upon his head.
“Captain’s almost here,” the Hunter warned.
“Yeah, yeah,” Vanderjack grunted. He had four opponents remaining. Two advanced, flourishing their scimitars. The others were off to the right and left, waiting. He was cornered. From behind, Vanderjack heard the cook stumbling over a crate and trying to stay out of sight.
“Come on!” shouted one of the two waiting soldiers. “Cut him down!”
Wet blades flashed; Vanderjack twisted, shifting Lifecleaver into a two-handed grip and disarming both soldiers. They stood there, mouths agape, looking at their empty hands. Vanderjack ran them both through, and they fell with a splash into the puddling rainwater.
With only two soldiers remaining and the cook nearby, Vanderjack chanced a call back to the man. “Etharion!” he shouted. “Can you possibly lend a hand?”
Etharion didn’t have anything to say in response. He crouched down even lower behind a crate and watched over it as the last two soldiers cautiously approached Vanderjack.
“Last chance to run away,” Vanderjack said with a smile he didn’t really feel.
“Ergothian scum!” one of the soldiers said.
“Hey now,” Vanderjack said, ducking to one side to avoid the sweeping cut of a scimitar. “I’m only half Ergothian. My mother was a Saifhumi pirate.”
“Ergothian, Saifhumi, all the same,” said the other soldier.
“Try telling that to the emperor of Ergoth,” Vanderjack said. He feinted to the left, distracting the second soldier, and freed his right hand to strike out at the first. His balled fist connected squarely with the dragonarmy soldier’s jaw, dropping him. It wouldn’t keep him out for long, but the sellsword circled about, giving himself some room to move.
The last soldier backed off, looking around. All he had to do was distract the mercenary for a few more seconds and the captain would be on him. Vanderjack was keenly aware of that as he lunged. The soldier barely escaped a sword in the gut, throwing himself to one side and landing right beside the crates.
Seeing the opportunity, Vanderjack yelled, “Etharion! Push against the crates!” It seemed like a faint hope. But Vanderjack was pleasantly surprised when, with a grunt, the cook threw himself against the crates he’d been hiding behind.
There was a moment where it seemed nothing would happen; then wooden box after wooden box, filled with glass jars, small sacks of tarbeans, and the gods knew what else toppled and landed with a horrendous crash upon the last soldier and several of his incapacitated companions. The cook looked impressed with himself. “Huh,” he said, grinning at Vanderjack.
The sellsword didn’t have long to catch his breath. Just as the Cavalier shouted a warning, he whirled in time to duck a swift cut of the captain’s blade. Captain Annaud had finally arrived on the scene, taken in the devastation, and charged Vanderjack.
Up close, the captain was somewhat more distinctive. His features were sharp and hawklike, with a narrow yet prominent nose, steel-gray hair with a widow’s peak, and a raptor’s eyes. He was Nerakan, probably from the eastern foothills of the Taman Busuk near Estwilde; Vanderjack recognized that predatory look from others he had served with in the Blue Wing, years before.
“Glad you could make it,” Vanderjack said, glancing around to seek an advantage.
“Those men will cost you,” Annaud replied, his voice thin and reedy, with a strong Nerakese accent. It sounded practiced to Vanderjack, though. Underneath the sinister tones the captain was affecting, the sell-sword could detect the remnants of Estwilder vowels.
“I don’t have much money on me at the moment,” said Vanderjack, smoothly turning away the captain’s sword strokes, wondering whether the captain was really trying. “Can you leave me with the bill, and-”
“Above you!” shouted the Hunter, cutting Vanderjack off. Vanderjack hadn’t expected an attack from that direction, but he knew better than to question the ghost’s warning. He bent low and spun away.
A hawk’s talons narrowly missed Vanderjack’s scalp. The bird was completely silent, highly trained. Annaud was laughing, still coming forward with the easily defended yet constant swing of his blade. “Impressive,” he said, as Vanderjack rose again to fend off the attacks. “Most men don’t hear Rajan coming.”
