The Sellsword aot-1

by Cam Banks

  Vanderjack nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Good man. Any preferences for kit?”

  “Sword. If you’ve got scale mail, that’ll do too.”

  Broyer slapped Vanderjack on the back. “I think we can do that.”

  The avenue they walked led upward on a ramp at a sharp angle and provided access to the elaborate porticos in the front of the Horseman’s Arena. Mighty pillars supported the arena’s walls, which were essentially the backs of the stadium seating. The arena was modeled after ancient Istarian coliseums, oval in shape and featuring row upon row of stone benches rising up and away from the arena floor. Spectators walked along a colonnade and under the eaves of the portico, after which they would take stairs to reach their seats. Gladiators, on the other hand, were directed down ramps into the tunnels underneath the arena, where it was said the most unfortunate of Rivven Cairn’s prisoners and captives were locked away.

  Despite the rain and the rumble of thunder over the plains to the west, the city was filled with crowds. There were thousands of people there, thronging toward the city center to attend the games and overburdening the Merchants’ Quarter with their patronage.

  As Vanderjack’s gladiator band descended into the gloom of the arena dungeons, the sellsword felt the blood in his veins thundering in time with the storm outside.

  Armor was strapped on. More wine was drained from clay jugs. Weapons were passed around, and the steady noise of blades and points against grindstones echoed throughout the staging area.

  Broyer disappeared for a few minutes then returned. There was a big grin across his hawklike face.

  “It’s going to be a special day for you, Ergothian,” he said, looking at all of the others. “All of us!”

  “What is it?” said one, lacing up a tunic of chain mail. “News from the arena?”

  “Big news,” Broyer said. “It’s not just other pit fighters and gladiators you’re facing this year. No, the high-master’s said to have a big surprise for the ending.”

  Vanderjack frowned. That didn’t sound good. “A big surprise? What does that mean?”

  The lanista shook with excitement. “Nobody’s saying what it is, but I happened to pass along the hallway where they keep all the caged animals. She’s got something new down there, something nobody’s ever seen before.”

  The sellsword rubbed his scalp and feared he knew what that something was. That wasn’t good. “Big cat, brass scales, wings?”

  Broyer stopped, gaping at Vanderjack. So did the other gladiators.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  Rivven Cairn stood in the palace of the khan, looking out over the rain-swept Horseman’s Arena from the covered section of the balcony.

  “Aubec,” she said, lifting the chilled wine to her lips then pausing. “Would you see if our guest would like something more to drink?”

  “Yes, my lady,” the aide-de-camp at her side said and crossed over to where Theodenes the gnome sat in the rain, arms folded tightly.

  “I most certainly would not like anything more to drink,” the gnome said, soaked to the skin. “In fact, I would very much like to come inside.”

  “Do stop complaining, Theodenes,” the highmaster said smoothly. “It’s only water.”

  “It has not escaped my observation that you are standing underneath cover,” said Theo. “Nor has it escaped my observation that you only moved me out here when it did, in fact, start to rain, and that I am unable to move due to the shackles you have around my ankles.”

  “I don’t want you running off.”

  “Where would I run off to? I’m in the middle of your city, and you have armed guards and draconians at every major vantage point. Clearly, I have no hope of running off.”

  Rivven smiled. “All right. Aubec, would you have our guest brought in?”

  The aide-de-camp signaled to a pair of burly guards who stood by the doors. They walked out, picked up the gnome and his chair, and carried both inside. Theodenes was set down upon a raised marble dais underneath a colorful wall mosaic. The mosaic depicted the legendary Knight of the Sword, Sir Janothon Wicturn, clasping hands with Nordmaaran King Chialpa of the Quintalix. It was a striking image, especially as it depicted a kind of solidarity and union that was no longer present in Nordmaar under the dragonarmy occupation.

  “Is that better?” she asked the gnome, who accepted a towel from Aubec and was drying himself off.

  “Hardly,” the gnome snapped. “To be informed by you that not only am I to watch as you subject my pet dragonne to unimaginable tortures in these ridiculous games of yours, but also that you never had any intention of honoring your deal with the sellsword does not speak to a more comfortable future.”

