by Randy Nargi
“You need a break.”
“I don’t know…”
“When you get to the point where you can’t even remember what you’ve just been reading, you need a break.”
“I am a little hungry.”
“Good,” Bander said. “Let’s get some food and then go fishing.”
“My old ears must be failing,” Valthar said. “You didn’t actually say ‘fishing,’ did you?”
“Mrs. Heffring needs tornat.”
“Well, you can go catch her some, then. I need to crack this thing.”
Bander eased himself out of bed and began his morning stretches. “I can’t fish. No talent for it. But I’ll row. Come on. It will be fun.”
Chapter Nineteen
It turned out that the village Harnotis Kodd wanted Mortam Rowe and Keave to visit was called Irfals and it was an hour or two east of the Steading—which was easy to get to and easy to find a mage in. His source mentioned an old archeological site on the edge of the village. Some tower or temple. Exactly the sort of place where the Guild might shunt someone like Eton Sward.
Early the next morning, Keave opened a portal to the Steading, and they secured some horses from a livery on the edge of the city.
“I’m hungry,” Keave announced as they began riding east.
“We had a sizable morning meal, already. Have you forgotten, my friend?”
“That was in Lhawster. We’re in the Steading now.”
Long ago Mortam Rowe had come to accept the fact that Keave’s odd habits and quirks were something he would never fully understand. He just had to accept them.
“I’ll tell you what, this village we’re traveling to is only an hour and a half away. And I understand that they have a wonderful inn there.”
“Will they have aebols?”
“I’m nearly certain that they will. Everyone loves an aebol, do they not?”
The tree-lined road was straight and flat and they made good time, riding past fallow fields and pastures dotted with sheep. The weather was much milder down here in the Steading, so after a half hour or so, Mortam Rowe stowed his jacket in his saddlebag.
They rode past a few wagons on the road and reached the village without incident. Although he had never been to Irfals before, Mortam Rowe had passed through hundreds of villages just like it. There was a crossroads with everything you might expect: a livery, a wheelwright, a blacksmith, a cobbler, a general provisioner, and a tavern. Everything except an inn.
“It smells wonderful here,” Keave said. “Is that the aebol?”
Mortam Rowe took a deep breath. The smell of baking bread filled the cool morning air.
“I believe someone is baking bread. Perhaps that shop over there. That might be even better than aebol for us. Nothing beats a loaf of bread right from the oven.”
The baker was a man so very thin it was obvious that he did not partake of his own creations. Yet he was agreeable enough and sold them a loaf of oat bread and then some pebblecakes for later. He also was happy enough to furnish them with the whereabouts of Eton Sward. Apparently the mage lived in the ruins of an old temple on a hill overlooking the lake. The hill was no more than an hour away, the baker told them. If they followed the river road, they couldn’t miss it.
Mrs. Heffring was delighted at the prospect of her larder being refilled with tornat. She packed Bander and Valthar a lunch and then Langer set them up with a clinker skiff, fishing equipment, and some bait.
“You remember the spot, don’t you?” Langer asked Valthar.
“It’s the only island in the lake. How could I miss it?”
“It’s actually not the only island, but it’s the first one you’ll come to.”
Valthar waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll find it.”
“Keep right around the big snag. Keep going until you reach—”
“I remember, you scrunt!”
“Very well,” Langer said. “Just trying to help.”
“You can help by fetching me an oilskin pouch!”
Langer nodded and disappeared into one of the outbuildings. When he returned, he handed Valthar the pouch.
Earlier Valthar had wrapped Eton Sward’s book in a piece of cloth and now he carefully placed the bundle in the pouch and tied it up.
“Are you sure you want to bring that with us?” Bander asked.
“You’ve obviously not familiar with the art of angling. Most of the time you are twiddling your thumbs. I intend to put my time to good use. You’d be wise to do the same.”
A few minutes later, they set off upstream, with Bander paddling and Valthar sitting in the bow. The river was slow-moving and the skiff sharp and narrow so Bander barely broke a sweat paddling. It actually felt good to stretch out his muscles.
Within an hour they had made it past the hill with the temple and down to the lake which was a misty serpentine body ringed with vast reedy marshes. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at their destination. It was a muddy little island no bigger than Eton Sward’s cottage. A long time ago someone had built a little dock and a fishing bench. Bander imagined it would be comfortable enough to spend a few hours here.
Valthar stepped out of the skiff and climbed up on the dock, complaining of his aching joints all the while. They tied up the skiff and transported the gear up to the dock.
On the dock Bander stretched out his arms and shoulders and took a look around. There wasn’t much to see on the island itself. Besides the dock and bench there was a little stone ring fire-pit filled with burnt branches and some fish bones. But, as he turned to take in the vista, he saw that they had a good view of the Temple of Dreams, three hundred feet up on the hill overlooking the lake.
