The Sellsword

by Cam Banks

  Vanderjack had keen senses, and his eyes usually adjusted to bad light quickly, but in a place such as that he didn’t want to take too many chances. As he passed under the eaves and inside the Monkey’s Ear, he laid his hand on the hilt of Lifecleaver, summoning the Sword Chorus.

  “Another bar!” exclaimed the Aristocrat.

  “Here we are again,” agreed the Apothecary.

  “They all look the same to me,” said the Conjurer.

  The Hunter said nothing as he stepped through a wall and out of sight. Truth be told, the Hunter was the main reason Vanderjack put up with the ghosts recently. Too many ambushes, which meant the laconic ghost was supernatural insurance.

  Gredchen noticed his hand, following him inside. “If they see you getting ready to use that …”

  “Relax!” he said. “It’s just a comfort tactic.”

  “The woman is right,” said the Philosopher.

  “As ugly as she is,” added the Balladeer.

  “We should be prepared for an ambush,” said the Cavalier.

  Vanderjack pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. He didn’t want to actually respond to the ghosts, not there in the middle of a tavern, not with Gredchen. The patrons wouldn’t notice his hand; they were probably all drunk or asleep. With any luck, the Hunter would come back and report on what was happening in the rooms he couldn’t see.

  The common room itself was cramped and crowded with mercenaries, all of them recent hires. There was the usual mix of roughnecks and greenhorns, of fresh-faced youths just come into Pentar from some village along the coast and old-timers bearing the scars of former battles. Few of them even acknowledged Vanderjack and Gredchen’s arrival.

  Directly across from the entrance was a long table blocked from view by four men, all dressed in the uniforms of the Seaguard. Vanderjack knew they’d turned private, so it didn’t surprise him. Who he saw when the marines stepped aside, on the other hand, sent his mind spinning.

  “Theo?” he said incredulously, his body tensing.

  The gnome, standing on his chair in order to get some height, pointed a finger at the sellsword and responded, “You! I knew it!”

  Gredchen looked from the gnome to Vanderjack and back again. “You know each other?”

  “I’ll handle this,” Vanderjack said under his breath and stepped forward. The Hunter materialized from the sellsword’s left, stepping back into the room through the wall; Vanderjack looked at the ghost and did his best to silently impart the message, Hold on a moment, I’m in the middle of something. The Hunter, keen of eye and always an excellent judge of mood, simply waited.

  “Theo! What a pleasant surprise. Imagine meeting you here, in a bar, surrounded by mercenaries.”

  The gnome went from standing on the chair to standing on the table. That gave him an extra foot of height advantage. He placed his fists on his hips. “Vanderjack. This is no coincidence, I assure you. Months of careful planning and expert tracking have led me here, knowing you would show up sooner or later. And so you have—soon enough!”

  Vanderjack squinted. “Are you serious?”

  “You doubt me? See how I have attained not only your location and details of your recent employment history, from Ergoth to Nordmaar.” The gnome grabbed a handful of papers from a pile on the table and waved them furiously before him. “Also! I have secured the position of head of the only mercenary company in town, a town selected by forecasting algorithms you could not in your wildest dreams comprehend.”

  “You are serious.”

  The gnome grew pink in the face. “I am! I am indeed! Quite serious!” He indicated the room full of armed men. “I have a room full of armed men! That’s how serious I am.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Actually, that’s why we came, so if you have a moment—”

  “Have you not been listening? You are why I am here, you imbecile!”

  “Yes, I heard you loud and clear. And I’m very flattered, but I’m on a job right now and I’m fairly sure I have some disgruntled local occupying forces interested in my whereabouts too. So as long as you’re running things, perhaps we’d better talk terms.”

  Some of the mercenaries in the room began to pay attention, since their diminutive new boss was engaged in a loud conversation with a tall bald black man with a sword. Several of them moved closer, making any exit from the room difficult. Gredchen decided to hover near the door just in case, but nobody was paying much attention to her. Being ugly meant more people looked away than not.

