The Sellsword (19 page)

“Regrettably, master, the skies are unreachable to the kapaks, and we have no fliers.”

“On the contrary,” Cazuvel said. “You have yourselves.”

Aggurat stiffened. The draconian’s deep and sibilant
voice rose an octave. “But, master, we were given strict instructions to aid and protect you here.”

“I am well protected. The castle is well protected. Indeed, the lands immediately around the walls of the castle are well protected. Your instructions were to serve at my pleasure, were they not?”

“Yes, honored master.”

Cazuvel smiled and leaned back in the chair, letting its wooden confines surround him. “Excellent. Then do as I have commanded. Take wing and patrol the skies above the jungle. Maintain a perimeter of at least a mile, and if you see the sellsword and his companions advancing by air, engage them at your earliest opportunity.”

Aggurat saluted. “As you wish, honored master.”

“You are dismissed.”

Cazuvel watched as the draconian turned and marched out of the room in rigid and disciplined steps. With the Red Watch out from under his feet and the sellsword likely defeated before he and his companions could even arrive at the castle, he could progress with his plans unhindered.

“But first,” he said to himself. “First, I must pay another visit to my dear friend in the mirror.”

V
anderjack was staring at the mountains.

He had seen mountains before, of course. Every mercenary in the last war had seen mountains: the frigid peaks of the Last Gaard Mountains in Ergoth, the barren altitudes of the Khalkist Mountains in Neraka, or the windswept towers of the Kharolis Mountains in Abanasinia. Ansalon was a continent of mountains, forged in the birth of the world, or thrust up from the earth during the Cataclysm. But the Emerald Peaks of Nordmaar were like no other mountains the sellsword had ever seen.

The Sahket Jungle could be described most accurately as a broad, green swath across three different topographical regions. In the east, near the ruined city of Valkinord and the Blood Sea of Istar, the jungle crept across swampy lowland, eventually receding and becoming the Great Moors. In the west, from where the sell-sword and his companions had come, the rainforest rose from the plains, descending for a time into the Yehudia Valley but for the most part remaining level and even. In the north and central Sahket, however, the tropical
vegetation surged up into the dizzying heights of the Emerald Peaks, eventually giving way to the knifelike obsidian and towering basalt columns that formed the last northern ridge before the sea.

Before the Cataclysm, the Emerald Peaks had been islands in the Courrain Ocean, inhabited by what would later become the native peoples of Nordmaar. Temples, shrines, and ancient tribal structures lined gentle slopes. Wide shelves devoted to the growing of rice and other grains were marvels to the seafaring peoples of Istar and Ergoth. Nordmaar’s islands were a fantastical and mysterious land of opportunity rarely visited, for it was alleged that dangerous and savage creatures dwelled there. That, of course, was folklore and rumor swollen beyond reason by sailors. Mighty Istar considered the islands beneath its notice; the Kingpriests barely recognized them at all, in fact, and those few priests who visited them returned with fanciful tales of converting hundreds of natives to the True Faith of Paladine and left it at that.

Nordmaar survived Istar but fell to the same punishment as that holy city more than three hundred years before Vanderjack was born. Whether that was because they failed to observe the gods or simply because they were destined to change remained a subject of controversy among the Aesthetics, but after the fiery mountain smote the Kingpriest and his empire, bringing about the Cataclysm, Nordmaar’s mysterious islands were gone.

The seafloor rose sharply as the continental plates buckled and shifted. The waters receded, leaving behind the plains and swamps that the Solamnics would eventually discover; the islands lifted skyward. Volcanic forces pierced the islands from below, shattering the terraces and tossing aside the temples like
so many tiny pebbles. In their place stood colossal pillars of rock, hung with the remains of the islands like bejeweled fingers reaching up through the earth. When the Sahket Jungle raced like green fire across Nordmaar in the coming decades, it laced those fragments with vines and creepers as it did the rest of the land. The result was a wall of trees and rock that had no equal elsewhere on Krynn.

