The Temple of Fate, page 11
part #5 of Bander Series




He continued to read aloud:
What I am calling the Chapel was made of huge blocks of reddish lumbia stone, cut into perfect rectangular pieces, each exactly four hands tall and six and a half hands wide, and joined so precisely there was no visible mortar between the blocks. When the sun began to set, it cast its beams upon the structure, causing an illusion that the stone was the color of freshly spilled blood. Captain Wabsel was loath to enter the structure and none of our bearers would lay camp within a hundred yards of the edifice, but Jinton Holm and I girded ourselves and entered the Chapel.
It was smaller than Aravat to be sure, but there was a central tower—
Bander couldn’t help himself. That moment he glanced up and toward the hill upon which the Temple of Dreams stood. Probably to compare what he was hearing to the sight of a known time temple.
But his eyes didn’t focus on the half-ruined tower of the Temple of Dreams.
They focused on the line of black smoke that billowed up from the temple.
Chapter Twenty
“Stay here!”
Bander jumped into the skiff, nearly capsizing it. Valthar protested, but Bander was already moving, propelling the skiff across the lake’s surface with powerful choppy strokes.
He calculated his options for getting up to the top of the hill as quickly as possible. He could paddle directly across the lake to the base of the hill which would be shorter as the crow flies, but he would have no way to access the path that switchbacked up to the top. He’d have to circle around to southwest of the hill where the river trail headed up the hill.
No, it was much better to keep going by boat, aided by the current, until he arrived at the river trail.
So that’s what he did.
One last hard stroke of the paddle shot the skiff towards shore and Bander levered his body up and out of the vessel, pausing only for a moment to drag the skiff up on shore. Then he ran to the trail and started climbing.
When he had walked this trail yesterday, it had taken him twenty minutes to get to the top. But that was at a leisurely pace. Now he was barreling up the hill at a speed he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain for twenty minutes.
He lasted less than five.
Bander slowed to a walk, pain biting at his sides, and lungs burning. His body was not designed for this kind of activity. Not at all. And the smoky air didn’t help. The acrid smoke got stronger and stronger as he climbed.
He breathed through his cloak for a ten count, then set off again, running. After a minute he switched to walking. Back and forth. Running, walking. Wolf-trotting it was called. And it got him to the top of the hill in less than a quarter hour. Overall, not a big improvement over just walking. But in situations like this, you didn’t know how important five extra minutes would turn out to be.
The gate was closed but unlocked and two horses were tethered nearby. Which was odd because Sward had said that he didn’t have any horses…
Bander pushed in and got a better look at the plume of smoke. It wasn’t coming from Eton Sward’s cottage—not the result of an unattended cooking fire or a blanket left too close to the hearth. No, the plume billowed up from the temple itself—the chapter house specifically.
Where Eton Sward’s office was.
Bander raced towards the temple ruins. He pushed through the doors of the main building and ran towards the tunnel that was the only way in or out of Eton Sward’s office.
But he didn’t get far. Black smoke billowed from the passage, blocking his way. It made sense; smoke was heavier than air and it would sink down to the lowest part of a building. But it also meant that the fire had been burning for some time. All those ancient books in the office, the scrolls, the maps—all perfect fuel for a fire.
He called out but there was no answer. Was Sward in there—unconscious? Bander’s mind raced with the possibilities. Should he attempt a run through the tunnel? Maybe soak his cloak in water and—
But a voice called from behind him. A calm voice.
“Who might you be?”
A whippy, compact man stood a dozen feet away, at the top of the stairs. He was younger than Bander by a decade. Maybe two. And definitely not perturbed by the circumstances. That was evident by the way he stood, confidently—and the measure of his body, which was spare and taut.
Bander didn’t say anything.
“A friend of Master Sward’s perhaps? Come a calling? Concerned about the… accident?”
Bander took a few steps up the stairs, closing the distance between himself and the smaller man. He noticed the man’s eyes. Blue and curious. But his gaze was unflinching. Focused. Like he could solve a problem just by staring at it.
