The Sellsword

V
ANDERJACK WAS IN NO MOOD
TO BE HECKLED BY GHOSTS
.

“You won’t get any more steel just by sitting here!”
said the Balladeer.
“This isn’t doing you any good,”
said the Apothecary.
“You’re not a warrior; you’re a drunk,”
said the Cavalier.
“Drinking is no substitute for true thought,”
advised the Philosopher.
“True thought? He hasn’t had a true thought in months,”
said the Aristocrat.
“No prey in sight, so no motivation,”
said the Hunter.
“The sword’s magic is wasted on him,”
said the Conjuror.
Vanderjack called the ghosts the Sword Chorus. So long as he gripped Lifecleaver’s hilt, the souls of those who had not yet been ready to die haunted him. Seven souls had been snared by the sword’s curse, and they had come with the sword when he acquired it. The legend had it that with two more souls, Lifecleaver would break. So far, at least in his opinion, everybody he had killed with the blade had deserved it.
Vanderjack made every effort not to test the legend’s veracity.

T
RACY
H
ICKMAN
Presents
THE
A
NVIL OF
T
IME

The Sellsword
Cam Banks

The Survivors
Dan Willis
(November 2008)                 

Renegade Wizards
Lucien Soulban
(March 2009)             

This book is dedicated to my
wife, Jessica, whose love and
support has kept me alive
through all of my mercenary
endeavors.

Palanthas
, 422 AC

T
he Journeyman was surrounded by ghosts. He sat at a small desk in one of the rarely-used archival basements of the Great Library of Palanthas. The shelves were crammed tight with volumes and reached all the way up to a ceiling shrouded with cobwebs. Bearing the soot from a thousand years of oil lamps and the dust from a thousand years of being barely browsed, the archival basement was creepy enough. The ghosts made it downright macabre.

The Journeyman’s lamp, perched on the edge of the desk between a pile of historical treatises and a large omnibus of Nordmaaran horse poetry, sputtered as yet another spectral figure sailed by. They were the ghosts of Aesthetics who chose not to pass on through the Gate of Souls to the hereafter, but instead preferred to continue their work in the library, just as they had when they were living.

The ghosts were visible only by the light of a naked flame, which revealed the translucent outlines of dead librarians drifting back and forth. Upstairs, where the living Aesthetics worked, the ghosts were never glimpsed; the
magical lamps set into the fine polished desks of the East Wing couldn’t reveal their presence. Down in the basement where all the old and unused books came to die, a candlelit parade of souls was omnipresent.

The Journeyman never spoke with the ghosts. He wasn’t sure they’d respond or even hear him, for one thing, and he couldn’t escape the crawling feeling that went up and down his spine whenever he was close to one. Others had, or so he assumed, because the Senior Council of Aesthetics that presently ran the day-to-day affairs of the library included at least one spectral representative at its table.

The Journeyman rubbed his temples with aching, calloused fingers and tried to put the ghosts out of his mind. Some months earlier, he was assigned by the late Bertrem, former head of the library, to the remote City of Lost Names. There he was instructed to use the mysterious Anvil of Time’s time-traveling properties to investigate the past and uncover the truth behind many of history’s legends. Bertrem had chosen him, he said, because he was unremarkable in appearance yet knew a little about a lot of things. The Journeyman was taken aback by the unexpected honor, but one does not turn down the head of the library.

After one or two excursions, the Journeyman determined that he didn’t have a large enough reference collection on site at the Anvil, so he made his way back to Palanthas. With the help of a fisherman who had turned to smuggling under the rule of the Dark Knights, the Journeyman stole into the city and to the Great Library.

At the Anvil, he had nobody around to keep him from his research, neither alive nor dead. In the library, on the other hand …

He heard the hurried
slap-slap-slap
of an Aesthetic’s sandals coming down the basement stairs. The ghosts swiftly vanished into the darkness as the new arrival emerged into the lamplight.

“There you are!” she said. Stella Cordaric, exotic with her raven hair and caramel-colored skin, was one of the living Aesthetics. One slender hand grasped the bunched-up hem of her robes; the other waved in her usual loosely frantic way.

“Yes?” the Journeyman said, noting her excitement. “Trouble?”

“In the streets,” she said, words running together excitedly like a gnome who’d been given a three-function wrench for Yule. “The Dark Knights. All of Lord Kinsaid’s occupation forces. Somebody heard they were getting ready to leave. They’re cleaning house.”

The Journeyman squinted. “Leave? But they’ve had the city under martial law for over thirty years. Why now all of a sudden? Is something happening? Should we get out? We should get out.”

Stella grinned, showing gleaming evidence of Ergothian pirates somewhere in her family tree. “No, this is good news!” she said. “The Dark Knights leaving? No more curfews! Come on upstairs, we’re all of us watching through the windows.”

The Journeyman started gathering together his papers, tossing books and scrolls into a worn knapsack. “No, no. I have to get back north. I can’t stay here. Not in another city being invaded.” He shuddered at the memory of a previous excursion through time.

“Another city? Invaded?” she asked, watching him pack.

“Never mind. Are you sure there’s nobody chasing them out? Is it the Knights of Solamnia?”

Stella looked back in the direction of the stairs. “I’d know more if I were still up there watching out the windows.” When she turned her head to look at him again, she was grinning even wider.

“No. I think I really need to leave. Is it safe on the streets?”

“Maybe. Look, do you need some help? Some of the spirit Aesthetics are down here, right? They’re very helpful. They’re always helping me.”

The Journeyman, standing, cocked his head to one side. “What? The ghosts? No. How could they?” He gave the darkness a searching glance—no sign of them anymore—and stuffed the final sheaf of papers into his knapsack.

Stella shrugged. “Just a suggestion. I’ve always liked ghosts. The way they move things around. You know. Like this.” She wriggled her fingers at him.

“No, I don’t know what you mean. Look, Stella. Is there a way to the waterfront? I need a boat. The Dark Knights must have the whole of the Old City locked down.”

“Hmm. Let me think. Oh! You know, if they’re leaving, and it’s the Solamnic Knights coming in—though I think I heard it was some lady wizard—not Jenna, the other one—anyway, if it’s the Solamnic Knights, then my brother Etharion’s probably leaving too. The Legionnaire? You met him. He smuggled you into the city last week.”

The Journeyman shouldered his knapsack and lifted the oil lamp from the table. Shadows skittered across the shelves, and he was sure he saw a row of ghostly faces watching him. “He was your brother? The trout fisherman with the bad teeth?”

Stella shook her head. “Those teeth are fake. Yes, that’s him! He’s with the Legion of Steel. I’m sure he
can smuggle you out again; he’s a master of disguises. His Legion cell was only in Palanthas to watch the Dark Knights, anyway. If the Solamnics are coming in, he’ll be following Lord Kinsaid and his men out.”

“That will have to do,” the Journeyman said, following Stella to the stairs. “I appreciate it. I’m sorry. I can’t afford to be caught … all my notes. You understand.”

Stella turned and punched the Journeyman in the upper arm, making him almost drop the knapsack. “Silly. Of course I understand. Now come on! You’ll have time to watch the liberation of the city from the windows while I send word to Etharion. One of the Aesthetics is baking cookies. He can show you the recipe, and then you could help him. You’re multitalented.”

Rubbing the shoulder, the Journeyman let out a long, tortured breath. “I’m a terrible cook, Stella. The library in Solanthus was nothing like this. And Bertrem must be rolling in his grave.”

Stella giggled. The Journeyman followed the
slap-slap-slap
of her sandals up the stairs, leaving the ghosts to their silent routine in the absence of his lamplight.