Hunt of the Bandham (The Bowl of Souls: Book Three) (52 page)

In the morning we leave to make war.
Justan sent an image of Ewzad Vriil through the bond. Deathclaw stopped fighting. For a moment, his headache faded as fear and anger flooded the bond and Justan added,
We fight
the wizard you hate.
Justan inundated Deathclaw’s mind with Fist’s memories of the wizard marching into Jack’s Rest and commanding Tamboor’s family put to death. He let him feel some of the ogre’s horror and pain.
We hate him too.

He showed Deathclaw his own memories of being paralyzed by Ewzad, the fear he had felt as the man with the writhing fingers had commanded him dragged through a portal just like Deathclaw’s sister had been.
We have fought him before.
He showed the raptoid the battle in the throne room in Ewzad’s castle.

He marches on my people now.
Justan sent him images and memories of the Battle Academy and its proud history, of the city of Reneul and of the love Justan felt for his mother. He showed him a vision of Ewzad leading an army against the academy and Reneul. Showed him the people trapped by his army. Justan stopped the flood of images.
We go to fight him again. Will you join us?

Deathclaw was shaken by the assault to his senses. He did not understand how the human had shown him these things. Many of the feelings that had been poured into him were so foreign and yet at the same time, he understood. The wizard that had changed him, this Ewzad Vriil, was still out there. He clenched his jaw and hissed. This was what he had been searching for. This was a purpose he could latch onto. Yes, he could fight the wizard. He could destroy the wizard.

I will go
, Deathclaw sent.

Good,
Justan said.
We will need you.

Deathclaw’s headache chose that moment to rush back in. The raptoid pulled away from Justan’s presence slightly. It was true that he intended to kill the wizard but he still did not know if he could trust this human.

Justan’s own head was reeling from the intensity of Deathclaw’s pain.
Will you allow me to heal you?

No
. Deathclaw pushed him away.
Leave me.

Very well.
Justan backed out through the bond satisfied that he had at least made some progress. A foothold was there. Perhaps along the road Deathclaw would be able to acclimate with the rest of them.

As Justan left the bond, he became aware that the room was very cold, bitterly so. His breath fogged in the air. A sudden searing pain tore from within his scar. He raised a hand to his chest to find that his shirt was caked in frost. With everything that had happened, he had forgotten about his encounter with the rune. He tore off his shirt and looked down at the scar on his chest, half expecting to see some creature trying to claw its way out.

To his relief, there was no creature, but the frost encrusting the puckered scar on his chest was thicker than usual. A faint mist flowed from the edges as the very air around the rune froze. He dove back into the bond and found the blockage he had begun to dismantle earlier in the day. The edges of the magic web he had begun to unravel were frayed and the blockage in the bond was bulging out.

He became paralyzed with indecision. Surely the best thing to do would be to run to Master Coal. He started for the door, but stopped. What if the wizard became concerned and delayed their departure? He couldn’t afford a delay. Justan reached for the loose strands of magic and tried to weave them back in place. Exactly how had the magic been placed? He couldn’t remember. Justan grew angry with himself. Why hadn’t he at least attempted to memorize their position in case this sort of thing would happen? Why had he been so stupid as to mess with it in the first place? He knew nothing about the spell. Why hadn’t he researched it first? He used to be so thoughtful and methodical. When had he become so reckless?

In desperation, he tied the magic back together as well as he could, envisioning strong knots. He pulled back and surveyed the results. The resulting work looked crude and haphazard at best. The blockage still bulged, but the knots were holding. Cautiously, he retreated through the bond and looked back down at the scar. The frost clinging to the rune was still heavier than normal, but cold no longer leached from it.

Justan sighed. His hasty repair seemed to have worked. He knew that he needed to talk to Master Coal about what had happened, but now wasn’t the time. As long as it didn’t get worse, he would wait and bring it to Master Coal’s attention once they were far down the road on their journey. He would discuss it when the right moment came.

The decision brought some relief to his mind, but at the same time, he felt uneasy. He now had two secrets he was keeping from Master Coal. How could that be a wise thing to do?

Justan? Are you okay?
Fist asked through the bond. The ogre had noticed his panic.

Yes, Fist. I was just getting ready to leave.
The lie sounded lame to Justan’s ears, but Fist did not seem to notice. From the sense of frustration leeching through from Fist’s end, the ogre was dealing with his own problems.
What’s going on?

I . . . Squirrel does not want to leave. He likes it here. And-.
Justan could see it through the ogre’s eyes. Squirrel was holed up in his little house and Fist was surrounded by a jumbled mess.
They say to pack it, but how?
I don’t know how to take it all. Help? Please?
 

“Another!” Ma’am commanded, whacking Justan in the back with her stick. She was running him ragged once again. Fifteen laps around the Training Grounds and still she wouldn’t let him stop. His bond with Gwyrtha had given him a lot of stamina, but even that wasn’t enough with Ma’am around.

“Come on, Justan!” Fist yelled as he ran by, lapping him for the third time. “Running is fun!” Squirrel sat on his shoulder and jeered, chattering a squirrely laugh.

“Faster, boy! Straighten that gait.” Ma’am was running beside him now as she did from time to time, easily keeping pace. Justan watched her face as she ran. She was beautiful, with her stern green eyes and fine lips. Her dark hair streamed behind her, the green ribbons fluttering in the breeze. He could smell her then, that familiar smell, and it was intoxicating. His heart swelled and he had to tell her how he felt. He could wait no longer. He reached for her and she looked back at him expectantly.

“Jhonate-.”

“What are you doing Justan?” Vannya asked. The mage ran up on his other side. The wind blew her robes tightly against her body, revealing every voluptuous contour and the sweeter, more flowery smell of her blond hair overtook Jhonate’s. She linked her arm in his and leaned her head on his shoulder. It felt nice. He felt a painful jab in his ribs.

