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

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  “Is this possible?” Each piece of metal shone with elemental energy. “I thought magical weapons could not be broken.”

  “Nothin’s completely unbreakable, son,” Lenny explained. “’Specially when a garl-friggin’ rock giant is beatin’ a magicked wall with ‘em. Qyxal reckons the beast’d been collectin’ magic weapons from the folks it beat and was tryin’ to bust up the wall so’s it could break whatever magic’s been holdin’ it there. Buster was the only one it hadn’t broke yet.”

  “But . . . what can you do with a couple bags of broken magical weapons? They can’t be reforged, can they?”

  “Nope!” Bettie yelled. She was dipping the two, now flattened, metal rods into a quench bucket. Plumes of steam rose as the water hissed around the hot metal. “Dwarf’s got less brains than a cow’s left cheek, he does! Won’t listen to me!”

  Lenny chuckled. “She’s right about one thing. They can’t be reforged. Once a magicked weapon’s been finished, it won’t melt down, least not without a fire hotter than hell’s blaze itself. Even if’n you could get it hot enough, it’d break the magic and they’d blow up in yer face.

  “But what the lady don’t know is I got a way around that.” The dwarf held up a palm-sized leather pouch. “Just came in today. I figgered we’d be here a while so I sent a courier out the day after we got here.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been so blasted happy about all day,” Bettie grumbled. She put the hammer down and walked over with her hand outstretched. “Lemme see that.”

  Lenny ignored her.

  “With one tiny scoop of this, I can melt even magicked metal down to its basic state and start from scratch. The best thing is, son, these weapons are pure and clean magicked steel. I’d have to refine three wagonloads of ore to get this much pure metal. Why I could make ten Busters with what’s in them two sacks.”

  “Lemme see it, Lenny,” Bettie demanded.

  “Just a gall-durn minute, woman! You’ll see it soon enough,” the dwarf snapped. He tucked the pouch inside his shirt pocket before turning back to Justan, the grin still on his face. “My grandpappy called it ‘the kiln dust of the gods’. Stuff’s rare. Blasted expensive too. Cost nearly four hunnerd gold fer this one little bag.”

  “Where did you come up with that kind of money?” Justan wondered. “We were down to selling fresh bear skins not that long ago.”

  “Oh . . . Well, that stupid rock-biter also kept a right neat little pile of jewels in his cave. More than I could stuff in my pockets. Still, it took over half of it just to buy this.”

  “So that’s how you are going to make my swords.”

  “Swords that sing, Edge. Swords that sing,” the dwarf said. “So, you got them drawin’s?”

  Justan handed the parchment over and Lenny backed unto the better light by the workbenches to examine it. The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. Pictured were two long curving weapons the length of regular swords, but the entire front face was a blade, extending even down past the hilt to end in a point just past the pommel. There was a gap between the blade and the hilt just big enough for his fingers to slide through. The back sides of the swords were dull starting just above the hilt, extending halfway up the blade before curving out towards the tip. Lenny shook his head and whistled through his missing tooth.

  “Son, you sure are ambitious.” He walked over to one of the workbenches and moved some things out of the way to lay the paper down. “Benjo, boy! Wouldja’ get me some ink to write with?”

  “Yes, Master Smith Lenui, sir!” the man said and brought the dwarf a quill and ink.

  “Finally someone gets my durn name right,” he mumbled, before looking back at Justan. “Hold out yer arms, son.”

  Justan did so and Lenny made some notes in the margins of the parchment. His brow furrowed as he studied the drawings. “Where’d you see this design again? More like an axe blade than a sword blade. Looks like they was pulled off the end of a bardiche or somthin’.”

  “Bardiche? I saw it being wielded by a warrior on an old tapestry in the library of the MageSchool. The weapon that the warrior carried was much larger and made to be carried two-handed, so I modified it to better fit my style. See, with the flattened piece along the back side, I could flip my grip around and rest it against my forearm for close fighting.”

  “Oh yeah, I can see the possibilities . . . They’d be heavier than regular swords though.”

  “Good thing the bond with Fist has made me stronger. Also there is one other thing,” Justan said. He unsheathed his rune dagger and held it out to the dwarf. “I want you to find a way to take the blades out of my rune dagger and inset them into the swords.”

