The Bowl of Souls: Book Three
HUNT of the BANDHAM
By: Trevor H. Cooley
The Bowl of Souls Series:
Book One: EYE of the MOONRAT
Novella : HILT’S PRIDE
Book Two: MESSENGER of the DARK PROPHET
Book Three: HUNT of the BANDHAM
Book Four: The WAR of STARDEON Upcoming
Book Five: MOTHER of the MOONRAT Upcoming
copyright © 2012 Trevor H. Cooley
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by: Justin Cooley
Dedication
This book is dedicated to you. Yes, specifically you, the reader who has taken a chance on a relatively unknown author and spent your hard-earned money on my first two books. Here you are, back for the third and . . . I love you.
I tried for years to get my book noticed, but I couldn’t find any agents or publishers that were interested. Some friends encouraged me to publish on my own, but I felt like my books wouldn’t be a success unless I had a publisher’s name on the spines like the fantasy novels I grew up reading. This story and these characters had been living in my mind since I was a teenager. I wanted to give them the chance they deserved, and I worried that by putting them out there on my own I would be cheapening them somehow.
One night in May 2012, I was researching about publishing books on Kindle. I downloaded the instructions and it felt right, so I just did it. It was a whim. I didn’t even have a cover at the time. I had no idea what to expect. I told my friends and family about it and downloads started to trickle in. When I put out the second book two months later, that trickle became a stream.
I am blown away every time I think about it. You noticed my book. You read it. Some of you cared enough to tell your friends and write reviews. Those reviews are the lifeblood of an independent book series! Thank you, and please keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll get going on the next book.
Trevor H. Cooley - 09/04/2012
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Prologue
Deathclaw and Talon darted through the winter-frozen forest. Their lithe, scaled bodies glistened in the beams of sunlight that pierced the boughs of the fir trees. Their claws left behind deep trenches in the snow, but they didn’t bother covering their tracks. They didn’t fear pursuit. The scent of freedom filled Talon’s nostrils, while Deathclaw was simply elated at finding her. They frolicked through the daylight hours, racing each other and putting as much distance between them and the wizard’s castle as possible.
Once they had been part of a pack of raptoids, wingless dragon-like creatures that hunted the desert dunes of the WhitebridgeDesert. The wizard Ewzad Vriil had come upon their pack looking to create soldiers for his army. The changes caused by the wizard’s cruel experiments had killed the others, but Deathclaw escaped and his sister had been taken back to the wizard’s castle.
It had taken over a year, but Deathclaw had found the wizard’s castle. He fought his way through the mutated monsters that Ewzad Vriil had created and now, despite his wounds that were still healing, Deathclaw felt no pain. He was happy for the first time since the wizard had changed his body. Though he would never again be able to return to his old life as leader of a raptoid pack, the new life ahead of him looked to be full of promise. He wasn’t alone any more.
As the sun sank behind the horizon and darkness crept in, they caught the scent of a herd of mountain elk. Deathclaw let forth a throaty chirp and the two transformed raptoids fell back into their old familiar hunting pattern. When they came upon the herd, they stayed downwind so as not to frighten the animals. The elk had stopped for the night in a clearing. The females and young were huddled in the center while the males stayed around the outside for protection.
Deathclaw had his eye on one particularly old buck that would provide more than enough meat for both of them. He was excited. Prey this large stayed away from the dwellings of the humans and he had not eaten a meal larger than a rabbit in weeks.
He chirped a command to Talon, telling her to circle around for support. Then he snuck up as close as possible. When the time was right, he pounced. Deathclaw leapt onto the back of the old buck. The beast reared and thrashed its head back and forth, but Deathclaw nimbly avoided its pointed horns. He tore out the elk’s throat from behind with his wicked claws and leapt from its back as it fell dying.
Deathclaw screeched in triumph. But Talon wasn’t satisfied with the single kill.
In the brief second of uncertainty caused by the suddenness of Deathclaw’s attack, the herd froze. Talon darted into the center of the clearing and began slashing about with her claws, teeth, and tail barb, cutting throats and disemboweling does and young elk. By the time the herd thundered away, four females and three younglings lay dead around her. From the thick trails of blood left behind the fleeing animals, Deathclaw knew that several more would die from their wounds.
Deathclaw watched his sister with his head cocked as she tore at the corpses and screeched with pleasure. What she had done didn’t make sense. She had ignored the hunting instincts that raptoids had been born with for centuries. When attacking a herd, it was best to bring down the weak, the old, the infirm. They were easier kills and the survivors would live to grow and breed and produce more food for the hunting pack. Not only had Talon cut down the wrong prey, she had killed far more than the two of them could ever eat.