“Hey!”

He looked back at Jhonate apologetically. Her scowl was intense; her fierce eyes uncompromising. She drew back her staff to strike him again. The tip sharpened to a fine point.

“Hey!”

Justan awoke to a hard nudge in his side. The pleasant smell of the two women vanished, replaced by the sharper scents of smoke and blackened metal.

“Hey! Son, get yer butt up. I got somethin’ to show you!” Lenny said.

Justan sat up, wincing at the light of the lantern the dwarf held. His newly heightened senses were a burden at times like this. He glanced at the window. It was still dark out. Justan scowled. It had taken him such a long time to fall asleep and the dream had been so . . . interesting. Frightening, but interesting.

“What? It’s mornin’! Don’t dag-gum look at me like that. I ain’t slept at all.” The dwarf looked it. He was still wearing his black-stained apron and reeked of the forge and his eyes were bloodshot and weary. Still, he wore an energetic grin under his slightly disheveled moustache.

Justan yawned. “But why now? Surely it will be a few hours yet before we leave.”

“It’s gonna take some time to show you yer new swords, don’t you think?” Lenny said, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Now Justan was awake. “You’re done, Lenny? They’re finished?”

“Yer darn tootin’,” he said. “Now wake up yer friends. I got presents fer ever’body.”

The dwarf went to roust Qyxal while Justan woke Fist through the bond. It had taken a long time to sort Fist’s belongings the evening before. The ogre wanted to keep everything. Finally Becca came through with an oversized pack that she had modified from two of Samson’s old saddlebags. After tossing aside the shirts and pants that were torn or too badly stained for cleaning, they had been able to whittle it down to a pile that just barely fit.

Justan dressed and made one last quick check of his belongings to make sure that he was ready to leave. Fist was waiting in the main room of the lodge, still rubbing his sleep-encrusted eyes, when Justan came down the stairs. The elf and dwarf soon joined them.

“So why do I need to be here?” Qyxal was saying grumpily. Somehow his hair looked perfectly brushed and braided despite the rude awakening.

“Cuz I made you somethin’ too, durn elf!” Lenny grumped back.

“Really?” Qyxal smiled and clapped the dwarf’s back. “Why . . . I am surprised. How nice of you.”

“Edge made me, all right?” The dwarf stomped out the door. “C’mon.”

They arrived at the smithy just as dawn was beginning to break. Bettie was up cussing Benjo around the place, barking out instructions. Benjo was going to be the sole trained smith in the community while she was gone, and the half-orc seemed determined to shove every last bit of information she could into his head before they left.

“Just a minute, boys,” Lenny said. “I’ll be right back.” The dwarf walked through the doorway and gave Bettie’s rear end a sharp slap on his way past. She clouted his head with one clenched fist in response.

“So you’re back already?” Bettie said to the dwarf with a surprising lack of anger. She peered out of the forge at Justan and walked outside. It was the first time Justan had seen her without soot-stained clothes. She was dressed for the road. Travel leathers and a light woolen shirt strained against her heavily muscled form and her heavy forge-blackened boots had been replaced by trail-worn leather ones.

“Edge, Fist, Elf,” she said with a polite nod. “I dunno why Lenui’s been keeping all this a secret up till now, but wait till you see what he’s been up to. You’ll crap your pants, I tell you.” Bettie smiled and rubbed her hands together. Justan had never seen her in such a good mood. It suited her. With a smile on her face, she was quite attractive.

Lenny shuffled around in the back of the forge and barked out a few curses and commands to Benjo. Finally he emerged carrying several cloth bundles. Benjo was right behind him, carrying even more. The dwarf’s gap-toothed grin was even wider than usual.

Justan could feel his new swords calling out to him. They were in one of the bundles Benjo held. He could feel it. They seemed . . . content. Lenny’s attempt at setting the dagger’s blades into the swords must have gone well.

“First you, Elf,” Lenny said. He unwrapped one of the bundles to expose a steel bow and a dark leather quiver full of arrows with scarlet fletching. “Lemme tell you somethin’. Makin’ properly tensioned steel ain’t easy.”

Qyxal laughed in surprise. He lifted the bow. “Amazing. And it’s light! Thank you, Lenny. Imagine me, an elf mage with a dwarf-made bow. I will cause quite a stir in the Tinny Woods when I appear with this. I-.” He leaned in closer and gazed at the surface of the bow. “Are those magic runes?”

“Course it is. I made you a singin’ bow. What’d you think, that I’d skimp on you just ‘cause yer an elf?” Lenny shook his head in mock offense, but Justan was pretty sure that the dwarf had at least considered doing just that. “It’s got protective runes. It’ll never rust or loose tension. You can even keep it strung if you want. That’s a reinforced steel cable string. Now I know how you elfs’d prefer wood bows, so I gave you a wood grip. Coal magicked it and Bettie carved it so it’ll always stay dry, even if yer palms’r sweaty or slick with moonrat blood.”

Qyxal ran his hand across the steel, his eyes full of appreciation. “My friend, this is truly a gift better than I deserve.”

“Don’t forget this.” Lenny lifted the quiver. “Firedrake leather. You’ll need it fer these.” He pulled out one arrow. The steel head had a polished sheen and Justan could see tiny runes inscribed into the metal. “Fire arrows. They work the same way my hammer Bertha does. If they rub on anythin’, instant flame. So we had to use specially treated wood and firedrake feathers so’s they wouldn’t all go up in smoke when you drew one. We made you twenty but be careful with ‘em, the heads can be reused but the shafts and fletchin’s’ll burn up sooner or later. You should probly get another set of reg’lar arrows.” He frowned. “Dag-gum it, Bettie, why didn’t you think of that?”