  “But . . . that’s yer rune weapon.” He scratched the stubble under his chin. “I dunno what would happen if I tried.”

  “I have been thinking about it ever since I saw the runes on the two blades. I’m not only a magic user. A rune dagger doesn’t do me any good. It feels to me like this dagger was designed purposefully just to hold my runes until the right swords came along. Lenny, what I am trying to say is, I’m asking you to turn these two swords into my naming weapons.”

  The dwarf’s eyes widened. “Well I . . .”

  “Can you do it?” Justan pressed.

  Lenny took the dagger and gave Justan his gap-toothed grin. “I always did love me a challenge.”

  “I have faith in you, Lenny.”

  “Yeah. I did some beautiful work on this dagger though. Hate to take it apart like that . . . Oh, one more thing, son. When the courier came in this mornin’, he also had some letters.” Lenny walked to the coat rack and pulled some sealed letters out of the pocket of his winter jacket. He handed them to Justan. “They was forwarded to you from the MageSchool, I think.”

  “Thanks Lenny,” Justan said. He saw his mother’s handwriting on the outside of the first one. A lump rose in his throat. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her. “I-I’ll see you around later. You are planning on sparing with us tonight?”

  “Sure, son,” the dwarf said.

  “You too Benjo?”

  “I’ll be there!” the man replied with enthusiasm.

  Justan made it half way to the doorway with the letters clutched in his hands, before he stopped.

  “Benjo?” Justan said. “How much would you charge to make a saddle for me?”

  “Wh-what?” Benjo looked startled by the question. “For you? Why . . . I couldn’t possibly charge you, Sir Edge.”

  “No. I’m paying you,” Justan said. “I am asking for custom work. Gwyrtha won’t be an easy horse to fit. Lenny, what do you think a fair price would be for work of his caliber? Say, if you were selling it in your shop?”

  “Lemme think here . . .” The dwarf stroked his thick red handlebar mustache as he thought. “Well, you done been ridin’ her bareback and getting used to a reg’lar saddle’d be tough. He’d have to modify it so’s you could lay forward when she was runnin’ hard. There’d be special leathers involved and he’d have to spend time with Gwyrtha, measurin’ and maybe even ridin’ her to get it right. . . I’d say about eight golds when you consider how good he is.”

  “Magic leather too,” Justan added with a smile. “I don’t need my rear end cold in the winter months.”

  “Oh, thirty then, easy.”

  “Thirty!” Benjo blurted. “N-no way I could accept it after all I have done.”

  “That’s forgiven,” Justan said, then turned to the dwarf. “Sounds a fair price to me, Lenny. Pay the man.”

  “What? Me? But-.”

  “Lenny, you have plenty of money left,” Justan reminded.

  “Yeah, but thirty?” The dwarf balked. “I’m not fer payin’ my own prices.”

  “In return for our help recovering Buster, you have already agreed to make two swords for me and a mace for Fist. Consider this saddle your gift to Gwyrtha. In comparison to the value of the weapons you are making for Fist and I, the cost of the saddle is a paltry sum.”

  The dwarf laughed.
“Fine! Yer right, there. I’ll do it. But Benjo, you gotta’ let me oversee the work. I got some idears fer what’d be perfect fer her.”

  Benjo looked pale at the thought of being paid thirty gold for one of his saddles. “O-of course, Master Smith Lenui, sir. I would be honored.”

  “You ain’t blowing up his rogue horse!” Bettie yelled, back to work hammering the hot metal.

  Before the argument leapt into full swing, Justan reminded the dwarf, “Don’t forget about Qyxal. You owe him too.”

  “I ain’t forgot nothin’!” The dwarf grumbled. “I don’t forget my debts.”

  As Justan left, he heard Lenny bellow, “Bettie! I’m gonna’ need yer help with this one!”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Justan headed to the lodge and snatched a chunk of bread and cheese to eat in his room, eager to read the letters. There were seven in all. Three were from his mother, two from his father, and there were two others whose handwriting on the front he did not recognize. He set those aside for the moment and started with the letters from his parents.

