Hunt of the Bandham (The Bowl of Souls: Book Three) (29 page)

He had been forced to cross it once before, during the summer when the water level was much lower. After following the human Hamford for the larger part of a year, the man had arrived at this very body of water. The man traveled along the river until he found a shallow area to wade across. Deathclaw’s fear had grown to the point where he nearly gave up his obsession with the man. But Hamford was his only link to the wizard that had changed him and he couldn’t just let him go. Deathclaw had gathered his courage and followed behind him during the night. It was the most horrifying night of his life. The sounds of the water surrounding him and overwhelming his senses, while the horrible cold wetness at times came up to his chest. The memory caused him to shudder even now. He had vowed never to cross it again.

Deathclaw continued in Talon’s wake, following her tracks hesitantly now, hoping that she had been too scared to cross.

To his dismay, Talon’s trail ended at the water’s edge. She hadn’t hesitated, but dove straight in. He paced back and forth, overwhelmed with anxiety. This was no shallows. The water was swift moving, deep, and ice cold. He would not be able to wade across this time. He would have to swim or die.

His mind searched for alternatives. Perhaps Talon was dead. Perhaps she had been pulled under and drowned or swept away and crushed against the rocks. But then again, it was also possible that the wizard had given her the ability to swim or even to breathe underwater. The only way he would ever know was by following her.

He continued pacing for an hour, battling with his fears. Finally, he hissed in defiance and threw himself into the water. Deathclaw struggled to make forward progress, ignoring the panic screaming within him. The current pulled him down stream. He struggled to move towards the far bank while keeping his head above the churning water.

The water’s icy grip sucked the warmth from him and his body struggled to adjust to the new temperature. The magic of his body’s natural adapting capabilities, increased by the wizard’s changes, produced intense amounts of heat to combat the water’s chill, but that only helped for so long. His body had adapted to the chill of the winter over time, but this cold was on another level; it was immediate, invasive, and persistent. Not long after he started across the river, his energy began to fade and the heat his body generated could no longer keep the chill at bay.

His temperature plummeted and his movements grew sluggish. Keeping his head above water became more and more of a struggle until just as he was about give up and sink into the depths of the river, a large log floated by. Deathclaw latched onto it desperately, digging his claws into the wood and pulling himself on top. He lay there, gasping and shivering. The water quickly rolled from his scaled skin, but the sun stayed behind clouds and the bitter chill of the winter air didn’t help to warm him.

After a time, he looked up to see that the log was floating towards a small island in the middle of the river. It was little more than a pile of rocks and a few pine trees, but to Deathclaw it might as well have been the shoreline itself. It soon became evident that the current was going to carry the log near the edge of the island. Deathclaw had only a second to decide whether to stay with the log or try and swim for the tiny piece of land. The decision was made without conscious thought. He found himself immersed in the water again, struggling to pull himself towards the island.

He barely made it, latching onto the rocky outcroppings and pulling himself up to the foot of the trees. It took the last bit of energy he had in him, but he was able to climb up into a tree and grasp hold of the trunk, taking advantage of the thick pine boughs to shield him from the harsh wind. There he slept while his body struggled to heal.

He awoke many hours later, his muscles stiff and sore and a fiery hunger burning within him that he couldn’t possibly begin to feed. The tiny island had no source of food for him. There were a few birds nests, but they had been empty since the fall. Though the magic within him caused his body to recover quickly, it had been overworking his body’s capacity for too long. He required a large amount of fuel to repair the damage his crossing of the river had done and he had little in the way of fat stores. The way his muscles ached, he knew that the magic was beginning to break them down in order to survive.

Deathclaw looked out over the expanse of water and saw that he had made it well over half way across during his struggles. He had no choice but to continue on to the shore to find food and he needed to go soon, before he became too weak and lost the ability to get there altogether.

Deathclaw crept to the edge of the rocks and stood staring at the flowing stream of life-stealing water for several minutes in trepidation before plunging in again. To his relief, the current on this side of the island was slower and the water not nearly as deep. The last quarter of his journey, he was able to walk through waist deep water to reach the shore. He dragged himself to the forest’s edge and collapsed atop the wet leaves and pine needles until he had the energy to stand and hunt.

It wasn’t until after he had killed and eaten a plump rabbit, that he realized what a bad position he was in. The river had carried him a number of miles downstream from his starting point and he did not know where Talon had reached the shore. Her trail was completely lost, and he had no idea how far behind her he was.

Deathclaw gripped the hilt of the sword over his shoulder. To his relief, it had stayed sheathed throughout his crossing. He pondered what to do. Finally, he headed up stream and searched for her trail once again.

Deathclaw didn’t see the pair of reptilian eyes watching from the trees behind him. He didn’t sense the mind churning behind those eyes in indecision. He did not notice her turn and run in the opposite direction.

Talon was bored of confrontations. All she wanted now was some entertainment.

The farmers worked their fields early in Razbeck. The winter was mild and the growing season long. In a few short weeks, it would be spring and those who did not get their fields ready for planting now would find themselves behind with the first harvests of the year.

Justan and his bonded had been assigned to help a local farming family whose father was recently killed. The widow, Miss Nala, had three boys and two girls. The farm was too large for them to handle by themselves until the children were older. Master Coal had offered to help with the farm work in exchange for the widow’s skill in making and mending clothing for his workers.

