A Sellsword's Hope Read online




  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Newsletter Signup

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Newsletter

  Come say hi!

  Note from the Author

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Sellsword’s Hope: Book seven of the Seven Virtues

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright © 2019 Jacob Nathaniel Peppers. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Visit the author website: http://www.jacobpeppersauthor.com

  To my wife, Andrea,

  Who most certainly possesses the Virtue of Patience,

  Even without a mythical creature to help.

  And that, I think, is a magic all its own.

  Sign up for the author’s New Releases mailing list and get a free copy of Reaper’s Awakening: Book One of The Essence Chronicles.

  Click here to pick up your free copy!

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  The house, when they came upon it, looked much like any other in Perennia’s poor quarter. A squat, crudely built shack seemingly thrown together by a carpenter with few materials and less skill.

  Aaron stifled a yawn and followed the two soldiers to the shack’s door. He’d slept little in the last two days. His eyes felt grainy and dry, as if someone had rubbed sand into them while he…well, not slept. Certainly, not that. He found his thoughts drifting to Adina and, particularly, to the bed they shared. Not that she would be in it, of course. As hard as he’d been having to work the last few days, Adina had worked even harder, getting little to no sleep at all as she set about the unenviable task of undoing the damage Grinner had done to the city, excising the results of his treachery like a healer performing a particularly difficult—and time consuming—surgery.

  Still, the fact that Adina was suffering even more than he was didn’t make Aaron any less tired, for the door on which the soldiers were preparing to knock—or break down, if need be, and it almost certainly would—was not the first, or even the hundredth such door they’d visited over the last few days. Aaron’s thoughts were on the princess, on his own exhaustion, so he almost missed the tell-tale warning that rose in his mind as he quested out distractedly with the power of the bond. Almost, but not quite. “Don’t,” he said.

  The soldier’s fist was raised to knock, but he froze as if a sword was held at his back. After all, it was not the man’s first such door either, and he’d been given occasion to trust Aaron in such situations as this. “General?” he asked, his voice low and uncertain.

  Aaron frowned, questing out with the power of the bond, reaching tendrils of it through the door to the two men on the other side. One stood with his back pressed against the wall, a knife in his hand, his thoughts filled with that wild anger few things but fear can engender. But it wasn’t him that Aaron was worried about. It was the man who sat in the middle of the room, a crossbow in his hands. This one was angry too, scared just like his comrade, but where the other man’s thoughts were frantic and troubled, this one’s were ordered, resigned. He knew what awaited him, but he was intent on taking as many with him as he could when it came time to visit the Death God.

  Aaron shook his head at the guard, holding up a finger to tell him to wait. Over the last days and weeks, he’d grown considerably in the power he was able to exert with the bond. According to Co, he had mastered it to a degree no one else ever had. But no matter how much power he’d gained, it still had its limits, and the last few days of constant use had stretched those limits to the breaking point. So when he reached out with the bond, it was slow to respond. Where normally he would have been able to get a clear understanding of what the two men felt, of whether or not they would surrender, given the chance, now he only caught bits and pieces, fragments of their thoughts, their emotions, that made little sense on their own.

  The frantic one thought of a woman. Or was it a girl? Mary. Or maybe it was Margaret? Certainly, it started with an M. Or…almost certainly. A wife, perhaps, or a daughter. It doesn’t matter, Aaron scolded himself, rubbing his temples where the headache that had been slowly building over the last few days was rising to a crescendo. What matters is he might put the blade down—might give up. The other though…Aaron couldn’t read much off the man, but it was enough to know he thought of no one—not even himself. His thoughts were only of the grave, of the cold dark of death that had already begun to seep into his bones, his flesh, and of the certainty that the only way to feel some warmth again was to kill as many of those who came for him as he could.

  “Let me,” Aaron said quietly, and the guard moved out of the way.

  “General, sir,” the soldier said, “are you sure?”

  No, Aaron thought, I’m not sure. M
aybe the first man won’t give up, after all—maybe he’ll fight until he’s dead. Shit, maybe it’s not Margaret or Mary—gods, it could be Mark for all I know. The truth is, I’m too tired to know the truth of it one way or the other. I’m not sure, and that’s why I’ll go. He knew what Adina would say to that, had heard the lecture often enough over the last couple of days to recite it word for word. Knew, even, that many of the points she would make would be good ones.

