The Sellsword (32 page)

Vanderjack leaned in, helping himself to a chunk of bread on the table. “She fought in the round? Where?”

The first gladiator shrugged. “Some say Lemish. Before she learned magic. Anybody who has seen her fight knows what I’m talking about.”

“She have a good fighting style, does she?”

Another gladiator nodded. “Oh, sure. You seen that sword on her back? It’s an elven sword, so sharp it could cut you in half and you wouldn’t know it until the top half fell to the ground and you saw your legs just standing there.”

One of the other fighters shrugged. “Yeah. You know, she’s half-elf, see. She can pull it off.”

Broyer the lanista stepped in through the door of the tavern and clapped his hands. “All right, boys. Time to
go. We kit up in the arena dungeons, as usual. When it’s showtime, we’ll take the elevators up to the track.”

Outside, it had begun to rain again. That suited Vanderjack fine because it meant he had an excuse to throw a cloak over his head and shoulders as he walked through the city. He couldn’t believe his luck; if what Broyer said was the case, he would be right underneath the arena. His only concern at that point was how to hook up with Theo.

“So, Cordaric,” said Broyer as they approached the center of the city. “If at any point you want to grab a charioteer and pull him off the thing and commandeer one of those chariots, the crowd would love it. Extra pay too.”

Vanderjack nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Good man. Any preferences for kit?”

“Sword. If you’ve got scale mail, that’ll do too.”

Broyer slapped Vanderjack on the back. “I think we can do that.”

The avenue they walked led upward on a ramp at a sharp angle and provided access to the elaborate porticos in the front of the Horseman’s Arena. Mighty pillars supported the arena’s walls, which were essentially the backs of the stadium seating. The arena was modeled after ancient Istarian coliseums, oval in shape and featuring row upon row of stone benches rising up and away from the arena floor. Spectators walked along a colonnade and under the eaves of the portico, after which they would take stairs to reach their seats. Gladiators, on the other hand, were directed down ramps into the tunnels underneath the arena, where it was said the most unfortunate of Rivven Cairn’s prisoners and captives were locked away.

Despite the rain and the rumble of thunder over the
plains to the west, the city was filled with crowds. There were thousands of people there, thronging toward the city center to attend the games and overburdening the Merchants’ Quarter with their patronage.

As Vanderjack’s gladiator band descended into the gloom of the arena dungeons, the sellsword felt the blood in his veins thundering in time with the storm outside.

Armor was strapped on. More wine was drained from clay jugs. Weapons were passed around, and the steady noise of blades and points against grindstones echoed throughout the staging area.

Broyer disappeared for a few minutes then returned. There was a big grin across his hawklike face.

“It’s going to be a special day for you, Ergothian,” he said, looking at all of the others. “All of us!”

“What is it?” said one, lacing up a tunic of chain mail. “News from the arena?”

“Big news,” Broyer said. “It’s not just other pit fighters and gladiators you’re facing this year. No, the high-master’s said to have a big surprise for the ending.”

Vanderjack frowned. That didn’t sound good. “A big surprise? What does that mean?”

The lanista shook with excitement. “Nobody’s saying what it is, but I happened to pass along the hallway where they keep all the caged animals. She’s got something new down there, something nobody’s ever seen before.”

The sellsword rubbed his scalp and feared he knew what that something was. That wasn’t good. “Big cat, brass scales, wings?”

Broyer stopped, gaping at Vanderjack. So did the other gladiators.

“How did you know?” he asked.

Rivven Cairn stood in the palace of the khan, looking out over the rain-swept Horseman’s Arena from the covered section of the balcony.

“Aubec,” she said, lifting the chilled wine to her lips then pausing. “Would you see if our guest would like something more to drink?”

“Yes, my lady,” the aide-de-camp at her side said and crossed over to where Theodenes the gnome sat in the rain, arms folded tightly.

“I most certainly would not like anything more to drink,” the gnome said, soaked to the skin. “In fact, I would very much like to come inside.”

“Do stop complaining, Theodenes,” the highmaster said smoothly. “It’s only water.”

“It has not escaped my observation that you are standing underneath cover,” said Theo. “Nor has it escaped my observation that you only moved me out here when it did, in fact, start to rain, and that I am unable to move due to the shackles you have around my ankles.”

“I don’t want you running off.”

“Where would I run off to? I’m in the middle of your city, and you have armed guards and draconians at every major vantage point. Clearly, I have no hope of running off.”

Rivven smiled. “All right. Aubec, would you have our guest brought in?”

The aide-de-camp signaled to a pair of burly guards who stood by the doors. They walked out, picked up the gnome and his chair, and carried both inside. Theodenes was set down upon a raised marble dais underneath a colorful wall mosaic. The mosaic depicted the legendary Knight of the Sword, Sir Janothon Wicturn, clasping hands with Nordmaaran King Chialpa of the Quintalix. It was a striking image, especially as it depicted a kind
of solidarity and union that was no longer present in Nordmaar under the dragonarmy occupation.

“Is that better?” she asked the gnome, who accepted a towel from Aubec and was drying himself off.

“Hardly,” the gnome snapped. “To be informed by you that not only am I to watch as you subject my pet dragonne to unimaginable tortures in these ridiculous games of yours, but also that you never had any intention of honoring your deal with the sellsword does not speak to a more comfortable future.”

Rivven looked at him with amused eyes over the wine she was savoring.