And right now, the problem was Bander.
“He’s quite safe,” the man said. “Follow me.” And then he turned on his heel and strode away. Quickly. Lightly.
Bander rolled his shoulders and followed the man. Not much else to do. He couldn’t stay in the temple. Not with all the smoke. He couldn’t make it through the tunnel, either.
They passed through the south transept, turned at the ruined tower, and then made their way through the columns of the entrance hall and out through the iron-banded ceaon doors.
As he moved from shadow to the light, Bander sensed movement from his right side: something fast. Incredibly fast.
He tried to react, tried to turn away, but his opponent was too swift. A big man exploded into Bander, hitting squarely at his waist, slamming in hard. It was like being trampled by a charging bull. No way to dodge that.
Tangled with his assailant, Bander flew off his feet and hit the ground, his breath knocked out of him.
Before he could recover, a meaty fist slammed into his jaw, cracking his head back against the hard dirt. Bander’s vision darkened and then the man struck again.
Somehow Bander managed to get an arm up, partially blocking his attacker’s blow. And that’s when he caught a glimpse of the man on top of him. His assailant seemed more ape than man, a thick, heavily muscled brute with wide shoulders and a small head. His face was twisted into a grimace, with two angry feral eyes beady under a heavy brow.
Bander knew his one chance at surviving was to get back upright, so he rolled away and pushed himself up, barely dodging a savage kick from the brute.
Bander staggered to his feet, trying to catch his breath. But there was no time for that. His opponent stomped in, moving impossibly fast—so fast that Bander wondered if he was augmented by magic.
There was no evading the man’s massive roundhouse punch. The only thing Bander could do was to try to minimize the damage by taking the blow in his shoulder. Still, pain tore through his body as the vicious punch connected hard, the force of it sending Bander stumbling.
But the man didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat. He roared and charged in with a low kick which probably could have demolished the heavy temple doors, smashed them right off their hinges into a million pieces. But the kick wasn’t aimed at the door. It was aimed at Bander’s side—right below his armpit. And even though Bander’s chest was protected by so much muscle it was like a suit of armor, the kick slammed into him with enough power to crack at least one of his ribs. Maybe more.
All the air was driven out of Bander’s body and everything dimmed again as he staggered back.
“Enough, Keave!” the short man shouted.
Bander gasped, every breath shooting burning pain up his side. But he was still alive. Miraculously.
He backed away from his attacker, eyeing him with something more like respect than fear. No one had thrashed Bander like that—at least since he was a young man.
But the man’s eyes were completely dead. Like nothing was registering at all. He regarded Bander like he was gazing at a side of a barn.
The shorter man, however, drew closer and looked Bander up and down. “My apologies for the roughhousing, sir. But it’s always good to take a man’s measure, is it not?”
This smaller man was clearly the leader. The brains to the other’s brawn. And he was smart enough not to get too close to Bander.
Bander breathed out slowly, trying to will away the pain. He didn’t have a lot of options. His back was up against the temple wall. To his right was the low wall with a three hundred foot drop beyond it. No way out in that direction. To his left was the courtyard and the ape-like man who had nearly killed him.
“My associate and I are inquiring after a piece of jewelry,” he said. “A pendant to be exact. Half the size of a coin. No bigger certainly.”
The leader drew even closer, squinting at Bander’s face. Probably trying to figure out if Bander was even capable of responding to spoken words.
Speaking slower, the man continued. “This pendant… it’s made of cast silver and shaped like a crescent moon.”
The aona, Bander thought. These men were after the aona.
“I don’t understand…” Bander whispered. He could taste blood in his mouth.
“I think it’s all quite clear. You came to meet Master Sward, didn’t you? Perhaps to sell him something. Fortunately for all of us, Sward is still alive, if not well. For now. He’s had quite the ordeal, I’m afraid. And now he’s resting. Trying to get his strength up for whatever’s coming next.” A cruel smile formed on the leader’s lips. “Keave, why don’t you fetch him?”
