The Sellsword

by Cam Banks

  Vanderjack took a quick look around. “Or I’ll give you the painting and then you’ll wipe me off the face of Krynn! See what I mean? All you’ve got is fakery and grandstanding and simple words of one or two syllables. It’s really kind of embarrassing.” In his mind the memory-voice of the Hunter was telling him to watch his flanks. Sure enough, the sellsword spotted two kapak draconians clinging to the battlements on either side of him, crouching, unmoving.

  The sellsword hoped Theo had moved the painting or was at least making his way to the stairs. He couldn’t see him anywhere; the collateral damage from the mage’s destructive magic had stirred up so much dust and smoke.

  “The painting, sellsword!” said Cazuvel, emerging from the nearest bank of smoke. Vanderjack had no weapon and still couldn’t see Gredchen. Had one of the kapaks grabbed her?

  “Painting?” Vanderjack said. “Now where did I put that thing …?”

  Cazuvel snarled and started to frame another spell. Vanderjack wondered what the Conjuror would say about that. Maybe …

  Vanderjack dropped to his left, somersaulting out of the way just as a chilling blast of frost sprayed the spot he just left. When he came up, he knew he needed to take the initiative and just grab the wizard. With luck, he’d take the sword from him and it would all be over.

  Vanderjack dived at Cazuvel, aiming for his midsection. The wizard brought his knee up, hoping to catch the sellsword under the chin, but was a fraction of a second too late. Vanderjack knocked the wizard backward into another low wall, one hand up to grab the wizard around the throat with the other reaching for his sword.

  His fingers wrapped around the hilt, and in that instant Vanderjack spied the ghosts arrayed around them both—the Cavalier, the Hunter, the Apothecary, the Aristocrat, the Conjurer, the Philosopher, and the Balladeer. And there, in front of them all, stood the Cook.

  “Etharion?” said Vanderjack.

  “Get back!” they all shouted in unison.

  Cazuvel brought the heel of his palm up against Vanderjack’s nose. The sellsword felt his nose break, the blinding pain lancing all the way to the back of his head. He let go of the sword, and the ghosts vanished from his sight. Then something even worse happened.

  Cazuvel triggered a spell, obviously connected to the act of making physical contact with his opponent. A sudden wave of nausea and muscle cramps struck the sellsword only a heartbeat after his nose was broken. He slumped to the side. The wizard leaped to his feet, and Vanderjack felt a hard kick in the ribs from a hobnail boot.

  “Aaaargh!” he screamed, clutching his injury.

  Cazuvel looked off to the side. A smile crept across his face, and he looked back down again at Vanderjack. “I have what I came for!” he said, triumphant, and dashed away.

  Vanderjack struggled to get up. Blood was streaming from his nose, and his chest felt as if a lance had pierced it. He looked around, desperate, unable to see Theodenes, the painting, Gredchen, or anything except flashes of color in his left eye and smoke everywhere.

  Then, as if it could get any worse, there was a high-pitched screech as the kapaks leaped out of the darkness toward him. Vanderjack braced for their impact.

  A deafening roar split the night, knocking the two kapaks out of the air with the force. The smoke was blown clear. Vanderjack rolled onto his belly and pushed himself up onto his elbows to see the welcome sight of Star rising up above the battlements, Theodenes straddling his back.

  “The wizard!” Vanderjack coughed, pointing in the general direction of where Cazuvel had gone.

  “Too late for that now,” said Theodenes. “He has the painting and Gredchen and he’s teleported both away from here.”

  Vanderjack felt the world around him spin, and he had to steady himself against one of the crenellations. “Then we’ve lost. We’ve lost everything. Ackal’s Teeth, what do we do now?”

  “A rescue mission, of course! We leave immediately for Wulfgar,” said Theodenes.

  “How could you possibly know that’s where Cazuvel is going?”

  “Because,” said Star, his resonant feline voice dispelling the fog in Vanderjack’s head. “Your ghosts are telling me.”

  Vanderjack managed a smile. Now that was more like it.

  Rivven Cairn instructed Cear to land in the courtyard behind the khan’s palace in Wulfgar.

