The Sellsword (36 page)

“Cear!” she screamed, turning around, looking away from the tremendous black vortex, seeing everything through a shimmering veil of energy. She couldn’t move, couldn’t step out of the wall of the fiery column, and watched helplessly as the red dragon tried to recoil.

Ropes of orange and cobalt blue energy snaked out and seized the dragon. Where she had touched him, his scales grew thick, calcified, and crumbled into dust as if he had aged a thousand years. The vortex howled, and her dragon was pulled sharply inward, into the middle of it. It drew him in, and he was gone, lost to the Abyss.

“Rivven, I’m sorry,” said the Cook.

“Damn you!” she screamed at the ghost. “The sword …?”

“It’s the only thing keeping you alive,” said the Cavalier.

“All this power!”

“Never really yours to take,” said the Conjurer.

She opened her eyes again and looked out at the platform. Vanderjack was getting to his feet again. One leg hung limp; one arm was broken in several places. He looked at her and lifted a finger in her direction.

“I want my sword back,” she heard him say.

She held the sword out before her and pointed it at him. “You can’t have it. I need it!”

“That’s what I used to think,” the sellsword said, taking a step forward, “until a really ugly girl, who by rights should have been a really pretty girl, told me that I didn’t need it nearly as bad as I thought I did.”

“Don’t come any closer,” she said. “I’m warning you, Ergothian. I’ll not surrender this power!”

“This is why history will forget about you, Rivven,” said the Cook.

Rivven didn’t have time to ask him what he meant by that. She looked at the ghosts arrayed about her, their spectral visages sorrowful, and when she looked back at Vanderjack, he was running at her.

The fool! she thought. He’s running straight into—

Vanderjack leaped at Highmaster Rivven Cairn, the star metal blade in her hands piercing through his scale mail shirt, tunic, his ruined chest, and his heart. His mouth was near her ear, his ragged voice barely a whisper.

“Room in there for one more?” he said and she knew he wasn’t talking to her.

With his last gasp, Vanderjack shoved himself away from the highmaster, taking the sword with him. She saw the ghosts descend upon him; they faded from her sight, and all that she heard was the howling siren of the Abyss behind her. The vortex fell in upon itself, an implosion of light and sound. Like a flame deprived of oxygen, the column of nightmares was extinguished. It yawned open one last time.

Rivven followed her dragon down into darkness.

V
anderjack was dying.

He lay on the blasted stone surface of the raised platform, alone. Lifecleaver jutted upward from his chest. The pain was indescribable, but death had yet to claim him. He wondered if, by some bizarre stroke of luck, the sword had completely missed any vital organs and was just lodged in a rib or something like that. But every beat of his heart flooded his chest with a sickening warmth, blood pumping out of the wound formed by the sword.

It can’t take this long to die. Death should be instantaneous. Wasn’t that the way a soldier was supposed to die? He couldn’t have asked for a better way to go, though. Run through with his own life-stealing sword, sending the highmaster off to her doom, somewhere in the Abyss. It was glorious. But it was taking far too long.

“Vanderjack,” said a voice nearby.

He opened his eyes. He was surrounded by his ghosts. For some reason, they seemed brighter, larger, more real. He saw features on their faces that he’d
never seen before. The Hunter’s hawklike face, with phoenix feathers arrayed behind his ear. The Cavalier’s mighty barrel chest, that helm with the curving bison horns he’d always kind of ignored. The Philosopher’s thin, ascetic features, quizzical movements, like a praying mantis.

“Vanderjack,” said the voice again. Etharion, the journeyman cook, was kneeling beside him too. “You won.”

“I did?” Vanderjack groaned, wincing at the pain. “The portal to the Abyss is sealed?”

“Yes,” said Etharion. “But I don’t think anybody’s going to remember. It was so chaotic.”

“Typical,” said Vanderjack. “Save the world and nobody’s paying attention.”

“They
are,” said Etharion, indicating the ghosts standing or floating around them. “I think they’re waiting for you.”

“The legend,” Vanderjack said.

“Right. If the sword is used to kill somebody who should not die, they join the Sword Chorus. Nine lives.”

Vanderjack groaned, hearing footsteps. He turned his head, trying to fight through the fog of pain and increasingly blurred vision. Somebody was approaching.

“Vanderjack? Vanderjack!”

It was Gredchen. He spoke her name, and she was there, kneeling beside the Cook. Of course, she couldn’t see the ghosts, could she?

“You saved my life,” she said.

“Figured it all out at the end,” Vanderjack said. “You and the painting. I’m sorry it took so long.”

He felt her hand on his head, cradling it. “I wish I could help you. I’m not a wizard. I’m just an ugly copy of a dead girl.”

“Come on.” Vanderjack coughed. The blood was
emptying faster. He didn’t have that much longer. “You’re not so ugly. You … you did kind of grow on me.”

“Like a wart?” She smiled through her tears. The pain was setting Vanderjack’s nerves on fire. He’d gone from intense pain to numbness to pain again.

“They’re waiting for me,” he added. “The ghosts. Etharion said it’s my time. That’s it. I’m gone, unless …”

Gredchen held his hand against her cheek. “Unless … what?”

“Unless I have something to keep living for.”

No. Endure the pain. Die tomorrow.

Vanderjack gritted his teeth together and pushed himself up on his elbow first, then farther, feeling the sword slip deeper into his chest. He stifled a cry. The world swam around him. The only thing he could see clearly was Gredchen, up close.

Was she really that ugly? Did it matter? Vanderjack kissed the baron’s aide right where her pretty smile had been only moments before.

He fell back, Gredchen sobbing loudly, and let his last breath escape his ruined lungs.

