The temple of fate, p.12
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The Temple of Fate, page 12

 part  #5 of  Bander Series

 

The Temple of Fate
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  But Bander and Valthar both knew that these were not normal circumstances. If they brought Sward to the Guild Hall, they may not see him again for months—if at all.

  A further complication was the fact that Valthar had been hunted by the Guild for many years. He couldn’t risk showing his face anywhere near a Guild Hall. In fact, he couldn’t even risk bringing a mage to a healer. So Valthar pressed a pouch filled with gems and coins into Bander’s hands.

  “It is time for our company to part, my son,” Valthar said. “I shall return home. You tend to Sward, and when it is safe, bring him to me.”

  Bander nodded. That was the best course of action. It might be several days before Eton Sward could travel.

  Valthar turned and hobbled off into the crowd. Bander watched him go and then returned to the wagon.

  Several hours later Bander’s broken ribs and cracked cheekbone had been ministered to and he was feeling back to normal. But Eton Sward wasn’t so lucky. His injuries were much more severe and it would be a few days before the mage was able to travel.

  Bander decided to walk over to the guildhall and see if anything was happening there. He had been concerned about Mrs. Heffring’s safety should Mortam Rowe or any other attackers return to Irfals. So Bander had instructed Langer to stop at the guildhall on his way back to Irfals. If the hired hand did what he had been instructed to do, all the Guild would know was that one of their mages had disappeared in a suspicious fire. They’d naturally send people to investigate and that should keep Mortam Rowe away.

  But as far as he could tell, the guildhall was quiet. No one was being mobilized just yet. Maybe the mages were discussing it. Maybe they already sent out some investigators.

  He didn’t want to linger, so he returned to the healer’s place and checked on Eton Sward. The mage was still unconscious and was expected to stay that way for another twelve hours at least.

  It was a messy situation, to be sure, with more questions than answers, but Bander knew he would have to be patient.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mortam Rowe still couldn’t believe he had survived.

  The incident two days ago had been the closest he had ever come to death—permanent death. There was no resurrection if your body is smashed on rocks after falling off a cliff.

  Thankfully, Keave had been there. Once again his old friend had come through for him. It wasn’t the first time. Or the tenth. But this was probably the most remarkable, most dramatic way Keave had saved him.

  The locestra was difficult to live with—that was a certainty. But every time Mortam Rowe found himself getting annoyed at his friend, he reminded himself of what Keave had done for him over the years. That knowledge gave him strength.

  And that’s what he needed now. Strength. For even though he had one friend here with him now, he had lost another. A very dear friend. A precious friend.

  Belle.

  Where was she…?

  Of course he had gone back to that cursed hill in Irfals to try to look for her, but the place was swarming with Guild forces. There was no way he could get close to those ruins. At least not for a week or so.

  Deep down in his heart, he felt that Leocald Grannt had stolen Belle. He had no proof of this, of course. It was just a feeling. The man seemed like the kind of villain who might kill a man and then steal his weapon.

  Of course, if Mortam Rowe were to be honest with himself he would have to admit that it was his own fault. This whole thing was his fault. Keave had bested the sellsword, fair and square. Leocald Grannt had been at their mercy.

  But a slight error in judgment—an overabundance of arrogance perhaps—caused Mortam Rowe to underestimate the mercenary. And then, as was so often the case, many small mishaps cascaded together to form a rather colossal failure.

  Mortam Rowe rubbed his jaw. It was still sore, but Vocklan had been able to heal it—thank the stars.

  Yes, Mortam Rowe knew he had been fortunate. But now, standing outside Harnotis Kodd’s estate, he wondered if his luck would hold.

  “Tell me again how you had the man right in your grasp, but managed to let him go,” Harnotis Kodd said.

  “It was an unfortunate series of events, Master. I take full responsibility.”

  “I am beginning to think you are not up to this task, Mr. Rowe. Or any task, for that matter.”

  “I most certainly am—”

  “What of the mage, then. This Eton Sward?” Harnotis Kodd’s jowls quivered as he said the name.

  “We interrogated him for a bit—”

  “Define ‘a bit’ if you will.”

  “He had a rather weaker constitution than expected, Master.”

  “He’s a mage for Dynark’s sake! Of course he has a weak constitution!”

  “Had, Master.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By all accounts the mage perished. I heard the Guild investigators speak of it. Perhaps he died in the fire, but more likely he died at the hands of that villain Leocald Grannt.”

  Harnotis Kodd leaned back. “Why would the mercenary kill him?”

  “Gold of course.”

  “But he was there to sell Eton Sward the aona. There would have been no other reason the two men would have come together.”

  “Sward didn’t know anything about a mercenary with an aona to sell. I think that we got there an hour too early.”

  “So this whole mess was just a spot of bad luck? Bad timing, was it?”

  “It appears so, Master. I believe that there was a very strong possibility that after we were out of the picture, Grannt robbed Eton Sward and finished him off. And if that is so, Grannt will still be in possession of the aona.”

  “But you have no idea where he was going?”

