The Sellsword (30 page)

“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?

V
anderjack 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 estimated 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.”

Star rumbled his agreement. “The one known as Etharion is more than he appears to be,” said the dragonne. “The ghosts are making every effort to distract us from knowing this.”

“Etharion,” asked Vanderjack directly. “How does a cook who served time in the Solamnic army—the army voted most likely never to work with a wizard, ever, even if asked nicely—know so much about this kind of thing?”

Star related the ghost’s response with a chuckle. “He says he has been ‘around a lot’ and ‘knows a little bit about everything.’”

“Fantastic, Theo. You hired a journeyman, not a cook. Not a bad thing for us, as it turns out.”

“Not so good for him,” pointed out Theo. “Considering he was run through with a sword and killed by you.”

“Look, how many times do I need to apologize for that?”

Star cocked his head, listening to the dead cook. The dragonne said, “He tells me it has placed quite a damper on his cooking, but he is pleased to be able to help in some way.”

Vanderjack squinted. “Whatever floats his ghostly boat, I suppose. All right. So Cazuvel’s a fetch, using a magic mirror to cast evil spells. And the real Cazuvel is the one who fashioned the enchanted portrait of the baron’s beautiful daughter. Got it.” Vanderjack rubbed his itchy scalp. “Ask the ghosts,” he said to Star, “what they think we need to do to defeat this feckless fetch.”

“The fetch may only last for a short time outside the Abyss without a functioning portal,” said the Philosopher.

“The mirror is, for all intents and purposes, no longer sufficient for Cazuvel to maintain his power,” said the Conjuror.

“I managed to trick him into taking the painting,” the Cook said. “He wants to try and replicate its powers. I didn’t think he would take Gredchen. I’m sorry about that.”

“He goes to Wulfgar,” explained the Cavalier, “because he needs a large number of souls departing their bodies within a very short time in order to solidify his dark magic.”

“It turns out Wulfgar has a huge chariot race and gladiator battle every year,” said the Balladeer. “Which, this year, is today.”

A brief, ominous silence reigned.

“But Rivven Cairn is a pretty powerful wizard herself,” said Vanderjack. “Won’t she sense him in her city and then give us all a display of her magic-fueled wrath?”

“If we are fortunate,” said Theodenes. “But what about Gredchen and the painting?”

“We need a plan,” said Vanderjack aloud. “That’s an understatement,” he added to himself.

Somehow the ghosts must have heard him because they all nodded sagely.

The city of Wulfgar was founded only a hundred and fifty years earlier. Before that, the land on which Wulfgar stood was a campsite for the native Huitzitlic tribesmen during the winter months. Solamnic Knights garrisoned at the nearby fortress of Qwes warred with those natives, but once peace had been established, they drew up plans for a major settlement.
In less than two years, natives and settlers working together erected the mighty walls and sturdy buildings. Initially designed to repel ogres from the south, they proved to be no match for something they had no concept of defending against: an airborne attack by the dragonarmies.

Ten years earlier, when the Red Wing swung out of Neraka and into Nordmaar, the city of Wulfgar was taken completely by surprise. The Solamnic Knights had already lost Qwes to Highlord Phair Caron, and those survivors who limped back to Wulfgar found it occupied by Highmaster Rivven Cairn and the Twelfth Red Dragonarmy, most of whom were kapak draconians and mercenaries from Neraka.

Wulfgar was a mile in diameter, constructed as an almost perfect circle. The palace was in the center, on a raised plateau at least twenty feet above the wide paved streets that surrounded it. Also upon that plateau, accessible to the residents of the city by enormous ramps closed off by gates when not in use, was the Horseman’s Arena. Its proximity to the palace and its central position spoke volumes of its importance to the city’s population before the war. After the occupation, its importance had become twisted into an obsession, and simple horse races and mock battles had become bloody reenactments.

Getting into the city was not going to be the difficult part. Theodenes had a cousin in the Guild of Sewers, Waterways, Reservoirs, and Wells who had liked to talk about his job when they were younger. They’d go underground, even though it meant leaving the dragonne behind. They instructed Star to stay in a cluster of lightly wooded hills a half mile north of the city while they crossed overland to the city walls.

Vanderjack’s cracked ribs slowed their pace. For once, Theodenes’ short legs could easily keep up with the limping sellsword. Yet they reached the walls before the half-light of dawn. Vanderjack heard the sounding of horns and the clatter of horse hooves along the main roads leading into the city, out of sight as they crouched beside the century-old stone.

“I hadn’t counted on this,” said Theodenes, looking down the curving length of the outside wall.

Vanderjack was catching his breath. “Hadn’t counted on what?”

“No outside sewer grates, no reservoirs, nothing.”

“It’s a city; there’s always a sewer grate.”

Theodenes shook his head. “I believe all of the city’s effluent, all of the sewer works and so forth, are inside the walls, directed underneath the city proper.”

“Clever Solamnics,” muttered Vanderjack.

“So either we try the front gates,” said Theo, “or we go over the wall.”

“We’ll be a little conspicuous, won’t we? Mercenary and gnome.”

Theodenes stroked his beard. “Then we do both.”

Vanderjack looked at him. “We split up?”

Theodenes nodded. “I scale the walls. It will be a simple matter for me, especially with my mountaineering skills and well-honed physical prowess. You go around to one of the gates and find a way in. I suggest the west gate because it leads straight into the merchants’ quarter.”

“Sure. Nobody will notice a tall black bloody-nosed guy in an arming doublet tripping over himself.” He paused. “And we’re meeting where? And you know all of this local geography how?”

Theodenes sniffed. “Because I make it my business to know about my areas of operation. Now let’s see. We
want to attend the chariot race because that’s where Cazuvel is most likely to reveal himself. Correct?”

“That’s right. Hopefully, he’ll reveal himself, Gredchen, the painting, my sword, and anything else worth revealing.”