The Sellsword

could see out of only one eye, a cut above the other rendering it swollen shut. But he felt strangely alive.

He was drenched by the persistent rain. He wore an ornate helm to hide his features and was clothed in a scale mail hauberk and black leather trews, heavy boots on his feet. Still, he was recognizable as an Ergothian by the dark color of his skin and because Broyer had provided him with a large leaf-bladed Ergothian sword. It wasn’t long after he entered the arena before he had his own cheering supporters.

Five bands of gladiators, besides his group, had entered. They faced a dozen armored chariots, bristling with spears, with wicked blades extending from the wheels and spikes upon the harnesses. Each band fought to gain chariots, which began the thunderous race in the hands of single charioteers instructed to defend against all footmen. The entertainment came when gladiators fought each other for the chariots, and when the charioteers lanced the gladiators with their spears or cut them in half as they charged by.

The bands had been whittled down one by one, either at the hands of other gladiators or by charioteers. Vanderjack assumed command of the survivors of his group, huddled near the center of the arena. He had been attacked by a Lemishite savage, a Khurish blade-dancer, and a Kothian minotaur. All fell. The blood and the rain were everywhere, pierced by swords and spears and screaming faces.

Then he saw an opportunity and leaped aboard a chariot whose rider had been wounded by a thrown spear. He could barely hear the rain hammering on his skull for all of the cheering. “Ergoth! Ergoth!” Those gladiators in his band who were still alive joined in, shouting the word even as they traded blows with their opponents or dodged the chariots.

He snapped the reins on the chariot, and the horse leaped to the gallop, sending him barreling along the outer track, where the deep ruts in the clay let the wheels find purchase. He felt the wind fill his lungs, the exhilaration of speed. It was like flying again, like riding Star. Vanderjack lifted his sword, alert for remaining foes; he watched the seventh gate, still unopened, for signs of the dragonne.

“Ergoth! Ergoth!” Who could do this for a living? he wondered. It was nothing like mercenary work. It was showmanship. They applauded him but didn’t even know who he really was, and if he died there on the blood-wet clay, who would mourn his passing? A spear carrier ran at his chariot, and he cut downward with the sword. The spear fell away in two pieces, and the man carrying it tumbled over and over, struck by the side of the chariot. The competition continued.

Eventually there were only two left-Vanderjack and one other. The arena was strewn with broken chariots, the dead, and the dying. His final foe was a grizzled veteran with a plumed helm he’d probably stolen from one of the Plumed Jaguars of Wulfgar. They raced across the arena toward each other, Vanderjack’s vision narrowed to a tunnel, rain spraying in his face, his opponent’s feathered plume sodden and plastered to his helm, a barbed lance raised and pointed in Vanderjack’s direction.

A roar split the wind and the rain and carried clear across the arena, echoing and vibrating through the stone of the arena walls and under the feet of the cheering spectators. That was when the portcullis in the seventh gate lurched upward and a maddened, winged, brass-scaled creature emerged. The dragonne was shackled to twin lengths of chain, each of which was anchored on the inside of the seventh gate. Although he could probably lift himself several feet off the ground, the dragonne’s wings would not provide him with the means to escape by flight.

Meanwhile Vanderjack was committed to his final charge, crouching slightly, the Ergothian sword raised high in a ready stance. The wheels underneath his chariot struck bodies, chunks of wood, and low basins of bloody water as he urged the horse on. His opponent’s chariot did the same.

“Ergoth! Ergoth!” screamed the crowd as one.

The two chariots swerved, skidded in the mud, and slammed into each other. Both chariots’ horses broke free, galloping onward, tack and harnesses dragging behind them. Vanderjack had flung himself forward at the last moment, using the momentum of the chariot to send him at great force into the midsection of his opponent and taking him down with him. With a crash, both men landed several yards away in another ruined chariot, causing an explosion of earth and broken wood and metal.

Vanderjack thought his legs were broken. For a few heartbeats, he couldn’t move them at all, struggling to pull himself free of the wreckage. Then his legs began to twitch and spasm, and he pulled himself into a halfstanding position.