  “All of this traveling back and forth is distracting me from what I need to be doing, Cear,” she said, patting him on the snout as she dismounted. “Stick around, though. The chariot racing starts tomorrow. I know how much you like that.”

  “I like it more at night,” said the dragon, his jaws dropping with thick, sulfurous spittle. “When everything’s on fire.”

  Rivven smiled. “That’s only when you get carried away, Cear,” she said and walked away from him. Cear was as much in love with fire as she was, but then, he had an excuse. She was the perfect partner for one of the mighty, inflammatory reds.

  Rivven had no doubt that Vanderjack would probably find Cazuvel at some stage. She didn’t believe he’d have any luck taking him on, however. Since Rivven knew he wasn’t truly Cazuvel, she had dedicated some of her time on the flight back from Castle Glayward to figuring out what he was.

  She had come to the conclusion it had something to do with Cazuvel’s field of expertise—summoning, binding, and trafficking with dark forces. The real Cazuvel had been almost as ambitious as Rivven herself, although his reach frequently exceeded his grasp. Early in their career together, Rivven had come to the mage with a task that would have gotten him thrown out of the order of High Sorcery; she had asked him to develop a means to keep the emperor of dragons alive.

  It was five years after she had been recruited to serve under Dragon Highlord Phair Caron. The brutal highlord, handpicked by Ariakas, desired only female highmasters to fly alongside her. Rumors of her romantic preferences were rife, but Rivven paid no attention to them. The half-elf was there because of Ariakas, not Phair Caron.

  In the three hundred forty-seventh year after the Cataclysm, prior to the dragonarmies’ invasion of Ansalon, the cabal of lesser wizards and priests surrounding Ariakas had determined that a safeguard against assassination was needed. Rivven, as a student of Ariakas and a mage in her own right, was among those chosen to produce a solution. Although it wasn’t her field, Rivven knew somebody who might be able to help her.

  Recruiting Cazuvel, Rivven had charged him with the task of developing a contingency plan should a rival or an enemy kill Ariakas. She knew the Queen of Darkness would not simply resurrect Ariakas, even though he was foremost among her highlords. That would imply weakness, and she could not abide weakness. The goddess liked her highlords to take care of themselves. Thus, Rivven intended to give Ariakas a means to return from the dead independent of Takhisis, and to do that, Cazuvel would need to delve into the darkest of magic.

  Cazuvel initially had presented Rivven with the idea of keeping the emperor’s soul safe in a phylactery, but Rivven said no. That was the basis of lichdom, a path that Ariakas would never accept. Even if it meant living forever, Ariakas would not agree to become one of the undead. No, Cazuvel would need to accomplish something similar without necromancy, and therefore, he came up with the idea of the painting.

  It was, in a way, sympathetic magic. Essentially, a painting of Ariakas could be created, as exact a likeness as possible. A powerful link would exist between the painting and the subject of the portrait, one that defied death. In the event of his untimely end, the painting would serve as the means of bringing him back, the template for his resurrection.

  The accuracy of the image was crucial, but the composition of the oils, the tinctures, even the canvas and frame were also critical. Ariakas would need to surrender some of his blood, and at least pose for the portrait. Painting him from memory would never work. Rivven thought she could arrange all of that, but she wanted Cazuvel to test the process first.

  Rivven needed a test subject, somebody to be painted, somebody for who
m the possibility of death was imminent. She could simply have chosen some peasant or minor soldier from the Red Wing, but she had a much better idea.

  In the weeks before the initial invasion of Nordmaar, the first region to experience the true power of the newly organized dragonarmies, Phair Caron had held numerous strategic meetings with her highmasters, with her fellow highlords, and with Ariakas himself. Nordmaar was ideal because it was close enough to Neraka and Kern, where the armies were based, and it represented the nearest free, independent kingdom. Success in Nordmaar meant success elsewhere in Krynn. In a way, Nordmaar was the prototype for the rest of the war.

  The half-elf approached Phair Caron with a plan. Rivven knew an important nobleman in the region, a man with the ear of the king. He was a Solamnic exile, and he kept many secrets. If she could get to him, he could provide valuable information that would benefit the invasion. The highlord agreed to her plan, and the red dragonarmy sat poised to overwhelm Nordmaar’s borders, contingent on Rivven’s intrigues.