“I wonder if Eton Sward can see you with his book out here,” Bander mused. “If he could, I doubt he would be happy.”
“Knowing Sward, he’s probably still asleep. He’s a bit of a night owl.”
Valthar set up his fishing rod, baited the hook, and cast the line out in the water.
“There you go, my friend. Watch that bobber. If it moves, pull the fish in.”
“What?”
“Now you know everything I know about fishing. Don’t bother me. I need to read.”
With that he removed Burritch’s Travels from the pouch, along with his journal book and a writing set, and began to study.
Bander made himself comfortable and alternated keeping an eye on the bobber with watching a pair of kosherds winging low over the lake’s surface, hunting for their next meal.
He got his first fish nibble less than an hour later—the quick tug on the line surprising him. He yanked back, but the fish obviously was more savvy than Bander and released the bait without hooking itself.
Valthar told him to check the end of the line, and sure enough the bait was gone.
Score one for the tornat.
He reapplied the bait and swung the line out. The bobber landed considerably closer to the dock than Valthar’s cast.
“It’s fine,” Valthar said. “Just keep your eye on that bobber. If you get a bite, let the fish hook itself.”
“How’s the book?”
“The same as it was yesterday. The same as it was last night. And the same as it was this morning.”
“Maybe it would help to discuss it.”
“I doubt it,” Valthar said.
“What could it hurt? Describe what you are reading.”
Valthar sighed. “You know who Burritch was?”
“Famous explorer.”
“More than that. Rodan Scarfin Burritch was also an adventurer, cartographer, spy, and diplomat. He was the first Imperial citizen to reach Querrin by an overland route. He spoke twelve languages, including several Tengan tongues—and lived with two tribes for many years. He founded the Malverton Trading Company and the trading post, of course.”
“Busy man.”
“A man who made something of himself,” Valthar said.
“And I gather this book, his Travels, is about his discovery of
Querrin?”
“No, that is another—called Querrin or The Road to Querrin or some such.”
That made sense to Bander. Querrin was a large ancient city at the southern tip of the continent. Until Burritch, the only men who had visited Querrin were sea explorers. The discovery of an overland route certainly merited its own book.
Valthar continued, “Travels is about his first foray into the Wilderlands in 1210, when Burritch was a young man.”
“That’s when he found the Temple of Fate?”
“Apparently so. He didn’t mention it by name, of course.”
“Then how do you know he found the temple?”
“He described it, of course. Burritch was very detailed in his accounts. Almost pedantic.”
“My kind of man,” Bander said. “Go on.”
Valthar thumbed through the book until he located the proper place. “So it appears in the spring of 1211, Burritch and his expedition were looking for a western route through the mountains west of Lake Horbadin.”
“Which mountains?”
“They hadn’t been named yet, but it was the Crantochs. They found a valley and near the mouth of the valley were a group of structures up on the hillside.”
“And?”
“And, I believe one of those structures is the Temple of Fate.”
“Because of the description?”
“Judge for yourself.”
Valthar read aloud:
At last we dismounted and saw before us a tall cliff, with exposed marra rock, green and sand-colored.
Wabsel and Jinton Holm exhibited some excitement at the prospect of the cliffs producing targastine, but as we drew closer and studied the striations more intently, it became clear that the marra was more of the same rock we had seen in the foothills. Worthless.
Seeking water for the horses, one of the bearers entered a canyon offshoot from the main valley. With a great cry he called for us. I was the first to arrive and immediately spotted a group of manmade structures on the ridge.
An ascent led us over a jagged hill with a precipitous face and steep drops, but we were able to gain the summit in less than an hour. There I began to survey the structures, of which there were three in number.
The largest of the edifices was situated at the top of the ridge in a general east and west direction, with its entrance positioned to the east. It reminded me of the Chapel at Aravat.
Bander interrupted Valthar. “That seems like a big clue right there.”
“You would compare what Burritch found to this chapel at Aravat?”
“Yes. If this Aravat—wherever it is—resembles any of the existing temples, that would be significant.”
“It certainly would be,” Valthar said. “Alas, Aravat is no more. Neither the village nor the chapel. It was destroyed during the Great Earthquake of 1403. Slipped off the side of the cliff it had been built upon.”
“Perhaps that is why I don’t remember it. Any paintings exist?”
“I doubt it. By all accounts, it was a rather unremarkable village. Just an overnight stop on the road between Old Lausk and Dredmath.”
“Still good news.”
“What do you mean?”
“If this is the right temple, it’s not buried under fifty feet of jungle. Because of the elevation. It might have been destroyed by lightning or scattered by winds, but something should be left—even after two thousand years.”
Valthar’s eyes brightened. “You’re right. I never thought of that.” He held up the book. “Next Burritch’s expedition explores all the buildings. The two smaller ones were storehouses for grain or some such. I’m going to skip to the most the interesting part now.”
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.
“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.