  Rivven looked at him with amused eyes over the wine she was savoring.

  “Might I also say that I continue to strenuously object to having my mind invaded by your magical arts? You have no right to delve into my thoughts in such a manner.”

  Rivven chuckled. “Theodenes, you have an incredible resistance to my divinatory skills, magic or otherwise. As it happens, I didn’t find anything in your head that I didn’t already piece together from the evidence.”

  Earlier, her scouts had come to her with news of the dragonne lurking in the hills to the north. She’d sent two of her remaining bozak draconians out to investigate, with orders to use sleep magic on the beast if the reports proved correct. If those spells had already worked on the dragonne before when Cazuvel had captured it, they would likely work again. She was right. The dragonne was safely secured beneath the arena.

  But why would the gnome come to Wulfgar? Where was Gredchen? Rivven had tried to work her magic on the gnome to get him to talk, but gnome minds were almost impenetrable; all she had pulled from him was an image of Vanderjack. The sellsword must have tracked Cazuvel there to Wulfgar.

  “Do you intend to kill Vanderjack?” asked Theodenes after a long pause, his defiant tone altered, his manner subdued. He folded the towel up neatly and set it aside.

  “Not if I don’t have to.”

  “My bet would be on him in a fair fight,” Theodenes said in a low voice.

  Rivven walked over to the gnome and slapped him across the face almost hard enough to knock him off the chair.

  “Fair fight!” she said, chortling, as she handed her glass off to Aubec. “Quaint idea for a gnome.”

  She walked back to the balcony, leaving the gnome to rub at his jaw. “See if you can keep quiet for a while,” she said. “I see the chariots are coming out now.”

  Theodenes said nothing more as the first race began.

  It featured no fewer than a dozen chariots, each drawn by a pair of horses. The horses were well trained, and the charioteers knew how to draw out the crowd’s enthusiasm.

  As Rivven watched and the hour drew long, she could feel the gnome’s gaze burning into the back of her head, so when the race was over and the winning chariot was given the thundering applause of the crowd, she came back inside the palace and had Aubec refill her glass. While the aide-de-camp did so, Rivven sat on a divan near the gnome’s chair and studied him. Silently, he was also studying her.

  “I have spent ten years solidifying my power structure here in Nordmaar,” she said finally. “I’ve done so despite the rotating roster of dragon highlords, the threat of Solamnic Knights and their allies on my doorstep, the rising costs of maintaining this occupying force, and the upsurge of mercenary activity within the region. You can be sure that when a legendary mercenary such as Vanderjack takes a job for a nobleman who, until now, has been content to sit in his manor and enjoy the fruits of his exile, and when that mercenary’s former associates come looking for him and mysteriously join his cause, I take notice. I have taken notice of Vanderjack and of you, gnome, but I haven’t made up my mind about you. You amuse me. But you must be careful that I don’t take permanent offense.”

  “Right,” said Theodenes. “Be careful.”

  She stared at him, waiting for him to sa
y something more, but he bit his tongue. She lifted her chin, stood up, walked over to the balcony, and resumed her watch.

  “The main event is about to start,” she announced aloud. “Soon enough we’ll see what Cazuvel and Vanderjack are up to. You might want to come over and watch too.”

  She let the guards position the gnome under cover; no sense torturing him any more. Besides, she was growing impatient. The sooner Cazuvel made his move, the better. “It’s time to show yourself, wizard,” she said under her breath. “Show yourself so we can get on with it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Vanderjack was soaked in blood and rain.

  The crowds were deafeningly loud, calling out, “Ergoth! Ergoth!” He swung his chariot, one of only two remaining on the track, to speed toward the other on a collision course. His lungs burned, and his head was drumming in time with the thrum-thrum-thrum of the chariot wheels on the mud. He could see out of only one eye, a cut above the other rendering it swollen shut. But he felt strangely alive.

  He was drenched by the persistent rain. He wore an ornate helm to hide his features and was clothed in a scale mail hauberk and black leather trews, heavy boots on his feet. Still, he was recognizable as an Ergothian by the dark color of his skin and because Broyer had provided him with a large leaf-bladed Ergothian sword. It wasn’t long after he entered the arena before he had his own cheering supporters.