  “Have you forgotten what you did to me? Where you left me? What happened to my … my”—the gnome was sputtering mad—“cat?”

  “Right, the cat …”

  “My precious Star, lost forever.”

  “I didn’t really think gnomes had all that much affection for cats. And it was really a kitten, if you want to be precise.”

  “A saber-toothed kitten! One of a kind! Irreplaceable!”

  “Yes, all the way from the Island of Gargath, you said. I am sorry about that. But you know, I don’t think we established that it was my fault.”

  Theo grew livid. He was about to direct the entire room to grab Vanderjack and presumably tear him limb from limb when Gredchen screamed, “Stop!”

  Everybody in the room looked at her.

  The baron’s aide ignored the filthy look from the gnome and the amused grin from Vanderjack and said, “Dragonarmy’s here.”

  Theodenes leaped off the table as the room emptied—soldiers and sellswords disappeared through doors, out of back windows, and some even tumbled down into the wine cellar.

  Vanderjack looked at his ghosts. The Hunter shrugged, “You seemed busy.”

  “I think I could have been disturbed for that,” Vanderjack said, barely heard over the din.

  “We must to arms!” shouted the Cavalier.

  “Save the girl!” shouted the Aristocrat.

  “Save the gnome!” shouted the Balladeer.

  The ghosts fell to arguing with each other, so Vanderjack crossed in two steps, passed Gredchen and opened the door wide enough to look out. “Ackal’s Teeth. There’s a whole squad of them.”

  Theodenes joined them, staring out the door, then looked up at Vanderjack. “They’re here because of you, aren’t they? You’re a wanted man!”

  Vanderjack shrugged. “As ever. You didn’t think you were the only one who was after me, did you? Can we hurry things up?”

  Theo exploded. “Hurry things up? I have an operation here perfectly arranged for the purposes of hunting you down and bringing you and any of your associates to justice for the crimes you have committed to my person, my cat, and to all of the others you callously abandoned on Ergoth, and you still think we have any business matters to discuss?”

  Vanderjack closed the door and smiled grimly. “In ten seconds, Theo, I don’t think any of that’s going to matter.”

  The wizard Cazuvel stood at the threshold of the ancient door and spoke a single word of magic.

  The door opened silently, and a whorl of escaping air stirred his black robes. Cazuvel looked behind him, out across the waters of the bay. Satisfied he wasn’t being watched or followed, he passed through the door. It closed in his wake, sealing him off from the outside world.

  The Lyceum was once a school of magic and a conservatory of learning for all three of the orders of High Sorcery. It had been built upon a promontory that extended out into Kalaman Bay but was little more than a sandspit covered in water when the tide was in. The building itself was a squat, featureless edifice that the locals ignored.

  Cazuvel traveled the dark hallways of the Lyceum, gesturing and intoning more commands, opening doors and revealing passages hidden by sorcery. Finally, as a set of stone portals slid aside at a wave of his hand, the wizard arrived at his destination.

  Cazuvel stood in the Grand Cloister, a circular chamber dedicated to conjuration and invocations. Hundreds of runes, sigils, and glyphs were carved or drawn upon the marble floor and walls. Encircling ston
e pillars divided the middle of the room from the curving walkway around it. Torch brackets mounted on each pillar shed light on the room’s center and the elaborate major summoning circle boldly painted upon the floor at the room’s very center.

  There, inside the wards both physical and ephemeral, a mirror crafted from a single sheet of hammered steel mounted in an ironwood frame hung suspended in the air, anchored by invisible threads of magic. Cazuvel’s reflection flickered within its lustrous polished surface—a white-blond albino, his violet eyes staring out from the mirror in the shadow of the black cowl of the robes.

  “Here I stand again before you,” said Cazuvel to the mirror. “Cermindaya, cermindaya, saya memanggil anda dan mengikat anda.”

  The image in the mirror—Cazuvel’s image—writhed and grimaced. The mage watched as the Cazuvel in the mirror reached up his hands as if to grasp the frame surrounding him, and shook.

