The Sellsword (27 page)

Then, crossing to the opposite side of the room, he realized that the door to the cage had been bashed open from the inside. So Star had broken free. Had they been keeping him under magical sedation, a spell that wore off? All he remembered was him slumbering earlier. If the spell had worn off, that would explain the aftermagic smell.

Surely the only way out of there—at least for a
dragonne such as Star—was out the front doors. Vanderjack stepped out onto the landing on the upper balcony of the entrance hall. There was no sign of anybody there either—no wizards, no draconians, no huge dragon-tigers.

Vanderjack was almost halfway down the wide marble stairs that descended to the entrance hall when the front gates swung inward. He took a step back and braced himself for the worst. A rare feeling of relief washed over him when he saw that it was Gredchen and Theodenes.

Theo was ambulatory, so the paralysis must have worn off. Gredchen looked a lot worse than she had last he saw her; her tunic and leggings were cut and torn. Theodenes seemed to be supporting Gredchen as they limped in.

“Vanderjack!” Gredchen called out. She broke free from Theodenes and hurried up the stairs. The gnome scowled and followed at half the speed.

“Well, hello,” Vanderjack said, smiling weakly. “Nice of you to come back. Probably to get the painting, not rescue me, huh?”

“Vanderjack, I’m sorry. About the painting. About the whole contract. I should have told the baron not to do it, but he’s been wanting that painting for so long—”

The sellsword raised his hands. “Hold on,” he said. “Can we talk about this out of earshot of any surprise monsters or evil villains? And knowing Theodenes, I’ll bet he wants to put in a few words, once he catches his breath.”

The gnome, coming up behind her, nodded, panting heavily. The three of them walked around the balcony and into a side room filled with overstuffed chairs
and a long, low table. It was the kind of room one sat in if one wanted to be served tarbean tea and sugared buttercakes. Vanderjack dropped into a seat, and the others followed suit. For a moment they all stared at each other. Then all three started to talk at once.

Theodenes launched into a diatribe about the way he had been treated. Gredchen complained that the highmaster had it in for her and never really liked her very much and not to blame the baron. Vanderjack tried to answer both of them, barely getting a word in edgewise, until finally he sat back and closed his eyes and just listened.

The girl and the gnome stopped, staring at him.

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

They just looked at him.

He opened his eyes again and looked at each of them in turn. “I’m working for Rivven Cairn now.”

Theodenes leaped out of his seat in a fighting stance, while Gredchen almost fell out of her chair. Vanderjack raised his hands again and blurted out, “Wait wait wait!”

“What do you mean you’re working for her?” demanded Theo.

“Up on the roof, earlier this evening,” he said. “She said she and Cazuvel were no longer allies. She decided it was better for me to be alive than him and said I should find Cazuvel and kill him. If I did that, she’d let me live, and I could keep my sword, which the wizard’s got.”

“For a moment there, you jackanapes, we thought you meant you’d been working for her the whole time!” said Theo.

Vanderjack laughed. “No! Are you crazy? This is just a short-term deal. Long-term—we’re still on bad terms.”

“So that’s the confession?” Gredchen said, sitting back in her chair again.

“No. Actually, the confession is related to that. It’s about Lifecleaver.”

Theo cocked his head. “That sword? What is it? A fake? The wizard has a fake! Huzzah! Threw the wool right over his eyes.”

“No,” said Vanderjack, smiling grimly. “The fake is me.”

There was a moment of silence.

“The sword’s haunted. There are seven … eight ghosts now that Etharion’s joined them. The Sword Chorus. Ghosts of people who were killed with that sword before their time to die was upon them.”

Gredchen narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”

“When I’m in a fight, it’s the Chorus that give me eyes in the back of my head. All of that clever maneuvering and leaping about is only possible because they call out the locations of my enemies, suggest tactics, and tell me to duck or to dodge or to weave. It’s always been the ghosts.”

Theo said, “So you’re saying you don’t have any actual skill at arms?”