  Five bands of gladiators, besides his group, had entered. They faced a dozen armored chariots, bristling with spears, with wicked blades extending from the wheels and spikes upon the harnesses. Each band fought to gain chariots, which began the thunderous race in the hands of single charioteers instructed to defend against all footmen. The entertainment came when gladiators fought each other for the chariots, and when the charioteers lanced the gladiators with their spears or cut them in half as they charged by.

  The bands had been whittled down one by one, either at the hands of other gladiators or by charioteers. Vanderjack assumed command of the survivors of his group, huddled near the center of the arena. He had been attacked by a Lemishite savage, a Khurish blade-dancer, and a Kothian minotaur. All fell. The blood and the rain were everywhere, pierced by swords and spears and screaming faces.

  Then he saw an opportunity and leaped aboard a chariot whose rider had been wounded by a thrown spear. He could barely hear the rain hammering on his skull for all of the cheering. “Ergoth! Ergoth!” Those gladiators in his band who were still alive joined in, shouting the word even as they traded blows with their opponents or dodged the chariots.

  He snapped the reins on the chariot, and the horse leaped to the gallop, sending him barreling along the outer track, where the deep ruts in the clay let the wheels find purchase. He felt the wind fill his lungs, the exhilaration of speed. It was like flying again, like riding Star. Vanderjack lifted his sword, alert for remaining foes; he watched the seventh gate, still unopened, for signs of the dragonne.

  “Ergoth! Ergoth!” Who could do this for a living? he wondered. It was nothing like mercenary work. It was showmanship. They applauded him but didn’t even know who he really was, and if he died there on the blood-wet clay, who would mourn his passing? A spear carrier ran at his chariot, and he cut downward with the sword. The spear fell away in two pieces, and the man carrying it tumbled over and over, struck by the side of the chariot. The competition continued.

  Eventually there were only two left-Vanderjack and one other. The arena was strewn with broken chariots, the dead, and the dying. His final foe was a grizzled veteran with a plumed helm he’d probably stolen from one of the Plumed Jaguars of Wulfgar. They raced across the arena toward each other, Vanderjack’s vision narrowed to a tunnel, rain spraying in his face, his opponent’s feathered plume sodden and plastered to his helm, a barbed lance raised and pointed in Vanderjack’s direction.

  A roar split the wind and the rain and carried clear across the arena, echoing and vibrating through the stone of the arena walls and under the feet of the cheering spectators. That was when the portcullis in the seventh gate lurched upward and a maddened, winged, brass-scaled creature emerged. The dragonne was shackled to twin lengths of chain, each of which was anchored on the inside of the seventh gate. Although he could probably lift himself several feet off the ground, the dragonne’s wings would not provide him with the means to escape by flight.

  Meanwhile Vanderjack was committed to his final charge, crouching slightly, the Ergothian sword raised high in a ready stance. The wheels underneath his chariot struck bodies, chunks of wood, and low basins of bloody water as he urged the horse on. His opponent’s chariot did the same.

  “Ergoth! Ergoth!” screamed the crowd as one.

  The two chariots swerved, skidded in the mud, and slammed into each other. Both chariots’ horses broke free, galloping onward, tack and harnesses dragging behind them. Vanderjack had flung himself forward at the last moment, using the momentum of the chariot to send him at great force into the midsection of his opponent and taking him down with him. With a crash, both men landed several yards away in another ruined chariot, causing an explosion of earth and broken wood and metal.

  Vanderjack thought his legs were broken. For a few heartbeats, he couldn’t move them at all, struggling to pull himself free of the wreckage. Then his legs began to twitch and spasm, and he pulled himself into a halfstanding position.

  The gladiator with the plumed helm was dead, impaled upon the twisted metal and wood, his eyes open and staring. Vanderjack swallowed back his gorge and, with difficulty, pulled his own helm free. He tossed it aside, drew himself up to standing, and heard the deafening adulations.