Theodenes leaned across the dragonne’s back, breaking into the sellsword’s reverie. “Quite magnificent, are they not?” the gnome said, shouting over the beating of the dragonne’s wings.

“This close, I suppose they are,” Vanderjack shouted back. “You can see them from the west, but you can’t really make out any details. It’s just a wall of green and brown. How do the trees get so far up?”

“It’s the heat,” said Theodenes. “The tree line is much farther up the mountains because of the elevated temperature here in Nordmaar, as opposed to the Kharolis or Khalkists.”

“Are you making that up, or do you actually know what you’re talking about?”

“He’s a gnome,” interjected Gredchen, just as loud as the other two. “Even a gnome warrior knows more about this kind of thing than most of us humans.”

“Quite so,” said Theodenes. “In fact, gnome education is far superior to that of any other race on Krynn, even that of the elves. It comes of not busying ourselves with world conquest, frivolous fancies, or magic.”

“I thought it was because you were cursed by the Smith God to be obsessed with everything from water-wheels to tinderboxes,” Vanderjack said.

“While it is true that many of my kinsgnomes are considerably more attuned to the scientific qualities
and properties of the world, I would not call it a curse,” Theodenes replied. “Theological experts within Mount Nevermind have attributed this belief to ignorance on the part of the other peoples. That, or pathological envy.”

“Right,” said Vanderjack, grinning. “We’re all jealous of you.”

“As you should be,” said Theodenes, ignoring the sarcasm in Vanderjack’s voice.

“All right,” Gredchen said, lifting a hand. “I think we’re closing in on where the castle’s located. It’s in the foothills of the Emerald Peaks and rests upon a solid base of bedrock. Baron Glayward’s family chose it hundreds of years ago for its defensive advantages.”

“I do not wish to interrupt your fascinating conversation,” said Star, his voice loud and resonant. “But we are about to be engaged by the enemy.”

The sellsword, the baron’s aide, and the gnome all looked around, shielding their eyes from the afternoon sun and scanning the horizon to catch sight of what the dragonne was warning them about. Vanderjack was the first to spot them, flying low over the trees to the southeast, in the general direction of where Gredchen said Castle Glayward was.

“Draconians!” he called out, pointing at them. “Sivaks, by the size of them. Ackal’s Teeth, that’s all we need.”

“The highmaster is said to have a small cadre of sivaks as part of a gift from the emperor,” said Gredchen. “Red Watch sivaks, hailing from the City of Darkness itself.”

“Red Watch?” Vanderjack asked.

“Red Watch!” repeated Theodenes.

Vanderjack thought back to his dream and to his recollection of the shapeshifting draconians who had
replaced his war band back in Southern Ergoth. They, too, bore red dragonarmy insignia. Theo must have known that the Red Watch sivaks were the emperor’s elite, but he probably didn’t know they were responsible for the death of his beloved saber-toothed tiger kitten. It might not be the time to impart that information. On the other hand …

“Theo,” Vanderjack shouted, drawing his sword in a swift motion and readying it for when the sivaks came close enough. “There’s something I needed to tell you.”

“I cannot possibly imagine what that would be,” Theodenes replied, gripping his polearm tightly, his thumb pressing a button that added a foot of razor sharp steel to the end of the weapon. “We are about to engage in battle with draconians, so idle conversation is most likely nonefficacious.”

“Forget that,” Vanderjack said as the Sword Chorus manifested around him. They had a marvelous ability to keep up with the swift speed of the dragonne, who had angled himself into an interception trajectory with the approaching sivaks. “I had a dream,” he shouted to Theodenes, “about the job we were on during the war. About you and Star. I think Red Watch sivaks killed my men and replaced them and then killed your cat.”

Theodenes spun about, staring straight at the sell-sword, his already-tanned face darkening. “What in the name of the Great Engine would possess you to tell me that now?” he shrieked.