Lifecleaver shook; it rang like a tuning fork struck against a rock and claimed its ninth and final soul. A half second or a lifetime later, it
shattered
.

“Nine lives claimed and released,” said the Apothecary.

“All is done,” said the Philosopher.

“The sword’s task is fulfilled,” said the Cavalier.

“The baron’s beautiful daughter is revealed,” said the Balladeer.

“What was unfinished is now ended,” said the Aristocrat.

“The hunt is over,” said the Hunter.

“The magic comes full circle,” said the Conjuror.

“I’m alive!” said the Cook.

“Ackal’s Teeth,” said the Sellsword. “So am I.”

Theodenes was surrounded by Solamnic Knights.

Once again the Knights’ Hall in North Keep, the capital of Nordmaar, flew the banners of Solamnia. Emblems of the Kingfisher, the Crown, the Rose, and the Sword were arrayed above the hall, unseen for more than ten years. The Knights themselves had returned, as control over Nordmaar had reverted to the young King Shredler Kerian, and old alliances were once again honored.

Theodenes had arrived there on the back of Star, who chose to remain outside in the courtyard while the gnome took care of his business inside. Theo passed rows of statues, of stained-glass windows and suits of armor. All of them were in various stages of cleaning, having been left to gather dust for a decade.

He was admitted into the waiting room, but he was the only one there. Minutes later, the doors to the Grand Council Chamber opened, and he walked in. Beyond the doors, a high table dominated the back of the room, and seated at the table were three lord knights, one each of Crown, Sword, and Rose. Their faces were hidden in darkness, and the only light shone right in Theodenes’ face.

“Theodenes,” said one of the Rose Knights. “We have looked over your report.”

“I have to admit,” said the Crown Knight. “It seems a very far-fetched tale.”

“It is all true,” said the gnome. “Why would I embellish it? Do I look like a kender?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” asked the Sword Knight.

“Every word of it is the truth. I did as you requested and made sure to accompany the sellsword behind enemy lines, kept with him the whole time as much as possible. All that I witnessed, I wrote down.”

The Crown Knight turned to the Rose Knight. “This does agree with the information we were provided by Lord Gilbert Glayward.”

“And Vanderjack never suspected you were working for us the whole time?” asked the Sword Knight.

“I believe he was completely in the dark,” said Theodenes.

“Not even with you showing up in Nordmaar just in time to travel with him?” asked the Crown Knight.

“We … resolved a lot of issues, but no.”

“Magnificent,” said the Rose Knight. “There’s only one part of this that we don’t fully understand.”

“The part near the end,” said the Sword Knight. “About the mercenary’s final fate?”

“The legend that surrounded his sword,” said Theodenes, “explicitly states that once the ninth soul is claimed by the sword, a soul whose time had not yet come and who still had much to live for, the sword will break.”

“But surely Vanderjack didn’t have anything left to live for,” said the Rose Knight. “Unless you count the reward for rescuing the baron’s daughter.”

“Oh,” smiled Theodenes. “Vanderjack had a lot to live for.”

The knights muttered to each other. Finally, the Rose Knight spoke aloud. “Theodenes, we accept your account of the events leading up to the liberation of Nordmaar. However, as we agreed, these details must remain secret.”

“Convenient that everybody in the arena stands
can’t remember anything about it,” said the Crown Knight.

“We must praise the gods for their blessings,” said the Sword Knight, placing his palms together.

Theodenes nodded. “Indeed. Well, it’s time I left.”

“Where do you go now?” asked the Rose Knight.

“The Dragon Isles,” said Theodenes. “Star’s going to show me his homeland, and I’ve decided I would rather spend my last years in pleasant company.”

“As you wish,” said the Crown Knight.

Theo bowed, turned, and walked out of the hall.

“Blessings of the gods, indeed,” muttered Theodenes to himself, as he set off to find the dragonne. “All seven of them.”

E
PILOGUE
Pentar, Winter, 357 AC

T
he Journeyman was surrounded by mercenaries.

The newly rebuilt Monkey’s Ear tavern floated above the water, safe from dragon’s fire, and boasting a larger common room. The tables were new, the ale was fresh, and the patrons were eager enough to test it.

The Journeyman set down his own tankard and tossed a coin into the middle of the table. “It’s time I went.”

“But it’s early yet!” said one of the Brass Tigers.

“Yes, come on, Etharion,” said another. “Vand and Gredchen will be returning soon from Willik. They say we have our first contract. You don’t want to miss out on that, do you?”

“You know I’m not really a very good cook,” the Journeyman said. “And besides, I’ve overstayed my welcome here in Nordmaar. Vand and Gredchen already know I’m leaving.”

“But no good-byes?” said the first Brass Tiger. “After all, you’re family, aren’t you?”

The Journeyman smiled. Vanderjack and Gredchen had taken the last name Cordaric, in honor of him, but
passed him off as a cousin. Nobody knew their true identities. Vanderjack and Gredchen didn’t know his.

The others clasped hands with him and nodded; he felt a sudden pang of regret, a desire to stay there with his new family. But he had more places to go, things to chronicle.

It was a shame he couldn’t tell Stella when he returned that he had known her grandfather and grandmother. Nor, he thought, could he tell her he knew everything there was to know about being a ghost.

Next time, he thought as he let the door of the Monkey’s Ear close behind him, I would prefer to stay among the living. It was just easier that way.

On his way to the nearest out-of-the-way alley, he passed by the Temple of Branchala, with its familiar stone idol of a winged dragon-tiger, and looked down upon the street of temples and gods.

“That is, if it’s all the same to you,” he said.

There was no answer. But in his head, he was certain he knew what their response would be.