  “Ergoth! Ergoth!” the spectators shouted. Vanderjack wiped the blood out of his eye, forcing it open despite the swelling so he could survey the cheering masses. It was hopeless. He’d never find Cazuvel in the crowd, and Rivven Cairn would be sure to recognize the sellsword as the champion standing in the middle of her arena.

  There came a roar from Star. The dragonne was straining against his chains, roaring and bellowing. The crowd was spooked by the ferocity of his roar and many ran. Some fell or collapsed and were trampled by their fellow spectators. Vanderjack noticed that Star’s eyes seemed wild and unfocused; the beast was probably under the effects of a spell.

  Vanderjack cast his mind into the void in which the memory-voices of the Sword Chorus were nestled, hoping for some insights. He couldn’t recall anything they had said in the past that might help. “Don’t dwell on the pain, the injuries. You can always die tomorrow,” said the Cavalier’s voice in his mind, a familiar reproach. “Die tomorrow.”

  “Rather not die at all,” he muttered to himself and hobbled across the arena toward the dragonne. The crowd saw that, and, eager for more entertainment, the panic began to subside. Some began to shout, “Kill the beast!” and “Ergoth! Ergoth!” At least the rain had lightened enough that the sellsword could see more than a dozen yards ahead. He had lost his sword after he threw himself off the chariot. He hoped Star remembered him.

  Vanderjack raised his hands as he approached. Star was flapping his wings and leaping around, claws tearing up mud and chains rattling fiercely. “Star!” the sellsword said, shouting over the noise of both the crowd and the creature. “It’s me! It’s, uh, good old Vanderjack!”

  The dragonne responded by lashing out with one huge clawed paw and raking Vanderjack across the chest. It tore through his scale mail, knocking him backward, and he landed ignominiously in the muck. He looked up to see the dragonne rearing and clawing at the air before coming down with a terrible splash inches from Vanderjack’s legs. The chains were holding the dragonne back-but only barely.

  Vanderjack scuttled backward and got up again. A battered circular shield in the mud caught his eye, and he ran to pick it up, sliding it over his arm and bringing it up just in time to block another sweeping blow from the dragonne’s claws. That, too, knocked the sellsword over. He shouted out again, “Ackal’s Teeth, Star! Shake it off!” />
  The great dragon-cat leaped and ducked, snapping at the air with his jaws, narrowly missing Vanderjack’s head. The beast’s wings were whipping up rainwater and mud from the arena floor, making it almost impossible for the sellsword to maneuver around the dragonne. He wondered what the Conjurer or the Hunter would suggest and decided that the only way to snap Star out of his rage and frenzy was to risk delivering a blow to the creature’s head.

  The crowd loved the new battle. Many, frightened of Star’s roar, had climbed up the stands to a higher vantage point. They saw a weary and bloodied man doing battle with a great beast that seemed like an amalgam of two of the most dangerous and predatory beasts they knew. From where they sat, they couldn’t tell Vanderjack was trying to reason with Star or neutralize him, not kill him.

  “Sorry about this, big guy,” Vanderjack said and threw his shield with all of his might at Star’s massive skull. The shield rebounded from the beast’s head with a clang. Star barely blinked from the blow. He turned his head fully around to face Vanderjack, opened his jaws wide, and roared at the sellsword from a distance of only ten feet.

  Vanderjack’s head felt as if an ogre had kicked him, and his chest shook with the unleashed rage tied up within the roar. It sent him flying backward, stunned, muscles strained to the point of exhaustion. As he lay there, the crowd shouting for him to get up and fight, everything from his concussed skull to the shredded tendons in his arms and legs screaming at him to just give up and die, he heard the one sound he knew would just make things worse.

  It was the sound of the chains snapping.

  Theodenes had had enough of the spectacle.

  He’d watched the whole contest at Rivven Cairn’s side, under the cover of the canvas awning stretched over part of the balcony, but the rain still soaked his boots as it showered upon the balcony floor. The highmaster, meanwhile, kept dry by some minor cantrip.

  Theodenes had watched it all, occasionally wincing but steadily becoming confident that the dark-skinned stranger in the scale mail shirt and helm who had fought his way to the chariots would win.