The temple of fate, p.5
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The Temple of Fate, page 5

 part  #5 of  Bander Series

 

The Temple of Fate
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  “And who is Bonesy?”

  “I am!” Another thug called from across the plaza. This one wielded an iron pry bar as long as Mortam Rowe’s arm. “And the cockles of my heart ain’t easily warmed.”

  Mortam Rowe made a show of surrendering. He slumped his shoulders and looked down at the ground. “Very well,” he said. “Serves us right for trying to take a shortcut.”

  “Very wise, sir. Now hand over your purse.” The thug leader turned to Keave. “You, too, fatty.”

  “Would you mind, terribly… holding this for me?” Mortam Rowe proffered his package, and the man reluctantly took it.

  “What’s in here, then?”

  “Our dinner, matter-of-fact,” Mortam Rowe said, reaching towards an imaginary purse at his waist. “Some cheese. Bread. Smoked trout…”

  Then, in a flash, Belle whistled through the air in a savage uppercut. It struck the leader right under his chin, crushing the man’s windpipe and gouging out a good portion of his throat. The sandy-haired thug crumpled to the ground burbling blood, and Mortam Rowe handily caught the package as it fell from the man’s arms. He eased it to the ground and lunged towards Bonesy, stabbing Belle into the soft spot beneath the man’s breastbone.

  Crack!

  Bonesy’s eyes widened in shock and pain as the truncheon impaled him, then Mortam Rowe ripped it back out and kicked the man to the ground.

  In the meantime, Keave exploded forward—moving faster than a bear running down a deer.

  The thugs were lazy—or stupid—and didn’t keep enough distance from one another. Which was good for Keave because he took two men down at once. He got his hand around the neck of the closer man and slammed the man’s head into a stone gate pillar, then he backhanded the second thug he had targeted. With fists as big as teapots, Keave’s blows were crippling at best and often fatal. The man’s head jerked up and back as Keave hammered him again and again, shattering his jaw.

  Mortam Rowe turned back—just in time to see a fist flying towards his face. He dodged back and felt the breeze tickle his cheek as the lanky thug who threw the punch lurched forward, off balance. Mortam Rowe used the thug’s momentum and spun him forward against a wrought-iron ornamental fence. As the man rebounded, Belle arced up and kissed him right on his temple. It was a passionate kiss indeed and the lanky man folded to the ground, twitching as he died.

  The last two men tried to run, but Keave got lucky and caught a handful of the older thug’s cloak, which he used to jerk him off his feet. Then Keave fell upon him, snapping his neck, then hammering the older man’s skull against the cobblestones for good measure.

  Mortam Rowe wagered that the last thug believed he might have a chance. After all, he was a good dozen feet away from where Keave was mashing his fellow gangster’s head into the cobblestones. And from the looks of the man, he was a proficient runner—with a lean physique and long legs.

  But while it was true that Keave was occupied and Mortam Rowe might not be able to overcome the long-legged thug’s head start, there was one other factor which sealed the man’s fate.

  Belle could fly.

  While the impact of a thrown truncheon wasn’t enough to kill the thug, it was enough to momentarily stun him.

  And that was the end of that. Mortam Rowe fell upon the man and snapped his neck.

  While Keave dusted himself off and gathered their packages, Mortam Rowe used a very sharp, very thin stiletto to silently dispatch any of the thugs who were still alive. It was an efficient process. Just a swift jab through an eye or temple. The whole thing took less than a minute.

  “Are you proud of me?” Keave asked as they left the plaza.

  “You did well,” Mortam Rowe said. “Not a single drop of blood on your jacket.”

  Keave smiled and popped a fresh sugar crystal into his mouth.

  The walk back was uneventful, though the inn’s common room was now much louder and more crowded than when they had departed this afternoon. Rough-looking men sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar and packed themselves around a handful of round tables. Off in the corner a balladeer mangled a Southern folk song so badly, it was a blessing that most of his warbling was drowned out by the crowd.