“That isn’t what I said! I’m a passable soldier. But without the ghosts, without Lifecleaver, I’d be a passable soldier with a sword in my back or a fallen boulder on my head.”

Theo scratched at his beard and exhaled. “So you need the sword back in order for the ghosts to once again tell you how to fight like the legendary mercenary captain you are reputed to be. I see. This is so very typical of you.”

“How is this typical of him?” Gredchen said, exasperated. “This can’t have been very easy for him to confess. I find it very … uh, touching.”

Theo shrugged. “He’s always so secretive.”

Vanderjack closed his eyes again. “Think what you like. I’ve come to the conclusion that Rivven believes I won’t be able to defeat this wizard without my enchanted sword. She’s back in Wulfgar, laughing her pointed ears off, thinking I might just sit it out and sink into depression.”

“But now we’re here,” Gredchen said, “and we can help you.”

“She’s also full of secrets,” said Theodenes.

Vanderjack looked at Gredchen. “Oh, some little secret other than the fact that this whole expedition was a fabrication?”

“That’s just it. It wasn’t. The baron wants his beautiful daughter back.”

“His painting of the beautiful daughter.”

Gredchen shook her head. “No, sellsword. That really
is
his daughter. A spell has bound her to that painting.”

Vanderjack stood up at that, gaping. “So now you’re saying that’s a
real person
stuck in a picture frame?”

Gredchen nodded. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but basically, yes.”

“And Cazuvel wants it here why?”

“He’s the mage responsible for the enchantment in the first place,” said Gredchen. “So long as it was kept here, out of harm’s way, the highmaster could continue to hold it over Baron Glayward and he’d be unable to lift a finger against her. But it was a rare enchantment. And the wizard has been studying the magic, trying to duplicate his feat ever since. Without success, or so I’m told.”

“To the Abyss with wizards!” said Theodenes. “And speaking of magical curiosities, I should also note that Gredchen here—”

“I can’t be hurt,” the baron’s aide admitted.

Vanderjack sat down again, rubbed his palm over the stubble of his scalp, and swore. “What? You’re immortal, then? Congratulations. Is that the end of the secrets?”

“It’s really only here at the castle or in the grounds. At least I suppose that’s how it works.”

Vanderjack smiled weakly. “How incredibly convenient for you. Theo? Any heartwarming truths you’d like to air? We’re all having a moment.”

“No.”

Vanderjack clapped his hands together and rose one final time. “Excellent! Well, for your information, Theodenes, I think Star’s alive and well and escaped a short while ago from the cage in the hall. And for you, Gredchen, the highmaster said nothing to me about not taking the baron’s beautiful daughter along with me when I went to Wulfgar, so I believe we can go upstairs right now and fetch the painting and be done with that part of the job.”

Gredchen’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

Theodenes perked up. “Star’s escaped?”

“Yes to both. In fact, I think it may make getting to Wulfgar a lot easier if we had Star’s help. You don’t mind a short stop in Wulfgar before we head back to the baron, do you, Gredchen?”

Gredchen nodded. Theo’s eyes narrowed.

“Then it’s settled.” Vanderjack dusted himself off. “I may not be the world’s greatest swordsman, but I know a good plan when I come up with one. Let’s go.”

Vanderjack led them back to the entrance hall’s balcony and up the spiral staircase to the gallery. Gredchen did the honors, stepping forward and pulling on the silken rope. The gallery’s lamps fizzled and popped into radiant life, revealing the painting once again in its place.

Gredchen gasped. Theodenes sighed. Vanderjack clicked his tongue and walked over to the portrait with a frown.

The painting looked as if somebody had taken to it with an axe.

“Why would the wizard have done this?” Vanderjack asked.

“Oh, no!” Gredchen cried, darting forward to trace her hands over the places where the axe head had struck. “Wait.”

“Yes, I see now. Those aren’t actual cuts,” Theodenes observed, folding his arms across his chest. “Those have been
painted
on. Under the varnish. Clever. But why?”