Vanderjack shrugged. “I don’t know. Better now than never, right?”

The gnome turned away. “We will talk more about this,” he called back, lifting his polearm-turned-spear in readiness.

“That was hardly fair,” said the Aristocrat, finally voicing his opinion.

“A most unusual and unorthodox strategy to engender fury in the gnome against the enemy,” said the Cavalier.

“It has a good chance of backfiring,” said the Balladeer.

The Cook was close by, spectral features blurring and shifting as if his ethereal form were affected by the wind. “Vanderjack. I have a suspicion about those sivaks.”

“Perhaps you suspect that they’re going to attack us,” Vanderjack said, out of earshot of the others. “Because I think I figured that out myself.”

“I shall find out if the Cook is right,” said the Hunter peremptorily. Heedless of the altitude or gravity, the Hunter’s spirit raced away through the air, away from Star and toward the sivaks. Vanderjack watched with a frown as the ghost flew unseen around the draconians, who were less than a hundred yards from the dragonne, and a heartbeat later was back among the others in the Chorus.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” the Cook said.

“Right about what? What are you talking about?” said Vanderjack. He estimated that they had about thirty seconds before the draconians would be in striking range.

“They are the same draconians,” said the Hunter.

Vanderjack narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Those four are the Red Watch draconians who killed your mercenary friends,” explained the Cook.

“Well, then,” said Vanderjack. “This should be entertaining on all kinds of levels.”

He was aware then of Gredchen crying out, “Here they come!” and the gnome responding with “Strike
from above!” As he turned Lifecleaver around in his right hand, letting the years of martial training bound tightly within his muscle memory take control, Vanderjack also heard the mighty roar of Star. It was a paean of grief forged from the failure of the great cats of the Dragon Isles, Star’s ancestors, to defend the eggs of the metallic dragons. It was a soul-wrenching scream that immediately preceded the loud, violent collision between the sivaks and the dragonne’s passengers.

Two of the sivaks were sent reeling backward by the shock of Star’s roar. The other two, one of whom was a very large and physically impressive specimen with the markings of a draconian commander, shrugged it off and swung upward with their huge serrated great-swords. Star evaded those weapons, but in doing so had to twist sideways. Gredchen had to seize hold of Star’s fur to keep from flying off his back. Theo, who had his polearm braced for the engagement, thrust it forward and let Star’s motion and the sivak’s attack keep him in place. The spearhead caught the sivak commander’s wingman in the shoulder, right beneath the curving metal plate that protected that part of his body. Black blood splashed forth along the length of the polearm, whisked into a froth by the velocity of the combatants; Vanderjack turned his head away to avoid befouling his eyes.

“Now!” said the Cavalier.

Still looking away, Vanderjack lifted himself into a straddling position on the dragonne’s broad back and thrust his sword downward, into the space between Star’s wing and his head, right where the sivak commander had appeared. Their swords clashed together. The serrated edges of the sivak’s weapon caught Lifecleaver, the force of the collision carrying upward into
Vanderjack’s arms. Lifecleaver, forged from star metal, was not so easily pinned; Lifecleaver continued through the serrations and severed them from the sivak’s blade. The triangular remnants were sent up and away, one of them catching Gredchen in the thigh. The sivak flew right over the dragonne’s neck. Just as quickly as they had come together, they were all separated again, and Star flew down and down.

“Ready for the next strike!” Vanderjack yelled. He spared a moment to look over at Theo, who still held the polearm, slick with draconian ichor. Star was unharmed. Gredchen was binding her leg with a strip of cloth.

Vanderjack’s mind was racing. If they were the same draconians who had, years earlier, brought death to his band and killed Theodenes’ feline companion, what kind of forces were at work to bring them into contact again, so far from Ergoth?

“Why now?” he found himself saying to the Sword

Chorus. “What’s going on?”