  Pushing their way to the back stairs, Keave cut a swath through the throng of drinkers as Mortam Rowe followed. In situations like this, he was happy to let his large friend act as the vanguard. Thankfully they made it up to their room without incident although Keave was huffing and puffing by the time they arrived up on the third floor. To keep him occupied, Mortam Rowe gave his friend the puzzle he had found in Lowmarket and Keave squealed in delight and dove for one of the beds to play with his new toy.

  After lighting the lamps and pulling off his boots and cloak, Mortam Rowe stretched out on the other bed and gazed into the still scrying crystal. He wondered if Harnotis Kodd would contact them tonight.

  It would be easy enough for Keave to teleport them back to their own abode outside of Lhawster, but if Harnotis Kodd needed them here in Gilweald, they would just have to teleport back—and that would tire the locestra. Keave was not pleasant to be around when he was tired.

  Yes, as uncomfortable as it was here at this squalid establishment, it made more sense to remain here until Harnotis Kodd beckoned once more.

  Mortam Rowe took a deep calming breath and thought about their dead end at Prichard’s and Leocald Grannt.

  A few possibilities played through his mind, but in the end, Mortam Rowe concluded that it was most likely that this man Leocald Grannt knew who Phaler Jeigh was and brought him to safety in order to claim a reward. The clerk had said as much.

  In all probability, the sellsword hadn’t even seen the Dubbard lot. Which meant he was not worth getting too excited about and also not worth contacting Harnotis Kodd about.

  Mortam Rowe would just have to be patient.

  But then the crystal started to swirl…

  Chapter Nine

  Harnotis Kodd lived in a large estate in the Gold Quarter of Lhawster. Mortam Rowe and Keave had been ordered to report to the estate at noon the next day, but Mortam Rowe knew enough about their employer’s habits to make sure they arrived a quarter hour late.

  The butler, Carlon, ushered them in and escorted them to the spacious parlor which the retired mage used as a reception room and office. The parlor was adorned with tapestries and expensive carpets and gilded furniture. All very ornate and ostentatious. Not to Mortam Rowe’s taste at all.

  “My friends, do come in!”

  The mage was perched upon a divan, eating—as usual—from a bowl of berries like some obese rabbit.

  “Forgive me for not rising, but my legs have been giving me pain as of late.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Master,” Mortam Rowe said.

  “Ah, the perils of aging, my friend. I recommend avoiding it at all costs.” He looked over expectantly, but neither Keave nor Mortam Rowe laughed at the jest.

  “In any case,” Harnotis Kodd continued. “I have been thinking about the situation at Pritchard’s and I would like to hear your account once more—directly, from the horse’s mouth so to speak. Specifically, I’d like to hear your opinion about the whereabouts of the aona.”

  “Of course, Master. As we reported, we confirmed that the aona was in the possession of Phaler Jeigh—”

  “The courier who was nearly killed by robbers?”

  “Yes, although he was much more than a courier. The Jeighs own Pritchard’s.”

  “Of course they do. I am quite familiar with them, but as a point of fact, Phaler Jeigh was acting as a courier, was he not?”

  “He was indeed, Master. And we know that Jeigh was transporting the Dubbard lot from Whill to Gilweald. According to Gaon Jeigh, it is Prichard’s standard practice to hide valuables being transported in a special hollow in a horse’s saddle. That was information he did not give up readily, I might add.”

  “I can imagine. So that would explain why the highwaymen did not steal the shipment…”

  “Indeed, Master. And the clerk in Gilweald claimed to have logged in the shipment personally.”

  Harnotis Kodd nodded to himself. “So in all likelihood the aona is in the vaults at Pritchard’s?”

  “Yes, Master. But…”

  “But what, Rowe?”

  “There is the matter of the sellsword.”

  “Kant?”