Vanderjack turned to Gredchen. “Got an explanation for this one?”

Cazuvel swept through the dusty halls of the Lyceum.

Once he had left the highmaster’s presence, he had spoken the words of power that brought him back to his sanctum, the place he had hidden Vanderjack’s sword. His eldritch connection to the wards set up around Castle Glayward had triggered shortly afterward, alerting him to the highmaster’s interference. With Aggurat freed, the highmaster would know that Cazuvel had been acting behind her back. The half-elf was a powerful enough mage that she had somehow untethered the draconian from Cazuvel’s mystic bonds, despite all of the energy he had flooded into them.

Cazuvel did not care. It was just a slightly premature digression from a path he had carefully laid out, the path that had begun months earlier. He had his mirror and its magic. He had the star metal-forged sword of Vand Erj-Ackal, and he suspected there was
a great deal of powerful enchantment tied up into that weapon.

The black-robed mage arrived at the grand cloister, the chamber in which the mirror hung suspended within its multiple arcane wards. He walked in and looked to the center of the room. The mirror was exactly as he had left it, so he proceeded over to a narrow table against the far wall, outside of the complex summoning circles and runic labyrinths. Lying upon the table was Lifecleaver.

Cazuvel had not yet drawn the sword. One of the kapak scouts had tried doing just that after he had recovered it from the jungle, and within moments the draconian shrieked and collapsed, catatonic. The mage wasn’t prepared to have that happen to him, so he’d been careful to relocate the weapon from the baron’s castle to the grand cloister without physically touching it. It was wrapped up in thin layers of magically resistant cloth, preventing whatever effect that had felled the draconian from plaguing him.

Looking over again at the mirror, Cazuvel spoke the incantations that would bring the imprisoned Cazuvel to the mirror’s surface so the fiend who had taken his place could draw additional power.

“Cermindaya, cermindaya, saya memanggil anda dan mengikat anda!”

The surface of the mirror became briefly incandescent, and the brilliant metal swam with an image. It coalesced, and the true Cazuvel, his cheeks sunken and eyes rheumy, appeared within the mirror.

“I have nothing left. Nothing left to give you. You already took it all,” said the weary voice.

Cazuvel snatched up the sword by the hilt, and stalked back to face the mirror, pointing one slender finger at the
image of his captive. “Lies!” he shrieked. “I know how the enchantment works. You are a catalyst, an intermediary between me and the limitless powers of the Abyss. I need more power, and you will grant it to me!”

The Cazuvel-image moaned as his captor seemed to claw at the air with his hand, as if clutching something thick and viscous. Arcs of lightning once again leaped from the hammered-steel mirror and into Cazuvel, filling him with the howling forces he demanded. The image screamed, Cazuvel laughed. The noise was so loud and the play of purple and orange electricity so bright that at first the fiend did not notice the eight spectral figures manifesting behind him.

“Cease this!” bellowed the Conjuror above the din.

“Leave him alone!” cried the Apothecary.

“Your dark work is over!” said the Aristocrat.

Cazuvel stopped, and the myriad threads of energy feeding into him abruptly vanished. The man in the mirror looked emaciated, his stark white skin stretched across his skull, eye sockets sunken, lips drawn back in a hideous grimace.

“What is this? How did you get into my sanctum?” demanded Cazuvel to the array of spirits floating before him.

“We are the Sword Chorus,” said the Philosopher.

“You are not of this world,” said the Balladeer.

“You don’t even smell human,” the Hunter sniffed.

“Sword Chorus?” repeated Cazuvel. “So you are the sword’s enchantments?”

“We are the souls of those slain by the sword before their time,” explained the Cavalier.

“Fascinating. And you haunt the bearer of the weapon?”

The wizard splayed his fingers over the blade,
invoking the magical forces he’d just drawn from the mirror and using them to peer into the sword’s construction, revealing layer upon layer of eldritch craftsmanship.