The gladiator with the plumed helm was dead, impaled upon the twisted metal and wood, his eyes open and staring. Vanderjack swallowed back his gorge and, with difficulty, pulled his own helm free. He tossed it aside, drew himself up to standing, and heard the deafening adulations.

“Ergoth! Ergoth!” the spectators shouted. Vanderjack wiped the blood out of his eye, forcing it open despite the swelling so he could survey the cheering masses. It was hopeless. He’d never find Cazuvel in the crowd, and Rivven Cairn would be sure to recognize the sellsword as the champion standing in the middle of her arena.

There came a roar from Star. The dragonne was straining against his chains, roaring and bellowing. The crowd was spooked by the ferocity of his roar and many ran. Some fell or collapsed and were trampled by their fellow spectators. Vanderjack noticed that Star’s eyes seemed wild and unfocused; the beast was probably under the effects of a spell.

Vanderjack cast his mind into the void in which the memory-voices of the Sword Chorus were nestled, hoping for some insights. He couldn’t recall anything they had said in the past that might help. “Don’t dwell on the pain, the injuries. You can always die tomorrow,” said the Cavalier’s voice in his mind, a familiar reproach. “Die tomorrow.”

“Rather not die at all,” he muttered to himself and hobbled across the arena toward the dragonne. The crowd saw that, and, eager for more entertainment, the panic began to subside. Some began to shout, “Kill the beast!” and “Ergoth! Ergoth!” At least the rain had lightened enough that the sellsword could see more than a dozen yards ahead. He had lost his sword after he threw himself off the chariot. He hoped Star remembered him.

Vanderjack raised his hands as he approached. Star was flapping his wings and leaping around, claws tearing up mud and chains rattling fiercely. “Star!” the sellsword said, shouting over the noise of both the crowd and the creature. “It’s me! It’s, uh, good old Vanderjack!”

The dragonne responded by lashing out with one huge clawed paw and raking Vanderjack across the chest. It tore through his scale mail, knocking him backward, and he landed ignominiously in the muck. He looked up to see the dragonne rearing and clawing at the air before coming down with a terrible splash inches from Vanderjack’s legs. The chains were holding the dragonne back-but only barely.

Vanderjack scuttled backward and got up again. A battered circular shield in the mud caught his eye, and he ran to pick it up, sliding it over his arm and bringing it up just in time to block another sweeping blow from the dragonne’s claws. That, too, knocked the sellsword over. He shouted out again, “Ackal’s Teeth, Star! Shake it off!”

The great dragon-cat leaped and ducked, snapping at the air with his jaws, narrowly missing Vanderjack’s head. The beast’s wings were whipping up rainwater and mud from the arena floor, making it almost impossible for the sellsword to maneuver around the dragonne. He wondered what the Conjurer or the Hunter would suggest and decided that the only way to snap Star out of his rage and frenzy was to risk delivering a blow to the creature’s head.

The crowd loved the new battle. Many, frightened of Star’s roar, had climbed up the stands to a higher vantage point. They saw a weary and bloodied man doing battle with a great beast that seemed like an amalgam of two of the most dangerous and predatory beasts they knew. From where they sat, they couldn’t tell Vanderjack was trying to reason with Star or neutralize him, not kill him.

“Sorry about this, big guy,” Vanderjack said and threw his shield with all of his might at Star’s massive skull. The shield rebounded from the beast’s head with a clang. Star barely blinked from the blow. He turned his head fully around to face Vanderjack, opened his jaws wide, and roared at the sellsword from a distance of only ten feet.

Vanderjack’s head felt as if an ogre had kicked him, and his chest shook with the unleashed rage tied up within the roar. It sent him flying backward, stunned, muscles strained to the point of exhaustion. As he lay there, the crowd shouting for him to get up and fight, everything from his concussed skull to the shredded tendons in his arms and legs screaming at him to just give up and die, he heard the one sound he knew would just make things worse.

It was the sound of the chains snapping.