  And yet, you’ll ignore it, the Virtue said into his mind, and though she tried for anger, what came through her tone was little more than an exhausted resignation, for she had been feeling the stress of the last few days as much as Aaron himself.

  Yes, he thought back, standing in front of the door, his own hand hesitating inches from the latch. It was not locked—that much, at least, he had managed to pick up from the thoughts of the two inside.

  “Sir?” the second soldier said, holding up the stout length of wood he carried, an efficient, if graceless key for many of the doors they’d visited lately.

  “Not this time,” Aaron said, and the man gave a gruff nod, offering no argument, as if he trusted the sellsword’s decisions without question. If only I could do as much.

  Aaron frowned, considering. It was a small house, a small room. The door would swing to the left, the man with the knife waited on the right. That would leave any poor fool who entered nowhere to go but forward, directly into the crossbow fire of the second man.

  Any poor fool—including a particularly stubborn sellsword, I imagine, the Virtue said.

  Aaron sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Sir?”

  The guards were looking at him strangely and he realized that, in his exhaustion, he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

  You know what you should do. Leave some guards on the door—they’ll have to come out sooner or later.

  And waste even more time and resources? It’s not as if we have soldiers lining up to help, is it?

  Not that most of the city’s soldiers knew what they were doing, in any case. After all, there was no telling quite how far Grinner’s poison had spread, and Aaron and the others had decided it would be better to rely only on those they could trust—a dishearteningly small number, when they stopped to count it: himself, Darrell, Wendell, Leomin, and, after some debate, the remaining members of the Ghosts, the most elite of Perennia’s soldiers who had stood and held the gate against Belgarin’s army. There had been well over a hundred of them before that fateful encounter, but unsurprisingly, holding off an army on their own had reduced their numbers significantly, and now there were only perhaps two dozen left.

  Aaron drew his sword and one of the knives he carried at his side, then turned back to the two soldiers who gave him a nod to indicate they were ready. “Stay behind me,” he said. “On either side of the door.”

  The soldiers nodded at that, as if it were perfectly reasonable, and that did little to quell the voice inside Aaron’s head that told him he was being a fool. He should wait. He knew he should. Yes, it would slow down the search for Grinner’s men, further delaying the army’s march on Perennia—a march that should have begun days ago—but it would also mean he had a better chance of not ending up with a crossbow bolt sticking out of him, a particularly unpleasant sensation that his bad luck—or, truth to tell, bad choices—had given him cause to experience before.

  Over the years, he’d heard countless people—hucksters and traveling showmen, mostly—claim to be able to cut down an arrow in mid-flight. He had even watched a few successfully accomplish such a feat, though more often than not the “show” ended with a visit to the healer’s. Yet, even those few who had succeeded had done so by deflecting arrows shot from bows designed for the purpose. Underpowered shots with arrows covered in so much fluffy fletching they looked dressed to attend a nobleman’s ball, shot from bows fashioned so that even had the shot landed, it would have most likely bounced off, and no harm done.

  All pretty enough to watch, he supposed, if the watcher kept his eyes squinted and ignored the fact that the arrows traveled slower than a rock thrown by a particularly timid child. Pretty, fancy, maybe. But not real. In reality, arrows were fast, and crossbow bolts—not dependent on the strength of the man holding the bow—were often faster. Still, he had touched the man’s mind, if briefly, and had some inkling of his emotions. He thought he might be able to predict, with a reasonable degree of certainty, where the man would aim. Which left a chance—a bigger one than he would have liked—that he’d end the day with an extra hole in him than when he’d started it. It would be better to wait. Smarter.

  “It’s a damn shame,” he said to no one in particular, “but I never have been good at waiting.”

  With that, he kicked at the flimsy latch on the door with as much strength as he could muster. The house was in the poor quarter of the city—as most of the sanctuaries Grinner’s men had chosen were—and, like its counterparts, the wood of its door was weak, rotten. One good kick was enough to shatter the latch and send the door swinging inward.

