The Sellsword (25 page)

Aggurat nodded, following Rivven Cairn as she raced through the doors. The great hall stood quiet for a moment after the highmaster and the sivak commander left, apart from the deep and rhythmic breathing of the dragonne. Then, slowly, the massive brass-scaled forelegs of Star began to twitch and stir.

V
anderjack was surrounded by stars.

On the roof of the main tower of Castle Glayward, the sellsword stood with the sivak thug waiting for the red dragnarmy highmaster to arrive. It was early evening already, the sun having sunk beneath the western horizon. Solinari was a huge silver orb just cresting the horizon to the east. Red Lunitari was absent, though he knew it would likely rise later in the night. The sky was clear, and the stars were bright and plentiful.

“Nice evening for it,” he said to the sivak.

The sivak said nothing.

Vanderjack flexed his forearms a little, but the iron manacles the sivak had clapped over his wrists did not budge. He looked around a little more, seeing the Emerald Peaks limned with silver light by the rising moon, and several miles to the south he could just barely make out the lights of the city of North Keep, capital of Nordmaar and home to the young prisoner king, Shredler Kerian.

There wasn’t much point in making a break for it, and while he had dispatched the sivak down on the entrance
hall balcony, the one next to him was far too conscious of the sellsword’s presence. So Vanderjack waited.

His anger and frustration at the revelation of the truth about the baron’s beautiful daughter had subsided, replaced mostly by a different anger and frustration. He had actually been looking forward to being in the company of an attractive, appreciative woman for once. Gredchen had occasionally proven herself to be good company, all things considered, but she was the complete opposite of the beauty in the painting.

Thinking back to the baron’s manor, he recalled the empty space in the baron’s living room, where something that deserved pride of place should be mounted. Obviously, the painting belonged there.

Had she died at a youthful age? Was that it? Was that really his daughter, only a memory, or an image in a frame?

Standing there with the sivak beside him, another thought entered his aching head.

“Were you ever on Southern Ergoth?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the draconian.

The sivak looked back at him, and it spoke. “Yes,” it said.

“Which one were you?”

“What do you mean?”

Vanderjack cleared his throat and repeated. “Which one were you? Were you the kender? Or the dwarf? One of the two boys from Coastlund?”

The sivak looked away. Then, “I was the dwarf.”

“I knew it. I
knew
it, you scaly bastard. You were the ones who killed the rest of my band and replaced them. You murdered my men and you murdered the cat and you would have done me in as well if I hadn’t been wandering off drunk.”

“Yes. That was us. It was a job, sellsword. We are draconians of the Red Watch. We do what we are told to do, what we are
paid
to do.” The sivak went on. “My brother in the Red Watch—the one you killed on the stairs inside—how do you feel about that one dying? Do you think I should become angry at you for ending his life?”

Vanderjack ground his teeth together. He couldn’t believe he was debating ethics with a sivak. “Where in the blazes is that highmaster?” Vanderjack said at last, changing the subject.

As if in answer to his question, Rivven Cairn came up the stairs from below, followed by the one-armed sivak commander Aggurat. Vanderjack winced when he saw the draconian, knowing he was responsible for the creature’s missing limb—one more enemy probably wishing to kill him.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Rivven announced airily. She had her helm tucked under one arm, and her red cape flapped in the breeze. Her wavy blonde hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, making her pointed ears quite noticeable. Vanderjack wondered just how old she was. Those with elf blood were known for extremely long lives, even when it was muddied with the blood of humans as hers was.

Vanderjack waited.

“It has come to my attention through information passed on to me from Commander Aggurat here that Cazuvel and I are working at cross-purposes.”

“Yes, he doesn’t seem like a very trustworthy person. What gave him away? Was it the black outfit he tends to wear?”

“I don’t have time to listen to your mercenary banter.”

“I’m sorry. Please, continue with your monologue.”

Rivven curled the fingers on one hand together, and a flame began to dance and skip in her upward-facing palm.

Vanderjack raised his hands. “All right, all right. Save the fiery doom for somebody else. I’m not all that fond of black robe mages myself. So what’s the change in plans?”

The highmaster extinguished the flame and set the hand on her hip. “I was thinking, why am I keeping this man alive? Why don’t I just kill him on the spot? It can’t be your winning personality, and there are many more mercenaries out there who I could hire for less bother.”

Rivven started to pace back and forth as she continued to talk. “So I have come to this conclusion: I have no good use for you. You can’t pay me back what you owe me for all the trouble you’ve put me through because all your money is tied up in this job you’re on, so I’ve decided….”

The two sivaks moved up and stood on either side of Vanderjack, who flexed his forearms again in the vain hope that he might somehow miraculously break free of the manacles. “You know, I can easily lower my terms.”

“Yes, or we can barter your terms. Which brings me back to Cazuvel. I’m very annoyed with him. I’ve decided I’d rather have Cazuvel out of the way than have you and your magic sword under my stewardship. Cazuvel has your magic sword, and it seems to me that you could do us both a favor by retrieving it—and killing the Black Robe.”

Vanderjack cocked his head to one side. “So you
are
hiring me.”

“No, just this one job. A trade for your life.”

“Back up just a moment. First you’re taking me to Wulfgar … then you’re not … then you’re thinking of having these two thugs toss me off the roof, and now you’re not.”

“Yes.”