  “Leave me alone, you bastard!” the image screamed. “You’ve taken enough! Let me out!”

  Cazuvel smiled. His face was much whiter than his teeth.

  “Not yet,” he said. “It is necessary that I draw more power from you. The highmaster has a new problem.”

  The mirror Cazuvel seemed to press up against the glass. “By the Abyss, just let me out.”

  “By the Abyss indeed,” said the first Cazuvel, extending his thin, white fingers in the mirror’s direction. Arcs of blue and orange sprang from Cazuvel’s hands, dancing upon the shocked image of the wizard; the lightning crackled for a heartbeat longer, then surged back to where it had come. Both Cazuvel and his image in the mirror jerked and shook with each sparking jolt, but while Cazuvel bore an expression of intense satisfaction, his image screamed.

  When the lightning ceased, Cazuvel lowered his hands and smiled. The image in the mirror looked gaunt, haggard, the life drained from it. Cazuvel, on the other hand, seemed more vital and stronger than he had before he started. He turned and began walking to the doors.

  “You’ll never …” said the image, hunched over within the frame of the mirror.

  Cazuvel drew his robed cowl over his head, hiding his violet eyes from view. “I’ll never what? Get away with it? Why, of course I will.”

  “You’ll be discovered. Found out. I’ll get free.”

  Cazuvel laughed. “I think not. Remember how potent that spell you attempted was, my caged friend. Far beyond your own reach. You made a mistake, trying to cast it—incorrectly—and now here we are.”

  The image looked up and out, its sunken features tightening in anger. “She’s no fool, you monster. She trained under Emperor Ariakas. She walks the Left Hand Path, as he did. Eventually she’ll catch on to who you really are.”

  Cazuvel lifted his shoulders, shrugged. “Perhaps. But by then I will have already secured a permanent portal. I won’t have any more need of you or the highmaster or any of the others in this careless game of souls you’ve all been playing.”

  The wizard spoke a single word, a word loaded with a violent finality. The image in the mirror flinched then vanished. The surface of the mirror grew dark, and Cazuvel left it there in the depths of the Lyceum.

  As the wings of magic carried him across Kalaman Bay once more and to the east, toward Nordmaar, the wizard Cazuvel—or whoever he truly was—wondered whether the highmaster really would uncover all of his secrets. Was the armored, fire-loving Rivven Cairn truly that skilled in the art?

  He would have to find out for himself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Vanderjack poured himself a drink.

  The bottle was just sitting there, and its owner was one of several mercenary barflies who had, upon hearing of the imminent arrival of the dragonarmy soldiers, vacated the premises. Not being the kind of man to let any alcohol go to waste and in need of some fortification in this time of stress, Vanderjack poured some of the bottle’s contents into an empty tankard and looked around.

  “Anybody else for a drink?” he asked cordially.

  Gredchen and Theodenes were the only two left in the tavern, with even the cadaverous doorman having taken his leave. Neither of them responded positively.

  “Are you insane?” asked Gredchen, shaking her head as Vanderjack held the bottle out toward her. “We need to be leaving, Vanderjack. I’m not the least bit interested in being thrown into a cell by the dragonarmy.”

  Theodenes looked out the window rather than take the proffered bottle. “Neither am I, frankly. In fact, I can think of nothing more insulting. In addition, I never consume wines, spirits, lagers, ports, or any other fermented beverage. Now is certainly not the time to start. Nor is it a good time for you to become inebriated.”

  Vanderjack took a long swallow from his tankard and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Ordinarily I would agree, but under the circumstances I think it could be a good thing. Besides,” he looked at the bottle’s faded label. “I think this is dwarf spirits. There’s a bit of a kick.”

  Gredchen punched Vanderjack in the arm. “Put it down! They’ll be bursting in here any moment. We have to leave.”

  The Sword Chorus was absent; Vanderjack had released his grip on the hilt in order to make use of the bar, and he knew he’d get no end of mocking from the ghosts at that point as it was. With the warm smoky feeling of the spirits collecting in his stomach, the sellsword set aside the tankard and slipped off the barstool.

