a Saifhumi p
irate.”

  “Ergothian, Saifhumi, all the same,” said the other soldier.

  “Try telling that to the emperor of Ergoth,” Vanderjack said. He feinted to the left, distracting the second soldier, and freed his right hand to strike out at the first. His balled fist connected squarely with the dragonarmy soldier’s jaw, dropping him. It wouldn’t keep him out for long, but the sellsword circled about, giving himself some room to move.

  The last soldier backed off, looking around. All he had to do was distract the mercenary for a few more seconds and the captain would be on him. Vanderjack was keenly aware of that as he lunged. The soldier barely escaped a sword in the gut, throwing himself to one side and landing right beside the crates.

  Seeing the opportunity, Vanderjack yelled, “Etharion! Push against the crates!” It seemed like a faint hope. But Vanderjack was pleasantly surprised when, with a grunt, the cook threw himself against the crates he’d been hiding behind.

  There was a moment where it seemed nothing would happen; then wooden box after wooden box, filled with glass jars, small sacks of tarbeans, and the gods knew what else toppled and landed with a horrendous crash upon the last soldier and several of his incapacitated companions. The cook looked impressed with himself. “Huh,” he said, grinning at Vanderjack.

  The sellsword didn’t have long to catch his breath. Just as the Cavalier shouted a warning, he whirled in time to duck a swift cut of the captain’s blade. Captain Annaud had finally arrived on the scene, taken in the devastation, and charged Vanderjack.

  Up close, the captain was somewhat more distinctive. His features were sharp and hawklike, with a narrow yet prominent nose, steel-gray hair with a widow’s peak, and a raptor’s eyes. He was Nerakan, probably from the eastern foothills of the Taman Busuk near Estwilde; Vanderjack recognized that predatory look from others he had served with in the Blue Wing, years before.

  “Glad you could make it,” Vanderjack said, glancing around to seek an advantage.

  “Those men will cost you,” Annaud replied, his voice thin and reedy, with a strong Nerakese accent. It sounded practiced to Vanderjack, though. Underneath the sinister tones the captain was affecting, the sell-sword could detect the remnants of Estwilder vowels.