CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vanderjack tore the baron’s beautiful daughter from the wall of the gallery.
It had been firmly attached to the paneling, and they were in a hurry. Gredchen covered her eyes, and Theodenes stood over by the top of the spiral stairs, making sure nothing came running in after hearing the noise.
It made a very loud noise indeed.
“Ackal’s Teeth!” cursed the sellsword. “It’s a good thing the frame’s made of ironwood, or that would be the end of it.” Vanderjack held the painting out. “Gredchen. The painted-on axe cuts match up to where you say the kapak chopped at you, right? I think it’s obvious that you and this painting are connected in some, dare I say it, secret fashion.”
“If so, then I’m in the dark about it, Vanderjack,” Gredchen said. “I swear. It must be the work of Cazuvel.
Theodenes snorted. “Wizards.”
Vanderjack eyed her skeptically and indicated the painting. “So other than the new additions …?”
Gredchen inspected the painting, frowning at points, but then nodded. “It’s the same,” she said. “Fine.”
“Can we go now?” Theo grumbled, looking around worriedly.
“After you.” Vanderjack indicated the spiral stairs and followed Theo down. Gredchen brought up the rear, and when they reached the landing below, she stepped over to the grand hall doors and peeked inside.
“No sign of Star,” she called. “Where should we look?”
“The roof,” Vanderjack said. “The dragonne will be flying about outside, more than likely. Besides, if those kapaks are still around, they’re going to be down that way.” He pointed over the balcony toward the entrance foyer and the big gates.
The trio hurried through the great hall, on through the sitting room, making their way out with occasional stops for Vanderjack to adjust the painting or for Theodenes to scout ahead. When they scaled the stairs to the tower roof and felt the moisture-laden night air of the Sahket Jungle, Gredchen took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“No draconians!” she said. “But no Star either.”
Theodenes walked to the edge of the battlements and began scanning the silver-edged landscape around the tower with his keen eyesight. Vanderjack left him to it and set the painting down against a crenellation. He looked at his hands, spread before him, and watched them shake noticeably.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
He looked up and saw Gredchen standing there watching him. “Yes. This happened to another swordsman I served with, back in the war,” the sell-sword said. “He was a fine soldier, came from a family near Thelgaard. He had a big two-handed sword.” Vanderjack raised his arms and held his hands apart to show just how big. “His grandfather’s, he said. Family heirloom.”
“Magic?”
Vanderjack shook his head. “Oh, no. These days, every two-bit adventurer and freebooter from Kharolis to Khur says he has a magic sword. Back then, in the middle of the war, most of us had never seen one.”
“Except you.”
“I never told people Lifecleaver was magical. White-stone or dragonarmy. Not even the officers knew.”
“So this other warrior?”
“Right. His name was Orbaal. We were on a mission near Kayolin, the dwarf stronghold. This was before they had signed up. I don’t remember the details, but Orbaal and two others from our unit were jumped by bugbears. Big, furry, ugly goblins. You know?”
Gredchen nodded. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Orbaal fought them off, but in the process he put his foot through a thin patch of rock over a sinkhole. He fell in, took three of the bugbears with him. He ended up on a ledge, but the sword kept on going.”
“You couldn’t get it back?”
Vanderjack smiled weakly. “The dwarves have it now, I bet. It went down a long way.”
“So what happened?”
“Orbaal went crazy. We pulled him out of there and regrouped; the bugbears were taken care of, and we returned to the camp. Only Orbaal couldn’t sleep. He would rant at the officers, demanding we make a deal with the dwarves to get his cherished sword back. It was messy.”
Gredchen looked down at her feet. “You think that’s happening to you.”
“I know for a fact Orbaal didn’t have voices telling him how to fight, where to look. Me, I’ve had those seven ghosts with me for years now. I can’t shake this headache, my stomach’s rebelling, and my nerves are shot. Something’s going rotten, I know that for sure.”
“You’re tough, Vanderjack. You can get through this. And when you get the sword back again, you’ll be fine. When you’re in the middle of your next fight, just ask yourself what they’d be saying if they were still there.”
The baron’s aide was grinning, that one attractive feature she had in an otherwise ugly face. “Just ask, what would this ghost say? What would that ghost do?”
“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Vanderjack said, awkwardly glancing away from her.
Gredchen leaned back, her hair blowing in the rooftop breeze. For several seconds neither of them spoke. Then Vanderjack glanced over at her, intending to mumble his gratitude. Only she wasn’t there. One moment she had been there, sitting on the battlements, and the next she was gone.
“Gredchen!”
The sellsword rushed to the edge, gripped the crenellations with his calloused hands and looked over. Nothing. “Gredchen!”
Theodenes raced over, patting around his belt and back for weapons that weren’t there. “What is it? Where is she?”
A small explosion of fire, ash, and concussive force knocked both the gnome and the sellsword flat. Chunks of brick and masonry blew outward. The explosion detonated somewhere in the middle of the tower roof. Vanderjack rolled onto his back and curled up into a sitting position, shielding his eyes from the smoke.
“Ackal’s Teeth! Theo, are you all right? Theo? Blast it all!”
He couldn’t see anything; there was too much of that thick, acrid smoke. Something had blown up. He looked to his left and checked on the painting. It was still there and unharmed. He got to his feet. “Theo?”
“Right here,” said a voice from the smoke. Theodenes, his face black with soot, emerged. “Vanderjack, I think that was a display of invoked pyrothaumaturgics.”
“A what?”
“A fireball. We’re under attack!”
Vanderjack grabbed Theodenes and ducked behind a low brick wall as a whistling sound heralded another explosion.
“Where’s it coming from?” asked Vanderjack.
The gnome poked his head around the corner of the wall then quickly drew it back. “It’s him. It’s Cazuvel.”
“Oh, fantastic. I thought I’d have a little time before he showed up.”
“Sellsword!” called the Black Robe’s voice above the sizzling sound of many small fires burning the rooftop tar. “I have the girl! Give me the painting! We’ll call it a fair trade.”
Vanderjack blinked and looked behind him. He clasped Theodenes on the shoulder and whispered, “He’s got Gredchen. Duck over there and get the painting before he sees it, Theo. I’ll … distract him.”
Theodenes looked from the sellsword to the painting, which was indeed out of sight, and nodded.
Vanderjack jumped out from behind the wall. “Over here!” he shouted. “Looking for me?” In his mind, he recalled Gredchen’s advice and tried to imagine what the Balladeer might prompt him with. The ghost was always suggesting one insult, taunt, or jibe after another. What were some of the best ones he’d used before?
He saw Cazuvel stalking across the tower roof, his black robes flapping in the wind. His cowl was pulled