  “Right, then. Theo? Should I assume you’re going to hold that Southern Ergoth thing over my head until I compensate you for it?”

  The gnome sputtered. “‘Southern Ergoth thing’?”

  Vanderjack nodded. “I can tell it’s really bothering you. I mean, you went to all this trouble”—he motioned around to the bar and the empty seats formerly occupied by mercenaries—“came all this way, and so on.”

  “Single combat has crossed my mind,” Theodenes said, moving back toward his big desk. “Given that monetary reparations don’t appear to be something you are capable of.”

  Gredchen said, “Actually, Lord Glayward is paying him quite well.”

  Vanderjack watched as Theodenes reached behind the desk and brought forward a long pole with metal studs along one side near where a person would grip it. “Yes,” the sellsword agreed cheerfully. “And I’m sure to get a lot more too.”

  Theodenes brought the butt of the polearm down upon the wooden floorboards, as if to emphasize his ownership. “How much more?”

  “Oh, enough to buy you passage to Gargath again to get a new cat.”

  Theodenes stroked his beard and considered.

  Gredchen took another look out the window then called out, “They’re checking all of the other shops in the square. I see eight soldiers and a captain. It’s Captain Annaud, one of Highmaster Cairn’s men.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can handle nine little soldiers,” said Vanderjack, his eyes on Theo and the polearm.

  “Very well,” Theodenes said. “I shall prepare a business contract stipulating transference of funds to me and attach it as a rider to your existing contract, with the unfortunate-looking woman as a witness.” He looked up at Gredchen. “What do you say to that, whoever you are?”

  Gredchen grabbed her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. “I’d say the pot is calling the kettle black.” She glared down at the gnome, who didn’t flinch; he was a lot more intimidating than she would have given him credit for. “My name’s Gredchen. I’m Lord Glayward’s aide, and yes, I think that would be fine. Now really isn’t the time to sit down and draw up a contract, though, so …”

  Vanderjack adjusted one or two belt straps and clapped his hands together. “We can take care of the details later. Right now, I believe there’s a gang of soldiers preparing to break through the door and arrest us all. Why don’t we go out through the kitchen? That’s always popular.”

  There was a muffled exchange of words outside the door to the tavern and a stamping of feet. Theodenes and Gredchen both made for an exit at the rear of the common room, beside the bar. Vanderjac
k shoved a bench in front of the front door and ran after the others.

  The three of them ran through the swinging wooden doors and into the kitchen, which was in a dreadful state of repair, and promptly fell over a man who had been standing immediately inside, apparently eavesdropping. Gredchen and Theodenes went sprawling, but Vanderjack, seconds behind them, remained on his feet.

  “Cordaric!” shouted Theodenes. “Why haven’t you left with all the others?”

  “Who’s this guy?” asked Vanderjack.

  “Etharion Cordaric, my cook,” said Theo. “Recent hire.”

  “Doesn’t look as if he was cooking,” said Gredchen, getting to her feet. “In fact, I would bet anything that he was listening at that door.”

  The cook looked as if he had had the wind knocked out of him, which wasn’t far from the truth. Vanderjack found him completely nondescript, although he was vaguely Solamnic. “Not listening really,” the cook said, catching his breath. “I was … worried about the commotion. I was just about to go out and investigate.”

  “Cordaric?” asked Vanderjack. “You don’t look very Ergothian. I should know. My father—”

  “My family were Solamnic exiles,” stated the cook.

  The sellsword looked the cook up and down. “The name Cordaric loosely translates to recursive mistake in Ergot. Your ancestors must have been very interesting people.”

  The cook rubbed at his head. “It does? Er … I mean… of course it does! It’s inside humor in the family.”

  “Well, we’re trying to leave, on account of the dragonarmy soldiers,” said Vanderjack, hooking a thumb back in the direction of the common room door.

  “Yes, any time now,” said the gnome impatiently.

  There was a smash and the tumble of a wooden bench, followed by a series of curses and yells.