Deathclaw chirped at Talon questioningly. She ignored him as she continued to rip the bodies apart, destroying the meat as if he weren’t even there. He watched her reveling in the blood and chaos. She hadn’t killed for food. She had killed for pleasure.
Deathclaw was suddenly wary of his brood mate. The wizard had done more to her than just alter her body. Like Deathclaw, she was no longer a raptoid, but something different. Something terrible.
Chapter One
Wincing, Justan reached out with one foot and prodded the pile of richly embroidered clothes that remained where Ewzad Vriil had once stood. Part of him expected a hand full of squirming fingers to reach from the pile and grasp his leg. But nothing happened.
It had been nearly an hour since the wizard’s apparent death and Justan was the first one to approach the spot. He didn’t know if it had been fear that had kept the others away, or just the fact that everyone wanted to move on. Perhaps it w
as a mixture of both.
Though the wizard's body had disappeared completely, Justan's mage sight showed some trace of magic left in the stain upon the ground. He moved the pile of clothing with his foot to get a better look at the stain and heard a clang of metal.
He carefully moved the pile again to reveal the dark bladed dagger that Princess Elise had plunged into the wizard’s arm. Justan crouched down and reached to pick up the dagger, but paused. For some reason, he didn't want to touch it. His mage sight didn't show anything magical about it, but something about the dagger seemed . . . wrong.
Justan shook his head. Yet another mystery to add to the daunting heap that already surrounded him. There were too many questions and not near enough answers.
He ripped a piece of silk from Ewzad’s robe and wrapped the dagger in it, careful not to touch the metal. He tucked it into the back of his ragged pants. Perhaps he would ask Qyxal about it later. The elf was much more experienced in magic than him.
Justan stood and looked across the throne room and once again found himself impressed with Captain Demetrius’ organizational skills. The captain had taken charge of the chaos immediately after the wizard had disappeared, directing any men that would stop and listen. Things were already moving smoothly and efficiently.
The wounded were lined up in a row against the back wall of the throne room. Qyxal was busy healing the men most severely injured, while any other men with medical skills had been set to work tending those with minor injuries. Ewzad Vriil’s serving staff had come to the captain with clean water and bandages and offered their services. None of them looked sad to see their master dead.
This was going to be a long process. The wounded were still piling up as the dungeons emptied. The old keep had belonged in Ewzad Vrill’s family for generations and the nobles had never stopped expanding the dungeons. There were prisoners who had been in there for years. Many of them were so close to death that there was very little the elf was able to do.
The captain had commandeered the contractors building the castle and set them to digging holes for the graves of the dead prisoners. He was determined to give them all a proper burial, even the soldiers and guards that had died trying to keep the prisoners from escaping. After all, they had only been following orders.
One person in particular was being given a place of honor. The misshapen remains of Sneaky Pete’s body rested under a clean white sheet to the side of the throne room until he could be given the burial he deserved.
The dead goblins and orcs, on the other hand, were to be dragged into a great pile to the side of the castle to be burned. Fist and Gwyrtha were helping dispose of the bodies now. The ogre had torn a large ornate tapestry from the wall and he and Gwyrtha were busy piling the bodies of the beasts on top of it.
Justan was about to join them when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Been busy chasin’ down that last orc or else I would’a been here to see you sooner. Durn thing was slippery. Chased him fer durn near a mile into the forest.”
“Lenny!” Justan enveloped the dwarf in a warm embrace. He almost burst into tears, but forced them down. It would only embarrass his friend.
“Hey now. Hey now.” Lenny half-heartedly tried to push him away, but finally patted him on the back. “Calm down, son. No need fer a scene.”
Justan pulled back and laughed at the sight of the familiar red handlebar mustache and gap-toothed grin. “Thank you for coming after me.”
“Hell, I didn’t do nothin’. It looks to me like you had everthin’ well in han- . . .” The dwarf’s eyes widened. “Wait a gall-durn minute! What’s that on yer hand, boy?” The dwarf grabbed Justan’s right hand and pulled it closer. His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise and his jaw dropped as he saw the warrior rune. “I’ll be dag-gummed.”
Justan covered the warrior rune up with his left hand. “Well, I . . . er. I don’t understand it myself. It was a bit of a shock.”
“Well, tell me all about it, then!” Lenny exclaimed.
Justan looked around and no one seemed to be listening in. He told Lenny about his time at the MageSchool; how he had been given the new name Edge and marked as both warrior and wizard; how Gwyrtha had been captured; and how he had been forced to leave the school in order to protect her. The dwarf leaned forward and listened intently, hanging on every word, twirling the end of his handlebar mustache with his forefinger. When Justan showed him the wizard rune on the palm of his left hand, Lenny whistled through his missing tooth.