The hawk had flown in swift and low but was wheeling around in the air above the street, clearly looking for another opening. Vanderjack spared Etharion a quick glance. The cook was once again hiding, then beside a pair of stacked wine barrels underneath a canvas canopy. Safe from marauding birds, Vanderjack thought. Unlike me.
“What can I say? I’m the best in the business,” he offered, crossing right foot over left, keeping himself moving. The captain had taken a step back, his sword raised and pointed at the sellsword in a formal fighting stance Vanderjack had seen only once or twice before.
“I’m told you were one of ours,” Annaud said. “Before you fled like a coward. Vingaard, wasn’t it?”
Vanderjack shrugged, watching the ghosts for a signal. Both he and the captain were circling each other, a classic standoff. Vanderjack hated classic standoffs. “I don’t remember,” he called back. “It was all so long ago. Back when you guys were actually winning.”
Annaud frowned and Vanderjack grinned. So the captain had a chink in his armor after all. “I am not the one scraping together his last steel pieces for a drink,” said the captain, all humor gone from his voice. “Soon you will have nothing but a windowless cell in Wulfgar beneath the horse track, where I am told the highmaster keeps all of her favorite prisoners.”
File that one away for later, Vanderjack thought: dungeons underneath the famous horse arena of Wulfgar. The constant drumming overhead of the races would drive a man mad, not to mention all of the dung and refuse that would drop on top of any poor soul unlucky enough to have a window. And the smell! He had heard the highmaster was a nasty piece of work, but he didn’t know she was that nasty.
“It’s nice to be so well thought of,” Vanderjack beamed, switching styles gradually over the course of three sword strokes. He could tell Annaud was comfortable in at least four of the commonly practiced Nerakese martial disciplines, none of which were known for their finesse. He had to respond with just as much brute force as Annaud was dishing out.
Turning his side to Annaud, Vanderjack grasped the hilt of Lifecleaver at an odd angle with both hands, whirling it about in a crescent-moon cut. The captain flinched, snarled, and kicked outward. The two warriors resumed their exchanges, throwing more and more of their strength into the blows. Vanderjack felt that Annaud could put that curved blade through the neck of a horse without so much as a pause, and he had no desire to confirm his hunch.
“The hawk!” called out the Hunter.
“Move to the right! Quick!” said the Cavalier.
Vanderjack did as he was told, lurching sideways as Annaud’s hawk screeched by his ear. Once again Annaud had that look of shock across his face, that look of mounting disbelief.
“The cook!” warned the Balladeer.
As he spun about, readying his blade for a chopping motion across Annaud’s arms, Vanderjack scanned for Etharion. Incredibly, the stocky cook had stepped out of his place under the canopy, wielding a broom in both hands like a gigantic greatsword. Vanderjack watched as Etharion drew the broom back and swung it out in a fierce motion, swatting at Captain Annaud’s hawk and, amazingly, knocking it out of the air. The hawk was rendered an unconscious pile of feathers.
The sellsword and the captain’s dance of blades had brought them close to the canopy area where Etharion was standing; Captain Annaud, driven by anger at the incapacitation of his raptor, reached to grab the cook.
“His guard is down!” said the Cavalier, practically screaming in Vanderjack’s ear.
“Here’s your chance!” joined the Aristocrat.
They were right. Annaud had thrown open his defenses in order to clutch at Etharion, who was standing there, looking mighty pleased with himself. Vanderjack had to do something quickly; it was his chance.
At exactly the same moment, three things happened: Vanderjack tensed, then leaped forward, thrusting Lifecleaver out in a deadly lunge; Captain Annaud’s mailed hand seized Etharion’s collar and pulled him close and into a chokehold; and all seven ghosts wailed like banshees, a deafening keening sound of warning, shock, and grief.
Lifecleaver’s star metal blade, sharper and stronger than any other sword, plunged right through Etharion’s