  Aaron didn’t hesitate, charging into the darkness of the house. There was a cry of surprise from the man on the side of the door, but from the other, the one with the crossbow, there was only silence. Well, silence, and the particularly ominous snick of the crossbow’s release. Aaron could see little of the house’s interior—vague outlines, no more than that, and it wouldn’t have mattered in any case. But he was still holding onto the power of his bond with Co, so even before the crossbow released, he was moving, his hand—and the knife it held—flashing up in front of his neck where he felt the man would aim.

  At first, the blade cut through nothing but air, and he had the panicked thought that maybe he’d read the man wrong, that he’d decided to aim for the easier target of his stomach or chest instead, and that he was about to have a new hole in him, a token of his own foolishness. But then the knife struck something and there was a clatter as the bolt was deflected to strike the wall beside him. Still cognizant of the man beside him, he brought the blade back and threw it at the shadowy outline further in the house. He was rewarded with a surprised shout of pain, but he was already spinning, his fist lashing out and taking the man at the door—who’d been just about to lunge with the knife he carried—in the chin.

  The thug cried out in pain, stumbling backward. Aaron continued his spin, sweeping his leg out to strike his opponent in the back of his knees. The man let out another cry and fell to the ground. Before he could rise, Aaron stepped forward, withdrawing his sword and placing the tip at the criminal’s throat. The man froze, his body going stiff, but Aaron could feel him thinking it over, considering going for the blade that had fallen beside him. “Don’t,” he said. “She wouldn’t want you to.”

  He couldn’t see the criminal’s face in the darkness, but he saw his body tense as if he’d been slapped. “M-Maisel sent you?”

  Maisel. Damn it. “Not exactly, but if you ever want to see her again, you’ll stop reaching for that blade and stay still.”

  The thug did, and Aaron felt as much as saw the fight go out of him. Satisfied there’d be no more trouble from that quarter, he turned to the other man. The chair had been knocked over, and the man himself had fallen to his knees, hissing and cursing in pain. His hands gripped the blade embedded in his shoulder as if he would pull it out. Before he could, the two soldiers rushed in, their own blades drawn, and by the light of the lantern one of them carried, Aaron was able to make out the crossbow bolt the man had dropped when the blade struck him.

  The two soldiers set about manacling the criminals. One unceremoniously ripped the knife free of the man’s shoulder, eliciting a scream from the criminal, before offering the blade back to Aaron.

  The sellsword took it, sheathing it and his sword. Then, suddenly, a rush of dizziness went through him, and the strength seemed to leave his legs. He stumbled and would have fallen had his back not hit the wall behind him.

  The two Ghosts were seeing
to the prisoners, so they didn’t notice, nor did they see him blinking stupidly, shaking his head in a furious effort to banish the spots that danced in his vision. You’ve pushed yourself too hard, Co said admonishingly. You need rest, Aaron.

  Sure, he thought back as some of the strength returned to his legs, and he pulled himself off the wall. And starving men need food—that doesn’t mean they always get it. You know as well as I do that we have to finish this, and quickly. With each day that passes, Kevlane grows stronger. We’re running low on time—might be out of it already.

  And if you get there only to be too tired to stand? I wonder, how effective you will be battling Kevlane and his creatures if two of your men have to carry you around, maybe swing your sword for you, too.

  Aaron didn’t respond, partly because she was right, and he knew it, but also because the soldiers had finished chaining the two prisoners, and were turning back to him, looking at him with a question in their eyes. “Put them in the dungeons with the others,” he said wearily. He gestured to the one with the wound in his shoulder. “Have a healer have a look at that one first, then let Captain Gant know, so his questioners can see to them.”

  “Of course, General Envelar.”

  “General Envelar?” the fearful man who’d stood behind the door said. “Gods, but…then it’s true then. The way you knew I was behind the door…you really can read people’s minds.”

  Sure, Aaron thought sourly, and for my next trick, I’ll fall asleep standing up. But he didn’t bother responding, only motioned for the soldiers to take the prisoners out.

  They started toward the door, but one of the Ghosts paused, as Aaron had feared he would. “General…if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir, that was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. Deflecting a crossbow bolt with a knife and throwing the same knife to hit him right in the shoulder of his crossbow arm before he could reload…incredible, sir.”