“Might I also say that I continue to strenuously object to having my mind invaded by your magical arts? You have no right to delve into my thoughts in such a manner.”

Rivven chuckled. “Theodenes, you have an incredible resistance to my divinatory skills, magic or otherwise. As it happens, I didn’t find anything in your head that I didn’t already piece together from the evidence.”

Earlier, her scouts had come to her with news of the dragonne lurking in the hills to the north. She’d sent two of her remaining bozak draconians out to investigate, with orders to use sleep magic on the beast if the reports proved correct. If those spells had already worked on the dragonne before when Cazuvel had captured it, they would likely work again. She was right. The dragonne was safely secured beneath the arena.

But why would the gnome come to Wulfgar? Where was Gredchen? Rivven had tried to work her magic on the gnome to get him to talk, but gnome minds were almost impenetrable; all she had pulled from him was an image of Vanderjack. The sellsword must have tracked Cazuvel there to Wulfgar.

“Do you intend to kill Vanderjack?” asked Theodenes after a long pause, his defiant tone altered, his manner subdued. He folded the towel up neatly and set it aside.

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“My bet would be on him in a fair fight,” Theodenes said in a low voice.

Rivven walked over to the gnome and slapped him across the face almost hard enough to knock him off the chair.

“Fair fight!” she said, chortling, as she handed her glass off to Aubec. “Quaint idea for a gnome.”

She walked back to the balcony, leaving the gnome to rub at his jaw. “See if you can keep quiet for a while,” she said. “I see the chariots are coming out now.”

Theodenes said nothing more as the first race began.

It featured no fewer than a dozen chariots, each drawn by a pair of horses. The horses were well trained, and the charioteers knew how to draw out the crowd’s enthusiasm.

As Rivven watched and the hour drew long, she could feel the gnome’s gaze burning into the back of her head, so when the race was over and the winning chariot was given the thundering applause of the crowd, she came back inside the palace and had Aubec refill her glass. While the aide-de-camp did so, Rivven sat on a divan near the gnome’s chair and studied him. Silently, he was also studying her.

“I have spent ten years solidifying my power structure here in Nordmaar,” she said finally. “I’ve done so despite the rotating roster of dragon highlords, the threat of Solamnic Knights and their allies on my doorstep, the rising costs of maintaining this occupying force, and the upsurge of mercenary activity within the region. You can be sure that when a legendary mercenary such as
Vanderjack takes a job for a nobleman who, until now, has been content to sit in his manor and enjoy the fruits of his exile, and when that mercenary’s former associates come looking for him and mysteriously join his cause, I take notice. I have taken notice of Vanderjack and of you, gnome, but I haven’t made up my mind about you. You amuse me. But you must be careful that I don’t take permanent offense.”

“Right,” said Theodenes. “Be careful.”

She stared at him, waiting for him to say something more, but he bit his tongue. She lifted her chin, stood up, walked over to the balcony, and resumed her watch.

“The main event is about to start,” she announced aloud. “Soon enough we’ll see what Cazuvel and Vanderjack are up to. You might want to come over and watch too.”

She let the guards position the gnome under cover; no sense torturing him any more. Besides, she was growing impatient. The sooner Cazuvel made his move, the better. “It’s time to show yourself, wizard,” she said under her breath. “Show yourself so we can get on with it.”

V
anderjack was soaked in blood and rain.

The crowds were deafeningly loud, calling out, “Ergoth! Ergoth!” He swung his chariot, one of only two remaining on the track, to speed toward the other on a collision course. His lungs burned, and his head was drumming in time with the
thrum-thrum-thrum
of the chariot wheels on the mud. He could see out of only one eye, a cut above the other rendering it swollen shut. But he felt strangely alive.

He was drenched by the persistent rain. He wore an ornate helm to hide his features and was clothed in a scale mail hauberk and black leather trews, heavy boots on his feet. Still, he was recognizable as an Ergothian by the dark color of his skin and because Broyer had provided him with a large leaf-bladed Ergothian sword. It wasn’t long after he entered the arena before he had his own cheering supporters.

Five bands of gladiators, besides his group, had entered. They faced a dozen armored chariots, bristling with spears, with wicked blades extending from the wheels and spikes upon the harnesses. Each band fought
to gain chariots, which began the thunderous race in the hands of single charioteers instructed to defend against all footmen. The entertainment came when gladiators fought each other for the chariots, and when the charioteers lanced the gladiators with their spears or cut them in half as they charged by.

The bands had been whittled down one by one, either at the hands of other gladiators or by charioteers. Vanderjack assumed command of the survivors of his group, huddled near the center of the arena. He had been attacked by a Lemishite savage, a Khurish blade-dancer, and a Kothian minotaur. All fell. The blood and the rain were everywhere, pierced by swords and spears and screaming faces.

Then he saw an opportunity and leaped aboard a chariot whose rider had been wounded by a thrown spear. He could barely hear the rain hammering on his skull for all of the cheering. “Ergoth! Ergoth!” Those gladiators in his band who were still alive joined in, shouting the word even as they traded blows with their opponents or dodged the chariots.

He snapped the reins on the chariot, and the horse leaped to the gallop, sending him barreling along the outer track, where the deep ruts in the clay let the wheels find purchase. He felt the wind fill his lungs, the exhilaration of speed. It was like flying again, like riding Star. Vanderjack lifted his sword, alert for remaining foes; he watched the seventh gate, still unopened, for signs of the dragonne.