  “Grannt, sir. Leocald Grannt. He’s the man who brought in Phaler Jeigh. Saved his life. And was given a reward. As I mentioned, after considerable effort we were able to locate the inn where he stayed, but the man himself had left the city by the time. We, of course, tried to find some remnants that Keave could use to track him, but his room had been cleaned.”

  “No matter. It is doubtful that he even knew of the Dubbard shipment.”

  “Of course, Master,” Mortam Rowe said. But he wasn’t so sure. He had a feeling that there was something significant about the old sellsword. But he knew Harnotis Kodd was not one who put much stock in hunches or feelings so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Well, Rowe. That’s that, then. Thank you for your service in this matter. You may speak with Reddiger on the way out and settle up.”

  “What about the other task you mentioned?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with, Rowe. It was regarding another matter and I’ve changed my mind about it.”

  “But I don’t understand. We’re not giving up on the aona are we?”

  “Not by any means,” Harnotis Kodd said. “I have another team in mind for the next phase of the mission.”

  “Another team?” Mortam Rowe felt his mouth go dry. He and Keave had worked for the mage on and off for the past month. Harnotis Kodd paid extremely well, and—although the mage didn’t elaborate—he had mentioned upon more than one occasion that he was in league with the highest powers in the land. Bryn Eresthar’s name had come up in passing several times. So besides the money, there was the prestige. That’s not something Mortam Rowe was eager to give up.

  “Hmm? Oh yes. I shall send my man if I require your services. You will be around town, won’t you?” It was less of a question than an order.

  “Yes, of course, Master. We remain eager to help in any way we can.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nine days after he had left Gilweald, Bander arrived at a familiar country lane a few miles west of Hamwick. A patchwork of dried out fields and pastures stretched out in all directions, dotted with the occasional tiny farmhouse or much larger estate.

  He was close; he knew it.

  But every time he tried to focus on the name of the estate or its location, his memory blurred.

  The only thing he could picture with any certainty was the door of Valthar’s house. It was a tall, sturdy door, carved ceaon, stained a deep rusty red color—with heavy iron hinges. In the center of the door, at eye height for a normal man, but neck height for Bander, was a decorative scene sculpted in relief from the wood.

  The scene depicted a bearded man peering from out of a tangled forest of vines and branches. The man’s face was old and wise-looking, but his expression was fearful. Like he knew something bad was coming.

  He was the Green Man. A green man on a red door.

  Once Bander focused on that image, the cloud in his mind lifted and he was able to get his bearings. By noon he was standing in front of an actual red door attached to an old hunting lodge. Valthar’s home.

  As Bander knocked on the door, it almost appeared as if the Green Man was wincing at the loud hollow knocking sound. Bander knocked a few more times and then stepped back from the door.

  The lodge itself was a two-story stone building with tall narrow windows, but Bander couldn’t really see the stonework or the windows. Everything was covered in dead vines as thick as Bander’s wrist. The vines looked like they were trying to suffocate the structure—and maybe drag it down into the depths of the ground below.

  Bander knocked one more time for good measure and then waited patiently. He knew that his friend moved slowly.

  Even though Valthar was a few years younger than Bander, he acted as if he was a quarter century older. Valthar walked with a cane, shuffling along, hunched like an ancient ragged fellow. It very well could take him a quarter hour to make his way to the door. Bander gave him twice that and then checked the door. It was unlocked.

  “Valthar!” he called, taking one tentative step inside the dark entrance way. “Ho! Valthar!”

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Bander saw the usual clutter of junk in the entrance way: crates and trunks and chests, piles of books, papers, scroll cases, maps, and who knows what else.

  “Anyone here?” Bander called again. He was leery of going much deeper into Valthar’s home since it was likely guarded by traps.

  Only silence greeted him.

  Bander peered into the parlor and then into the library, but remained in the hall, listening.

  Nothing.

  Maybe Valthar was away. Bander knew his friend took frequent trips to Hamwick and beyond, gathering the old books and maps and codices which cluttered up his home.