Bander had to force himself not to react. This man was sending away his deadly henchman? Why? Was he that confident that Bander wouldn’t try to escape?
Out of the corner of his eye, Bander saw Keave shuffle off towards Eton Sward’s cottage.
“So, my friend, it seems like we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Mortam Rowe.”
Purely for show, Bander groaned quietly like he was trying to fight the pain. Then he allowed a thin line of spittle to seep from his lips. It was red with blood.
“And your name, sir?” Mortam Rowe moved closer and Bander saw something in his hand. Some sort of weapon.
“Grannt,” Bander said quietly, like a man who was in pain.
“Ah, the elusive Mr. Leocald Grannt. Late of Gilweald, I presume? Friend of the Jeighs?”
This man knew him! But how? Bander’s mind was racing, but he kept his expression bewildered. Like this whole thing was a case of mistaken identity.
“And you came all this way to see if Master Sward might purchase the crescent,” Mortam Rowe continued.
“No,” Bander said softly. “I don’t sell nothing like that.”
“Come now, Mr. Grannt.”
“Wood,” Bander said.
“Wood, Mr. Grannt?”
“Firewood. I sell him firewood.”
“Firewood, really?” Mortam Rowe asked.
Bander shifted his weight, inched his right foot up against the temple wall.
“I think you’ve got the wrong man. Never been to Gilweald. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bander muttered. “Can I go?”
“Of course, Mr. Grannt. But aren’t you curious about Master Sward? That is why you ran up here, isn’t it?”
“I’m hurt.” Bander hunched over, trying to make himself seem smaller.
“Yes, well, Keave does have that effect on one. Tell you what, Mr. Grannt. If you can get past me, you’re free to go. If not, well…” He shrugged.
Now Mortam Rowe was making no secret of the weapon in his hand. From what Bander could tell, it was halfway between a truncheon and a mace. Rowe flicked it out as if loosening up his wrist. Like he didn’t have a care in the world.
At this point it was all about eyes and feet—as most combat was.
Some fighters—the more inexperienced ones—might signal where they were aiming with a glance in that direction. Hard to control that. It was human nature to look before you leap.
More seasoned fighters learned to control their eyes. But almost no one could control their feet. It was nearly impossible to move, to get yourself in position, to turn—without shifting your stance even a bit.
Bander ignored Mortam Rowe’s eyes and watched his feet. He watched as Rowe got in position, leaned back on his heels. Confident that the half-dead woodsman wouldn’t pose any kind of problem.
“Come on,” Bander whined. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” Mortam Rowe gestured toward the gate that led out of the courtyard.
Bander glanced in that direction. A tell, to be sure. But intentional.
He feinted left, then lurched right. Staggering, unsteady. Also intentional.
Mortam Rowe came right at him—as expected.
Normally when someone is attacked with a striking weapon like Rowe’s, they have a fraction of a second to react. No more than that. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people will flinch or try to dodge away. Nearly all won’t be able to move quickly enough to avoid the blow.
It is possible to dodge a greatsword. You can dodge a polearm. A flail. And even an axe sometimes. But it exceptionally difficult to dodge a small handheld weapon like a truncheon—especially if it is wielded the correct way, using short choppy strokes.
But Bander wasn’t trying to avoid the blow. Not at all.
In fact, without warning, he drove forward with his legs, exploding up towards Mortam Rowe, slamming his fist against flesh and bone just as the smaller man was in the middle of his backswing.
Bander’s uppercut connected with Mortam Rowe’s chin with all the force of a blacksmith’s hammer and Bander felt the other man’s jaw shatter and blood spray from his face.
Rowe’s head snapped back and his body jerked up in the air like a puppet on a string. Then he fell back down. Hit the packed dirt hard. Like getting punched all over again.
