“… and other obstacles.”
CHAPTER TWO
Vanderjack stood in a dry, comfortable room looking up at an empty spot on the wall above a fireplace.
The baron, who had introduced himself on the three-hour carriage ride to his manor house as Lord Gilbert Glayward, had left the sellsword in the cozy room to dry off. Vanderjack quickly determined that there was more expensive artwork in that one room than he had ever seen in his life. There were portraits of long-dead aristocrats, quaint scenes of rural Solamnia, and random pieces of sculpture depicting kingfishers and crowns and roses. A handful of odd-looking Nordmaaran tribal statues, such as cats and apes, provided contrast.
Some of the art was missing, however. Vanderjack wondered if Lord Glayward had been selling it off. There were few nobles in this day and age whose family coffers were still full. Glayward’s manor house was nice, but judging by the occasional dusty mantel or picture frame in there, he’d have a hard time impressing any of the muckety-mucks in far Palanthas.
The sellsword wasn’t sure what he thought of the Knights of Solamnia, or Solamnia in general. During his time with them, as one of their auxiliary, he’d had to endure their Oath and their Measure and their rigid fraternal behavior. It was said that in the past three hundred years, their reputation had grown from bad to worse; accused by the common folk for bringing about or failing to prevent the Cataclysm, the Knights had been chased out of their ancestral estates and forced into the role of expatriate nobility on the island of Sancrist. There, alongside the gnomes of Mount Nevermind, the Knights had spent three centuries obsessing over what had happened and wallowing in their own guilt while the rest of the world dragged itself out of famine and despair.
All of that made them extremely difficult to get along with. Even worse, when their glory was restored by one knight’s sacrifice at the High Clerist’s Tower, most of Solamnia expected that knight’s brothers to be as brave, noble, and courageous as he was. Far from it. Vanderjack had run into a handful of valorous men in plate armor while he was in the pay of the High Council of Knights, but most of them kept away from the front and let mercenaries such as he make the charge.
“Magnificent,” said the Cavalier.
The Sword Chorus floated about Vanderjack, voicing their own impressions of the baron’s wealth.
“Clearly a man of refined tastes,” said the Balladeer.
“Keep your hands to yourself!” warned the Aristocrat.
“Contemplate this life of austere devotion to Solamnia,” added the Philosopher.
The others all joined in. Vanderjack half listened, ignoring most of the commentary, which was evidently about how he could be living a more productive life in any number of professions that would offer more useful employment. When Lord Glayward returned, the sell-sword removed his hand from Lifecleaver’s hilt, and the ghosts vanished once more.
“I see you’re admiring the art,” the baron said.
“I’m not really a good judge of it.” Vanderjack smiled. “But I can tell you’ve got roots in Solamnia. How did you end up here in Nordmaar?”
Lord Glayward dismissed a servant, who had delivered a plate of meats, cheeses, and other things arrayed around a tureen of soup. He helped himself, and indicated for Vanderjack to do the same. Vanderjack shook his head.
“My family is all Solamnic nobility.” The baron shrugged. “But of course, after the Cataclysm, when the commoners blamed them for bringing about the anger of the gods, or not doing enough to stop it, they were among the many that left it all behind them.”
“I see. And your family made it all the way here.”
The baron nodded. “Nordmaar was very welcoming to displaced nobles like my great-grandfather. The natives aspired to be more like the Solamnics. Or so the legends say. Before the Cataclysm, none of this land was above the water, you know! So it was all here for the taking.”
“I’m sure that’s what the Red Dragonarmy said ten years ago too.” Vanderjack grinned.
The baron flinched but managed a conciliatory smile.
Vanderjack quickly changed the subject. “So, Lord Glayward. You said you had a job offer?”
“Oh yes! I’ll have my aide bring the paperwork. Do excuse me for a moment.” The baron crossed back to the big oak doors, and called through them. Moments later, a woman stepped into the room with a stack of papers.
The new arrival was the ugliest woman Vanderjack had ever seen. Her reddish-brown hair was chopped off at the jawline and had no shape to it; it was as though she’d gone at it with a dull knife. Her eyes seemed spaced too far apart, her nose was enormous, and her mismatched ears stuck out. Her limbs were slightly crooked, and even when she stood up as straight as possible, she had no womanly figure to speak of.
The baron noticed Vanderjack staring and coughed. “May I introduce my aide, Gredchen?”
The woman bowed curtly. “An honor.”
Vanderjack said, “If you say so.”
“Gredchen, Vanderjack here saved my life on the road to Pentar this afternoon. It was quite a stroke of luck, as I am in the market for somebody with his talents.”
Gredchen studied Vanderjack the way she would a crack in the woodwork or a dent in the good silver. “Indeed, my lord.”
Conscious of her disapproval, Vanderjack decided to continue his discussion with the baron instead. “I can’t give you any references. I’m not with anybody at the moment, and I don’t have any of this new Shinarite protocol, but I’m familiar with most forms of contract.”
The baron relieved Gredchen of her paperwork and began sorting it at a table by the fireplace. The woman arranged writing implements and ink but continued to study Vanderjack. Vanderjack decided not to worry about that since people stared at him on a daily basis.
“I have in mind a short-term arrangement,” the baron said. “Short term because I can’t afford to wait. You see, there’s something I want you to retrieve for me.”
The sellsword frowned. “That’s not usually what I do.”
Vanderjack had carried out a search-and-retrieval job once before, for the elves in Southern Ergoth. Complete disaster. He didn’t like to think about it, and there was only one other person who knew about the details and he was safely tucked away in Mount Nevermind. If you’d call that safe.
“But it’s a matter of great import. And I believe I can offer you substantial compensation.”
Vanderjack crossed his arms. “Such as?”
The baron said a figure. Vanderjack coughed. He hadn’t been paid that much in twenty years. Gredchen looked equally astonished.
“My lord, how …” she began.
“Never mind the amount! Gredchen, the red wolves are at my door. You know as well as I do what the stakes are.”
Vanderjack leaned forward and lifted an eyebrow. “You may know the stakes, but I don’t. Are you going to get around to telling me what this is about?”
“I need to you to go into occupied territory,” the baron said, lifting a sheet of paper covered in cursive writing. “Just inside the Sahket Jungle, near North Keep. Castle Glayward in fact.”
Vanderjack’s eyebrows arched even further. “Your castle?”
“Before the invasion, yes.”
“You want me to go to your castle in Red Wing-occupied Nordmaar. Did you leave something valuable there?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the baron said. “I want you to rescue my daughter.”
Vanderjack looked up at the ceiling. “Ackal’s Teeth,” he said.
The baron and his ugly aide stood there for a while, watching the sellsword expectantly. Vanderjack rubbed his face and groaned. Women were usually nothing but bother.
“All right. Where do you want me to sign?”