  Mortam Rowe’s mouth became dry all of a sudden. He swallowed and pressed on. “I believe it was you, Master Kodd, who said there might be another interested party…”

  The mage’s jaw visibly tightened, and he looked away. “Would that I could trust you to investigate that other interested party.”

  “You can trust me, Master. I will not fail you.”

  “Not fail me? Rowe, all you’ve done is fail me—right from the start. No, I’m afraid that I have serious doubts about your ability to even locate Talessa Kreed, let alone recover the aona.”

  “Just give us one more chance, Master Kodd.”

  The mage didn’t say anything for several moments. He just fixed Mortam Rowe with his beady eyes.

  “I suppose you’d want me to arrange to for your travel down to the Wilderlands, eh?”

  “No, Master. We’ll find our own way.”

  Harnotis Kodd fluttered his hand. “Very well. Go. Try to prove me wrong.”

  “Thank you, Master!”

  “But mind me, Mr. Rowe. Fail me again and it will be you who is hunted.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Once Sward was able to travel, Bander and the mage took a public portal to Hamwick, bought some horses, and then—after Bander made sure they were not being followed—they set off west on a sleepy country lane, past fields and farms and the occasional hamlet and homestead.

  As usual, the exact location of Valthar’s lodge had been obscured in Bander’s memory, but he used the ‘green man on a red door’ trick to get them to Valthar’s home.

  “This is where that old scamp lives?” Eton Sward asked as they stood in front of the vine-covered stone lodge. “He must be wealthier than I thought.”

  The door creaked open and Valthar stood there, scowling and leaning on his cane. “What are you two vermin waiting for? Enter!”

  “Good to see you too, Devil Dog.”

  As they walked into the hall, Valthar shoved something into Eton Sward’s hand.

  “Ho, what’s this? I didn’t know you missed me so much.” He held up what Valthar had given him—a silver wristlet.

  “Put it on and keep it on,” Valthar said.

  “Not quite to my taste, Devil Dog. But I do appreciate the sentiment.”

  “It’s to protect us against divination, you rumpkin!”

  “Divination? I hardly think anyone will bother with that.”

  “No, he’s right,” Bander said to Eton Sward. “I instructed Langer to report that you had died in the fire.”

  “You what?”

  “But when they don’t find your body, it won’t be long before someone starts looking for you—magically.”

  Eton Sward nodded and slipped on the wristlet on. “We’re far enough from the Steading that divination wouldn’t detect me, but better safe than sorry, I guess.”

  Valthar said, “Yes, but if the Guild really wanted to look, they’d have every mage in the Empire cast the spell. Someone might be close enough to find you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Now come in and make yourself comfortable. We have much to discuss.”

  “I will join you momentarily,” Bander said. “Someone needs to tend to the horses.”

  He went out and led the horses back to the stables, rubbed them down, and made sure they had grain and water. Then he used the outhouse and returned to the lodge.

  Inside, Bander found Eton Sward and Valthar relaxing with glasses of uskbow in front of the fireplace in the great hall.

  “This one actually doesn’t look worse for the wear,” Valthar said, nodding at Eton Sward.

  “That’s easy for you to say. You were not almost ripped from limb to limb. Tell him Bander.”

  “I already did,” Bander said. “You both know as much as I do—which isn’t much.”

  “Grab yourself a glass, Bander,” Valthar said. “I’m serving the good stuff. Unlike our deadbeat friend here. And while you’re up, tend to the fire, won’t you?”

  Bander added a few logs to the fire. A little more than two weeks into the new year and the air was as cold as in the dead of winter. Cold and uncomfortable. Hamwick didn’t get much snow, but the air was damp year round, so the fire was very welcome. As was the uskbow.

  “So what do we know of these assailants then?” Valthar asked.

  “There were two of them, of course,” Eton Sward said. “One slight and one nearly as big as Bander.”

  Bander shook his head. “Not nearly as big as me. Not really. At most, Keave stood six feet tall, and I doubt he topped two hundred and a quarter pounds.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Eton Sward asked.

  “He spent a good amount of time perched on my chest. Which was not pleasant.”

  “And this was the mage?” Eton Sward asked.

  “Possibly,” Bander said. “All I know is that Keave dove over the wall a moment after I had tossed his friend Mortam Rowe. But if one of them cast that teleport spell, it must have been Keave. Rowe was unconscious at best, but most likely dead from the blow I delivered.”

  “Right,” Valthar continued. “Two men. One big, one small. The big one may be a mage—possibly even a battle mage.”

  “But he was definitely a brawler. I never saw anyone move that quickly.”

  “So perhaps a swift spell?” Eton Sward asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe his speed was natural. Maybe not.”

  “Anything else about this Keave?” Valthar asked.

  Bander shook his head. “He was dressed normally. Dark clothes. Nothing ostentatious. He was relatively clean—”

  “And the other man?” Valthar asked. “Mortam Rowe?”

  “He was definitely the leader. A slight man. More refined.”

  “How do you know?”

  “His speech patterns. His movements. How he carried himself.”

