Free The Sellsword by Cam Banks Page A

cook?”
    “Answer unclear,” said the Conjuror. “Ask again later.”
    “What does that mean?” Vanderjack demanded, turning to look at the ghost, hanging there, spectral and aloof. “Answer unclear?”
    “He means that we can’t tell you at the moment,” said the Apothecary.
    “You will have to trust our insight,” said the Philosopher.
    “Trust and act,” said the Hunter, materializing from Vanderjack’s left. The ghost lifted one semitransparent finger and indicated the approaching Captain Annaud, who was picking his way through the crowd farther up the street, making his way to rejoin his men.
    From that distance, Annaud looked like any other dragonarmy officer. He was dressed head to foot in black scale armor, curved steel plates protecting his shoulders, lower arms, and shins, and a half helm that kept his face visible. Only the highlords and their highmasters were allowed to wear the full helms that obscured their features.
    “Ackal’s Teeth,” muttered the sellsword, pulling his hood over his head and slipping out into the rain. “Why does it always have to rain when I’m rescuing somebody?”
    With the Sword Chorus circling the area, Vanderjack headed straight for the soldiers. He estimated it would be less than a minute before Annaud reached them himself, so he didn’t have much time.
    The sellsword passed by a wagon filled with sacks of grain. He set a boot on the nearest wheel and used it to spring over the heads of a slow-moving cluster of onlookers. He landed on his feet, drew Lifecleaver all the way out of its scabbard, and dashed forward.
    Bystanders scattered. Only Vanderjack, a half dozen heavily armored dragonarmy soldiers, and the cook remained in the courtyard. Etharion was sitting on a barrel, but as soon as he saw the sellsword charging at them, he fell backward onto the doorstep of a tea vendor. The soldiers all unsheathed their weapons, most of them armed with the curving Nerakan blades that Vanderjack knew all too well.
    “By the Dark Queen!” one of them said. “That’s the guy!”
    “Get him!” yelled another.
    Vanderjack and the closest soldier collided, their blades coming together with a loud ringing crash. Lifecleaver, crafted from meteoric iron, or “star metal,” and further bolstered by magic, was almost impervious to harm; the dragonarmy soldier’s scimitar was Nerakese iron folded hundreds of times upon itself. It was sharp but brittle. Vanderjack’s blade shattered it, sending shards into the soldier’s unprotected face.
    The sellsword spun about on his heel as the soldier clutched at his ruined features. The Cavalier and the Hunter called out the positions of the other soldiers, as they always did. There was no comment from the Conjuror, which meant no spells were being prepared for casting, which was good. He sought out the next opponent, locked eyes with him, and said, “One down.”
    Etharion scrambled to a crouch and moved toward a stack of crates standing alongside the high brick walls of a scrivener’s office. Vanderjack let the ghosts keep track of where the cook was, which meant he could worry more about the soldiers and getting rid of them before their captain reached the fight.
    Three of the soldiers came at him at once; the first two cut at the rain to his left and right while the thirdwent for where his head would have been had he not ducked. They pressed the attack, Vanderjack blocking each swing with Lifecleaver. The sellsword kicked one soldier’s knee so hard he heard a sickening snap; that man was out. Slipping between the fallen soldier’s companions, he found himself pressed against the crates. Rain pounded 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