  Rivven knew at the time that the nobleman, Baron Gilbert Glayward, had a daughter who was stricken with a fatal malady. She told him she had a means of saving the girl’s life, but it would require his cooperation. The daughter was a natural beauty, his only child; convincing him to betray the king proved easier than she had thought.

  Unfortunately, the experiment failed. The daughter died prematurely, and the painting …

  Pushing away those thoughts of the past, Rivven rushed through the tall, arched doors into the administration wing within the khan’s palace. Servants ran back and forth, mostly getting out of the high-master’s way. She passed a series of open doors, each leading into a room full of scribes, factors, and bureaucrats keeping track of her finances, her taxes, and more. Her destination was the large and opulent chamber at the rear of the wing.

  “Aubec,” she said, nodding at her aide-de-camp. He stood, waiting, beside the enormous table covered in maps and plans. “What news?”

  “All is in readiness for the chariot races tomorrow, Excellency,” the aide said, bowing. “Local warlords, all of whom have paid their taxes in the last week, have their retinues and are on the way. The people of Wulfgar are ablaze with gossip over their favorites in the arena. Your masters of horse and your marshals of arms have selected the best of the best, and—”

  Rivven waved her hand. “It all sounds good,” she said. “Cear and I are looking forward to it.”

  Aubec bowed again and cleared his throat.

  Rivven looked up from the table, absentmindedly shuffling papers about. “Yes?”

  “Forgive my impertinent observation, but you seem more than a little preoccupied, my lady.”

  “Oh, yes. Well. It’s Cazuvel.”

  “The Black Robe?”

  “Yes. Or whoever he is, yes.”

  Aubec hesitated as a scribe ran in, handed something to him, and ran out. He made a notation on his tablet and looked up again at the highmaster.

  “You suspect he might be some kind of imposter, my lady?”

  “I know he is an imposter. And it makes me wonder what else has been going on behind my back while I’ve been so preoccupied with the bloody sellsword and with the baron’s efforts to strain our relationship.”

  “I can assure you, Excellency, Nordmaar is securely in your hands, even now.”

  “That’s what it looks like. But I have mercenaries flying in behind enemy lines on the backs of mythical beasts, fake wizards conjuring up who knows what, and gnomes acting very ungnomelike. Even the baron’s ugly servant is causing problems when she knows better.”

  Aubec shrugged. “I regret I can do no more to help.”

  Rivven exhaled. “At least you’re doing what I ask you to do. Thank you, Aubec. You’re dismissed.”

  The aide-de-camp slipped out of the room, closing the door behind himself. Rivven snapped her fingers and the many lamps and braziers that lit the room burned down to a low smolder, leaving only a single bright candle burning nearby.

  Rivven lifted a large dish full of water onto the table and began reciting the necessary incantations to still the water’s surface and send forth a summons of communication. She wasn’t sure she would get an answer and was, therefore, surprised when the wizard Cazuvel’s face—the imposter’s face—appeared in the water.

  “Sending a sellsword to do your dirty work, High-master?” The mage sneered, lips curled back.

  “Did I? Probably just an afterthought.” She studied the face in the water critically, smiling thinly.

  “Unlikely,” Cazuvel said. “Vanderjack has been the only thing on your mind for over a week. Did you think you could eliminate two threats at the same time this way? Are you that naïve?”

  “You’re one to make accusations of naïveté, wizard,” she said. “I know now you’re not the real Cazuvel. I’m going to find you, and when I do, I’ll cut off your hands and feed them to my sivaks.”

  “Oh, but you are blind, Highmaster! You are too wrapped up in your own ambition. If you weren’t so preoccupied, you might have seen the clues years ago, Rivven Cairn.”

  How odd, Rivven thought. He’s actually gloating. Not only gloating, leaking useful information. Imposter though he was, he had Cazuvel’s insecurity mimicked almost perfectly.

  “You’re just one man, wizard. I have the resources of an entire wing of the red dragonarmy at my disposal. I only need to speak the word, and a flight of dragons and draconians will fall upon you and tear you apart.”