  “I can confirm that,” Eton Sward said. “He was very polite. Right up until the time he struck me with his truncheon. Which, by the by, he spoke to lovingly and referred to as Belle.”

  “What?” Valthar asked.

  “I cosh you not, friends.”

  “I saw it, too,” Bander said. “In fact, I threw it in the lake.”

  “Why? We might have used it to track them.”

  Bander shrugged. “I was not in the best of moods.”

  “What else?” Valthar asked, taking a swallow of uskbow.

  “Accents,” Bander said. “Slight, but Northern to be sure. I’d place them in Lhawster.”

  “Well then—”

  Bander interrupted Valthar. “You forgot the most important thing. They knew exactly who I was, where I’d been, and knew that I was in possession of an aona.”

  They kept talking until dark and then Valthar served them a stew made from leeks and potatoes. It was surprisingly tasty, and Bander told Valthar so.

  After dinner the three of them returned to the great hall and continued their discussion in front of the hearth.

  At the end of the evening, there were still more questions than answers. All that they could conclude was that there were suddenly more parties interested in aonae and likely someone at Prichard’s had informed Rowe and Keave that Bander had been given one as a reward. But that didn’t explain how they had been tracked to Irfals.

  The idea that more people were aware of aonae seemed to greatly dismay Valthar.

  “And why is that so surprising?” Bander asked.

  Valthar glanced at Sward. “As far as I know, Sward here is the only other person alive besides me who is studying the time temples.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Bander said. “If these temples and amulets do what you say they do—”

  “Please, spare us your naysaying,” Valthar said. “The hour is far too late for that.”

  “My point is that time travel is a rather significant power. I would think the Guild would be devoting considerable resources to both acquiring these aonae and understanding the mechanics of the time temples.”

  “Well, they’re not!” Valthar muttered.

  “My dear Bander, do you have any idea of how many magical artifacts the Guild has in its possession?” Eton Sward asked. “How many they are studying?”

  “A lot.”

  “A lot indeed. Thousands. Many thousands. And that’s a conservative estimate.”

  Bander didn’t say anything.

  Eton Sward continued, “And do you know how many lore mages are active in the entire Guild?”

  Bander knew that—throughout the whole of the Empire—there were roughly two thousand Guild-sanctioned mages. But he had no idea of how that broke down among the various specialties.

  “I’d say no more than five hundred,” Valthar said.

  “236,” Eton Sward said. “That’s all the lore mages in the Guild. Most of them are at Delham. There’s a few at Skydagger, and we lost a good number at the Esoterium when Waterside fell.”

  The memory of that tragedy was still painful for Bander. It was something that might very well haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Eton Sward continued, “So two hundred or so researchers and several thousand artifacts to research—”

  “But someone must prioritize them,” Bander said.

  “Of course. Right now Hartigan Luce in Three Rivers heads up Lore. And there’s Faran Marr, of course. But every one of those 236 magical researchers has his or her own desired projects.” Eton Sward took a drink. “I just wish all my books hadn’t been destroyed. At least we’d have something more to go on.”

  “They haven’t all been destroyed,” Valthar said. He rose stiffly and shuffled to a table. He picked up a book and presented it to Eton Sward. It was Burritch’s Travels.

  The mage was almost in tears. “Thank you, Devil Dog.”

  “I promised to keep it safe, didn’t I?” Valthar huffed.

  Bander turned to him. “So you’ve had the book for several days now. Have you discovered anything?”

  “What’s there to discover? We know Burritch found the Temple of Fate. His descriptions are certainly good enough for us to find it as well.”

  “On the contrary, Burritch’s descriptions are woefully inadequate,” said Eton Sward. “He mentions a valley with some exposed stone. And then a canyon with some old structures up on a ridge. We don’t know where exactly he tried to cross the Crantochs. We don’t know which valley he entered and which canyon and which ridge. And damned if I’ll travel 300 miles into the jungle without knowing where I’m going. We are not young men any more.”

  Bander glanced over at Valthar. “If I recall correctly, you were reading me the passage where Burritch first enters what he calls the chapel…”

  “Indeed, and if you can restrain yourself from running off again, I might endeavor to read it again.”

  “Please do.”

  Valthar took the book back from Eton Sward and spent a few moments trying to find the proper place and then began to read aloud.

  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 squarely built in the Providian fashion with machicolations and lancet windows and the building was arranged in a distinctive cruciform design.

  “Just like every other temple in the world,” Eton Sward said dismissively.

  Valthar continued reading.

  Inside we found a long pillared hall with graven images leading to an altar of black stone, fifteen hands long and five wide. Rows of tall windows, all missing their glass, lined the walls of the central hall.

  Holm approached the altar, drawn to it as a thirsty man is drawn to a spring. He rested his head upon it and closed his eyes as if in a deep slumber. At the time, I did not think of it, instead content to scour the rest of the structure: the transepts, the nave, the chantries, and the central tower. Alas, all had been long abandoned and bereft of any antiquities. The building was a mere shell, mostly lifeless and empty.

 
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