At first, Justan and his bonded had been given minor chores, like chopping wood and repairing some of the fences, but the work got harder as spring approached. They had spent the last few days taking compost made from the manure gathered by the family throughout the winter and spreading it across the frozen acreage. Now came the equally unpleasant work of mixing it into the soil.

Master Coal had come down in the morning and thawed the frozen earth with his magic by pulling the warmth up from the ground far below. Qyxal came with him to observe the process and soon they left to do the same for the other farms in the area.

Justan looked at the warm ground steaming in the cold winter air and wrinkled his nose. The smell of the dung and compost that they were to mix in with the soil wafted through the air unpleasantly and Justan had to force himself not to sulk. The morning farm work was his least favorite part of learning from Master Coal. It wasn’t that he had a problem with hard labor. It was good training for his body after all, but Justan felt out of his element working on a farm. Growing up in the city of
Reneul
by the
Battle
Academy
had allowed him to avoid this kind of work in the past.

Justan reminded himself that the labor itself was only part of what he was supposed to accomplish in the fields. Master Coal had instructed him to use the time spent laboring to practice the new techniques he learned during his lessons. As he dug and turned the soil over, Justan kept in constant communication with Fist and Gwyrtha. 

Recently he had learned how to open a direct link between Fist and Gwyrtha so that they could speak mentally to each other without Justan having to relay the message. He couldn’t keep the extra connection open all the time, but it was an exciting development, even if it did have the unfortunate side effect of causing throbbing headaches. Master Coal said that they were normal and would go away as he trained his mind to handle the burden. Justan hoped so. The headaches always put him in a bad mood.

Justan, don’t feel bad. It is a bright morning and good!
Fist sent. The ogre smiled, attacking the earth with gusto.

Good!
Gwyrtha agreed.

 To Justan’s annoyance, Fist thoroughly enjoyed farming. Tamboor and his family had let him help with their garden and had taught the ogre to work a small one of his own, but something about the enormity of the vast fields ready for plowing had the ogre energized. Each day, as soon as the other farm hands showed them what to do, Fist threw himself into the work, all the while humming and grunting to himself.

The ogre had picked up a tune or two from some of Master Coal’s farmhands that played instruments in the evenings. The lodge house was often filled with songs and laughter. The human’s songs were quite different from the grunting chants of the thunder people, but even though his pitch was a bit off at times, he was a fast learner.

This morning the ogre belted, “Oh! The lady wakes up and makes the bread. She makes the bread. She makes the bread! The laaaaady wakes up and makes the breaaaaad! Early in the morning!” His voice was deep and rumbling but exuberant and the workers burst out laughing.

It was hard to ignore Fist’s cheerful mood. Despite the headache that was already building, Justan’s grumpiness melted away until he was working beside the ogre with a grin on his face. Sometimes he even sang along. The two of them weren’t exactly wonderful to listen to, but the other workers didn’t seem to mind.

Fist’s interest in music made Justan hope he would get the opportunity to show the ogre what it was really about one day. He wanted to take him to Reneul and let Fist experience the music of his childhood. He would show the ogre everything from the places where full bands and orchestra played, to the marketplaces where bards and musicians sang for change on every corner, to the sweet song of his mother by the fireplace at night while his father played his wood flute. Fist would enjoy that.

There was so much that Justan wanted to share with the ogre. Fist was fascinated by the culture of the humanoid races and wanted to learn everything. Lately Justan, Qyxal, and even Coal’s wife Becca had taken turns trying to teach the ogre to read and write. The concepts were foreign to Fist, but he was an enthusiastic student and picked things up quickly.

Gwyrtha on the other hand was simply happy doing any kind of work. She enjoyed pulling the plow and carrying heavy loads almost as much as she liked to have Justan ride. As Master Coal had instructed, Justan spent a lot of time practicing the transfer of energy through the bond. He made sure to ask permission first and sometimes Fist was a bit put off by it, but Gwyrtha was always pleased to let him take energy from her.

In fact, she was so amenable to nearly everything Justan asked of her when it came to the bond, that he became a bit concerned by it. When she was so willful about everything else, why would she react so positively to such personal requests? Once he had asked her why she didn’t mind his constant intrusion and she would only say “
I like
”. He had spoken with Master Coal about it and the wizard had put him off, saying that they would speak about the behavior of rogue horses when he was further along in his lessons.

Whenever Justan was away from her during the day, Gwyrtha liked to spend time with Samson. The two rogue horses had a long history together and though Gwyrtha would not speak of the past, Justan got the impression that they were like brother and sister. As busy as Samson often was, he never seemed bothered by her company. Instead, he would immediately put her to work, which helped to keep her happy.

Time passed quickly. Before he knew it,
noon
had come. Justan bid good day to the family, but Fist stayed behind to eat lunch with them. This had become a regular practice for the ogre lately. He enjoyed being around the children.

Before he rode away, Justan had one last thing he wanted to practice.
Fist, do you mind if I try to pass on some energy to you through the bond?
Since you are tired from the plowing, now would be a good time to see if I can make it work.

Will it hurt this time?
Fist asked pointedly.

I don’t think so,
Justan replied with a wince.
At least I hope not.