  Snatching up an old walking stick from the corner of the hall, Bander started prodding and poking the route towards the double doors at the end of the corridor, checking for traps.

  He didn’t trigger anything.

  After another quarter hour of checking the doors, Bander eased one of them open and looked through to the great hall which was the main room of the lodge. It was where Valthar spent most of his time, usually in one of the old chairs situated in front of the large stone fireplace.

  But the room was damp and cold and devoid of life—unless you counted the mouse which scurried under a couch stacked high with crates and baskets.

  “Valthar!” Bander called again, even though he could tell that no one was home.

  Checking the ground in front of him for tripwires, Bander made his way to the fireplace and felt the ashes.

  They were cold.

  No one had been home for a while.

  There was nothing for Bander to do but wait. So he spent the time making a thorough search of the house, from top to bottom. He didn’t find any traps or anything that led him to believe Valthar had been attacked. As best as he could tell, no one had been home for a week or two at the very least.

  As night began to fall, Bander lit a fire in the hall fireplace, ate some of his provisions, and pulled an old couch close to the hearth. There he stretched out and watched the fire flicker and dance until he fell asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Early the next morning, Bander was awoken by a sharp prod to his ribs. There, hunched over him, brandishing a carved walking stick, was Valthar. His face was drawn and his skin was ashen. He looked even older and more weary than usual.

  “I suppose you’ve come for Wylla,” Valthar said.

  Wylla. Bander had to admit that he was curious about the fiery redhead from Hytwen who turned out to be not at all what she had seemed.

  “Yes, but that’s not why I’m here.” Bander sat up, wincing. His legs were cramped and his back ached from sleeping on the sofa.

  Valthar noticed, of course, and said, “Plenty of beds upstairs. You didn’t have to sleep there.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Away,” Valthar said. “And now I’m here. And so are you.” He fished a handkerchief from a pocket in his vest and wiped his nose. “Gods, it’s been a long time, Bander.”

  “A couple of years,” Bander admitted.

  “More than that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. I have no one in this world.”

  Bander didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not doing well,” Valthar said, easing himself into one of the battered old chairs.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Bah, if you were sorry, you’d have come by. At least once in a shadow of a wyvern.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know a lot of things. Make us some moxa and I’ll tell you what I know of Wylla.”

  Bander fumbled around in Valthar’s kitchen until he found the moxa beans and the grinder and the various kettles and strainers used to prepare the beverage. When he finally emerged from the kitchen with two heavy earthenware cups, steaming in the cold morning air, he discovered that Valthar had fallen asleep in his chair.

  Turnabout’s fair play. He prodded Valthar with his own walking stick until his friend groaned and opened his eyes.

  “Villain!” Valthar muttered.

  “Moxa’s ready.” Bander handed a cup to Valthar, who drank the brew greedily.

  After a time Valthar wiped his nose again and peered at Bander. “She’s not here.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “But she was. She came back two months after you first brought her here. And she had a little girl with her.”

  “Jillen.”

  “Yes.”

  Jillen was Wylla’s daughter, and they both had some very unusual abilities.

  “You must have liked that,” Bander said.

  “Actually, I did. Children delight me. Especially magical ones. I didn’t care for the theodrestre, however.”

  “The what?”

  “The Drinker.”

  “I thought she was a harlot in your book.”

  “I was wrong,” Valthar said.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “In any case, Wylla wanted my help in locating the Witches of Melikti.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know. You put the idiot idea into the woman’s head.”

  “It wasn’t an idiot idea,” Bander said. “It was her best chance.”

  “I can’t speak to Wylla’s fate, but the girl is safe. I know that for certain.”

  “How?” Bander asked.

  “I was eager to be rid of them both so I did what I could,” Valthar said with a sigh of annoyance. “It wasn’t easy. Took nearly a half year, and we had a lot of close calls, but the Witches came.”

 
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