“No!” The ape-like man Keave screamed and dropped the body he had been carrying. He was fifty yards away and frozen in horror. His scream was much more than the anguish of losing a comrade-in-arms. It sounded like the wail of a man losing his brother.
Then he roared in anger and sprinted towards Bander like a runaway ore cart flying through a mine.
Not really thinking clearly, Bander snatched up the unconscious body of Mortam Rowe. The man was as light as a rag doll.
Just as Keave was upon him, Bander pitched Rowe’s body over the low wall.
He didn’t have a rational reason for doing so. There was no carefully calculated strategy. Maybe on a visceral level he just wanted to hurt Keave by throwing his friend’s body off a cliff. A show of disrespect. A way to disorient his opponent. Unsettle him.
But Bander wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
Instead of slamming into Bander and trying to rip him limb from limb, Keave dove over the wall and hurtled after his friend—to his death.
“Mort-a-a-a-a-m!” His voice echoed off the cliff side.
Bander watched the two bodies fall towards the lake, almost intertwined.
But they didn’t hit.
There was the barest shimmer of light and both men disappeared into nothingness.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next six hours were a blur.
Bander raced over to Eton Sward, crumpled on the ground. The mage was alive, but it looked like he had been beaten unconscious.
It wasn’t easy—with his own injuries—but Bander managed to get Sward out of the compound and onto one of the horses. He climbed on the other animal and rode slowly down the hill. It was tough going and painful to ride, and it took him nearly half an hour, but he finally made it back to the skiff. Then he got Sward off the horse and propped up against a large boulder, upright so the mage wouldn’t choke.
Next he paddled to the island. This was the toughest part of his ordeal and his side burned with every stroke, but Bander knew he couldn’t stop.
Finally, he made it back to the dock. Valthar was livid, but once Bander explained what had transpired, his friend took the paddle and proceeded to row them back to the temple.
“He knew me,” Bander gasped. “Knew my alias at least. And knew I had been in Gilweald.” He shut his eyes and slumped back in the skiff.
“Don’t die on me yet, you oaf. I want every detail of what happened up there.”
Bander recounted everything, and Valthar asked him to repeat the part about the two men vanishing in midair as they plummeted off the cliff.
“That sounds like a teleport spell to me,” Valthar said. “Incredibly difficult to cast while falling. That big man must have been a skilled mage. A battle mage, most likely.”
“And yet he fought me into the ground with just his bare knuckles.”
Bander recalled when he and the sorceress Silbra Dal escaped from Asryn’s Falward in Laketon. She had been able to work with another mage to teleport them while falling. It was certainly possible. He was living proof of that.
“They may return,” Bander said. “We need to get Eton Sward away from here.”
Valthar shook his head. “Even the most powerful mage would be depleted after a feat such as that. He will have to regain his strength. I agree we must be away, but we have a little time.”
They took the boat all the way back to Mrs. Heffring’s place, and while she tended to Bander’s wounds, Valthar, Langer, Albech the miller, and his son headed back to the ruins of the temple with Albech’s wagon. They returned an hour later with Eton Sward. He was still unconscious.
There was just one healer in the village, and Albech’s wife had fetched him while Valthar and the others were retrieving Eton Sward. The healer, whose name was Roban or Robelyn or something, tended to Bander and managed to stabilize Sward when the mage arrived, but he couldn’t do much beyond that. They would have to take Eton Sward to the Steading for some more intensive healing. The healer recommended someone on Tacomb Street, and Langer drove Bander, Valthar, and Eton Sward the six miles to the Steading.
Bander was very familiar with the Steading. It was a low sprawling city of sixty thousand people. No city walls. The bare minimum of city guards. Most of the residents kept to themselves and didn’t ask a lot of questions. Especially of strangers.
They entered the city and drove to the Windmarch District where Langer stopped the wagon and Bander and Valthar got out to confer privately. They really should have taken Eton Sward directly to the Guild Hall. An attack on a mage was a serious offense and, under normal circumstances, the Guild would devote considerable resources to hunting down the perpetrator of such a crime.