“The council seemed to think that what happened was impossible.” Justan said. He looked down at the runes and shook his head. “They may be right, too. I don’t have the skills or powers to go along with this new name, Lenny. I . . . I don’t feel worthy of it.”
Lenny looked hard at Justan, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “Then maybe you ain’t.”
“What? Really? You think so?” Justan hadn’t expected such a quick agreement. Everyone else seemed to think he was being childish to reject the name.
The dwarf wasn’t finished. “But that part ain’t up to you is it? The magic of that bowl ain’t like normal magic, son. There’s powers behind that thing beyond anythin’ you or I ever seen, mark my words on that. One thing’s fer blasted sure. There’s somethin’ special inside you and that bowl done saw it.”
“Like what, Lenny?” Justan’s frustration over the naming bubbled over. “What’s so special about me? I haven’t done anything yet! I’m still just a trainee who hasn’t gotten into the BattleAcademy. I wanted to earn my way, not have it given to me!”
Lenny raised a finger to his lips in warning and Justan saw that people had started to stare. He had grown so agitated that Fist and Gwyrtha had stopped momentarily in their work wondering if he needed help. It’s okay, he assured them through the bond.
Lenny gave Justan a look that told him a lecture was coming and yanked a thumb toward one of the side doors. The dwarf led Justan out of the throne room into a long hallway. He pushed open the first door they came to and dragged Justan inside what looked to be a guest bedroom. It was lavishly outfitted with rich furs and silks. Justan instantly felt out of place in the rags that were left of his travel clothes.
“Use that thick skull of yers, dag-gum it! People out there are lookin’ up to you. You helped save their lives. This ain’t the time to be complainin’ where folks might hear!” Lenny poked one thick finger painfully into Justan’s chest. “Maybe yer not worthy of yer new name yet, who knows? But you got a new name all the same. Who’re you to decide when yer worthy, or when you ain’t? Yer name’s Edge. That’s who you gal-durn are whether yer gal-durn worthy of it or not!”
“But it doesn’t seem real to me!” Justan retorted. “I mean, in my heart I still see myself as Justan, son of Faldon the Fierce.”
“Of course you do.” Lenny snorted and partial grin reappeared on his face. “Part of you always will be that angry kid who couldn’t fight. Hell, son, part of me’s still the wild young dwarf who didn’t know a smith’s hammer from his own arse. But things change. When I last saw you, you was just startin’ to turn into a man, but when I came into the throne room durin’ the fight, I almost didn’t recognize you. I mean, look at you, dag-blast it!”
The dwarf grabbed Justan’s shoulders and turned him to face a full length mirror that was mounted on the wall beside the bed. What he saw surprised him. Standing in that mirror was not the gawky youth that had failed training school. He had grown in the last two years. His frame had filled out. The work Jhonate had put him through along with his obsessive training at the MageSchool had turned his weak body into one a warrior would be proud of. The man looking back at him was well toned and imposing. If not for the ragged clothing, the warrior rune would have looked fitting on the back of the hand of this new man.
“I-I . . . I see what you are trying to say Lenny. But I still don’t feel worthy and . . .” He shook his head and looked down. Part of him knew that Lenny was right. He shouldn’t be ashamed of his new name. B
ut still, he couldn’t help but feel awkward about it. “I just don’t like having my life changed for me.”
Lenny patted his shoulder.
“Sometimes you gotta accept the things you can’t control, son. Yer Edge now, like it or not. You can worry about bein’ worthy of it later.”
Justan nodded his head and looked back at the man standing in the mirror before him. Underneath his ragged shirt, he actually had pecs.
“Well that’s enough of that fer now. You could durn well use some better clothes.” Lenny began rustling through a wardrobe at the side of the bed. He swore a few times and tossed some fancy apparel aside, but finally pulled out a plain shirt, a fine padded leather jacket, and a pair of long baggy pants that didn’t look too frilly. He handed them to Justan and patted him on the back. “C’mon, boy, put ‘em on and let’s get outta’ here. I wanna show you somethin’.”
They walked back through the throne room and out the front doors into the bright sun-drenched air. Justan had to put a hand up to shield his sensitive eyes. He hadn’t seen the sun in four days. He took in a deep breath and smiled. Despite the bitter cold of the winter breeze, the sunlight felt warm on his body. It was a sensation he had doubted he would ever feel again. He followed Lenny down the long stairway to the courtyard where two familiar warhorses stood calmly chewing the grass.
Hunt of the Bandham (The Bowl of Souls: Book Three) Page 1