  The wizard laughed; his laughter shook the surface of the water, causing ripples that distorted the wizard’s image. “I think it will not be that easy. Perhaps your own mistakes will fall upon you and tear you apart.”

  “Is that a threat, wizard? I’m the one who contacted you.”

  “Yes, Highmaster. And you will note that I still answered.”

  Astonished at his bravado, Rivven ran several responses through her head, readying at least one of them, but before she could say a word to that effect, the water erupted in her face. A thin, bleach-white fist thrust up through the scrying dish and into her jaw, sending her spinning backward into a row of chairs, trailed by a spray of blood.

  The voice of Cazuvel called out from the water. “I am the greater sorcerer! I am the true heir to the power of the Abyss! You are nothing! Prepare yourself for your doom, Highmaster!”

  Her mouth formed a tight line as Rivven stood and lashed out at the upstart. Fiery magic rose rapidly to the surface of her conscious mind. A blast of white-hot flame incinerated the dish, the water boiling instantly away into vapor, the papers and maps and the table itself bursting into flame. Only then did she collapse back into the broken chairs and, somewhat ruefully, nurse her split lip.

  When Aubec and the other servants raced in, Rivven had already placed the helm back on her head and was on her feet. The table was still on fire. The servants dragged flammable objects and materials away from the scene of destruction. Rivven simply stood to one side and watched, collecting herself and her thoughts.

  “My lady?” asked Aubec without raising his voice. She admired that calm quality about him.

  “Yes, Aubec.”

  “Shall I fetch a new table?”

  “Yes, Aubec.”

  Rivven sighed. Either the wizard masquerading as the real Cazuvel was more powerful than she realized or he was more than just a wizard. If not a wizard, then what was he?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Vanderjack was on a rescue mission.

  Technically, it was the same mission, but prior to that, he had apparently been contracted not to rescue a person but a painting. He was still trying to retrieve the painting, but in addition he had Gredchen to rescue.

  Despite a broken nose, one or two broken ribs, some serious burns, a lingering concussion, and an admitted dependency on a magic sword that he still hadn’t won back, Vanderjack felt excited by the challenge. While the flight to Wulfgar meant at least three stops along the way to hide from dragonarmy scouts, he estimat
ed that he, the gnome, and the dragonne they were riding would arrive in the legendary City of the Plains by sunrise. Then … action.

  The other thing that had Vanderjack excited was that his ghosts had returned, albeit beyond his capacity to perceive them. The dragonne could see them, however, so through a process of Star acting as translator, the ghosts and Vanderjack could maintain a sort of conversation. It was in that manner that the sellsword learned of the truth behind Cazuvel, the black robe mage.

  “So what’s a fetch?” Vanderjack asked after listening to a long explanation of events that left him scratching his head. Star repeated the question and related the answer.

  “A creature of the Abyss,” the Conjuror responded. “It comes at its victim through mirrors.”

  “This one’s more powerful than the stories would lead us to believe they can be,” said the Cook.

  “It has found a means to manifest itself in the material world in the form of its victim, and indeed it has trapped that victim within a mirror,” said the Philosopher.

  “That victim is the true Cazuvel, and while the mirror appears to be keeping him in a form of stasis, the fetch has been drawing power through the mirror,” said the Apothecary.

  “In a sense, the fetch is using Cazuvel as a template through which to clothe itself in a mortal guise, and to cast spells,” said the Balladeer.

  “Magic that comes straight from the Abyss,” said the Cook. “The mirror’s a portal. And this is all connected to the painting of the nobleman’s daughter.”

  Aha! Vanderjack turned to Theodenes. They were flying over the last stretch of jungle before emerging onto the plains, less than an hour from Wulfgar. “Did you realize your cook was such an expert on fiends from the Abyss?”

  “His candor and knowledge are a great deal more inclined toward the arcane and supernatural than they are toward camp cuisine,” conceded Theodenes. “When I hired him in Pentar, I perhaps did not probe his past as much as I might have. When he told me that he had been with the Solamnic forces, I asked him if he could cook, and he said that’s what he did best. At the time, I needed a cook.”