The thought of getting Lifecleaver back filled Vanderjack with a renewed sense of hope. Taking on a Black Robe of Cazuvel’s stature without his sword was risky, but anything was better than joining up with Rivven Cairn.

“Then I’m in.”

Rivven waved her hand, and Commander Aggurat unclasped the manacles on Vanderjack’s wrists. Vanderjack rubbed the raw spots where the iron had chafed and dusted himself off. He gave the two draconians an annoyed look and stepped forward.

“Your payment is the sword,” warned Rivven. “And then we’ll be even. But I need evidence that Cazuvel is dead, so once you’re finished with the job, hang this around his neck and set it alight. It will send the body straight to me.”

She handed the sellsword a small, tightly wrapped parcel of what smelled like spices, tied with black flax and suspended from a leather cord. It was reminiscent of the deodorizing herbs the Saifhumi used to drop into footlockers on board ship to keep the smell of rot away.

“Burn this and the body will go straight to you. All right, I promise. Right. Do you trust me to keep my promise?”

Rivven smiled. “Look at yourself. You’re a wreck. Personally, I think you’ll fail, but then that’s another problem out of my hair. I think you want your sword
and you want your freedom. The stakes are balanced in my favor.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So where is this Cazuvel now?”

Rivven shrugged. “He won’t be around much longer, if he’s even still in the castle. Please, give him my regards.”

With that, Rivven put her thumb and forefinger to her temple and closed her eyes. A heartbeat later, an enormous dragon rose from behind the battlements, great red wings beating at the air. Vanderjack had not seen a red as large as that for years. The dragonfear flowed from the red dragon like ice water, but Vanderjack gritted his teeth.

“Cear. This is Vanderjack the sellsword. He’s working for us—for the moment. Remember his face, and get a lock on his scent. If he crosses us, I’m going to let you go looking for him.”

Vanderjack waved. “Always a pleasure.”

Cear exhaled, a hot and dry breath that rid the tower roof of the cool, moist air. Then the dragon drew the breath in again through his nostrils, and his wide, reptilian jaws almost seemed to smile. “I will hope for the treat.”

Rivven approached the dragon, and vaulted easily into the polished bronze and black leather dragon saddle strapped to his back. The sivaks flew up and found a perch behind the saddle itself, looking down on Vanderjack indifferently.

“Get the sword, Ergothian,” Rivven said as the dragon lifted up from the slate roof. “And kill the wizard. Then go home—wherever home is—and stay out of trouble.”

“Get sword, kill wizard. Right.”

She placed the helm on her head, gave a final
command, and the dragon threw himself into the air with a mighty thunderclap of his wings. The force of the departure almost knocked Vanderjack off the battlements, but he steadied himself and let out a long breath.

“Ackal’s Teeth,” he muttered. “What have I got myself into now?”

Theodenes stared up at the stars and let the blood flow back into his extremities.

He was lying on the side of the Baron’s Road. The road wound its way up the jungle-covered foothills of the Emerald Peaks toward Castle Glayward. It was edged by wet grass and mud, which meant that Theo’s back was soaked with muddy water.

Theo’s muscles and tendons had released after hours of painful tension and an inability to move. Even the tiny muscles around his eyes had been rigid, and he saw nothing but an out-of-focus blur for the bulk of the time he was paralyzed.

His hearing had been unaffected, however, so he had heard the exchanges between Vanderjack and Gredchen, between the two of them and the highmaster, and the outbursts of the wizard. He had heard everything that happened.

He was furious. And with his mouth, larynx, and lungs free of paralysis, Theodenes was able to loudly vent his displeasure.

Gredchen came running over from the trees. She heard the gnome screaming expletives in rapid-fire succession the likes of which had not been heard outside of a gnome research and design committee exploring the benefits of curse words as sonic weapons. The explosion of expletives had come on so suddenly and with such
violence that the baron’s aide dropped the herbs and fruits she’d been collecting to see what kind of monster had come lurching out of the rainforest to devour the hapless gnome.

“Theo!” she called, almost tripping over a fallen tree and stopping beside him in a crouch. “What is it? Are you hurt? Did you see something?”

“Hurt? See something? You blistering imbecile! You unfathomably moronic she-creature! Of course I’m hurt! I was paralyzed for three point eight hours and forced to endure irrational and inconceivably humiliating acts on the part of Vanderjack and even you! Hurt? See something? Thundering pigswill!”

Gredchen cleared her throat. “Well, yes. I apologize for the bit with the wagon and the sheet over your head, but—”

“And all of that carrying on with the highmaster and the wizard and that brainless thug of a mercenary, who I should have had killed years ago!”

Gredchen went off a short distance, then returned with a piece of cloth she’d bundled up. Unfolding it, she revealed a pair of ripe nectar plums and a cluster of unpeeled tree nuts. “Hungry?” she asked meekly.

Theodenes pulled himself into a sitting position. “Hungry? Are you categorically psychotic?”

“Well, I thought you might be hungry after all of the paralysis.”

Theodenes took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He opened them again, looked at Gredchen, then looked at the food.

“I am
starving.”

“Good. Then I’ll prepare this and we can start to make plans for going back into the castle.”

Theodenes sputtered. “Back into the castle? Witless
harridan! We have escaped with our lives from the dragonarmy highmaster of Nordmaar and her draconian elite. What could possibly make you want to go back inside?”