  His father’s letters were difficult to read because of the sloppy handwriting. As usual, they contained very little news about what Faldon was up to, but were full of praise for the improvements Justan was making at the MageSchool. Evidently Valtrek had been writing them with updates. To Justan’s disappointment, he found that his father had not been told about his naming. That was one subject he very much wanted to hear Faldon’s opinion on. It was the only thing that Justan had done that his father hadn’t been able to do. Justan laid the letters down and pushed his disappointment away. Until he felt worthy of his new name, he had no right to expect Faldon’s approval.

  He picked up his mother’s letters. Darlan’s familiar flowery handwriting made him smile. Her words were a slice of home and that was just what he needed. She spoke of the local gossip and her day to day doings, while mentioning how tired she was of worrying about his father when he would leave for weeks at a time on secret missions with his graduate students. She ended each letter expressing her love for him in the way that only mothers can. By the time he finished, there were tears in his eyes.

  Fist’s voice popped into his mind with concern, Justan, are you okay? Why are you sad?

  Justan explained as best he could and assured the ogre that he was okay. Gwyrtha nudged him mentally as well and it was a few moments before he was able to get to the remaining letters.

  The next letter he opened was from Professor Valtrek.

  Edge,

  If my calculations are correct, you should be receiving this letter under the care of Master Coal. As of this writing, I have not as of yet received word that he has agreed to teach you, but knowing him as I do, he won’t turn you away. Take heed of his word, Edge. He possesses great intelligence and wisdom. It was quite a blow to the Mage School when he took leave of us to lapse in obscurity. In addition, I believe that you two will get along quite well. He was always a very stubborn and moral man and you share many of the same tendencies.

  There is one unfortunate event that occurred right after you left the school, that I feel I must tell you about. It is about your old roommate, Piledon . . .

  Justan read with horror as Valtrek described the discovery of Piledon’s death and the accusations brought against him. A pang of guilt struck him as he remembered Piledon’s request for help on the night he left the school. The cadet had seemed quite frightened, but he had been so preoccupied that he had brushed his pleas aside.

  Valtrek then explained that Locksher had discovered the true identity of the killer. Justan was shocked that Arcon was capable of such a thing, but as he thought about it, the pieces began to come together. The mage had always been a bit shifty, just not enough to raise his suspicions. The wizard went on:

  We still have not been able to locate Arcon, but his name has been stricken from the rolls of the school and he has been labeled as a rogue wizard and outlaw in missives sent to every major city in Dremaldria and the surrounding kingdoms. I have no doubt that with our substantial resources, he will be captured eventually to stand trial for Piledon’s death.

  Once you were cleared of any wrongdoing, I informed the rest of the council about your bonding magic and our agreement. My announcement ruffled a few feathers, but in the end they were forced to admit that I had done the correct thing in sending you to Master Coal. You do not need to worry about the school searching for you.

  As you can tell from the other letters I forwarded to you, I have not yet told your parents about your naming. The council believes that it should remain a secret until they reach a consensus on what to say about it. Wizard Randolf with the support of a few other council members has undertaken an investigation into your dual naming.

  As for me, I think that he is acting foolishly. There is no reason to doubt the legitimacy of your naming. I will leave it up to you to decide when to tell your parents about it. I will back your decision, whatever that may be. Since you are my apprentice, they will have to accept my decision. In regards to the way you represent yourself to the rest of the world though, my suggestion as your master would be to keep it to yourself if you can. Being named may help you in some situations, but it may also bring you trouble. With your youth, some may not believe your naming to be real. I have come across enough ruffians with false runes tattooed on the back of their hand in my time to understand that sentiment.

  If you feel you must let your status be known, you are good enough with your swords to convince people that you are legitimate as a named warrior. However, I strongly recommend that you keep your wizard rune hidden at least. Proving your authenticity as a wizard would be more difficult.

  I have asked Master Coal to write me with updates as to your progress. I do not expect you to write me a response. If you have any questions, Master Coal should be able to answer them as well as I. When we next meet, I hope that things will have settled down here at the school and you will be prepared to make a decision in regards to your next area of training. I do hope that you will decide to complete your training at the Mage School before you continue to the Battle Academy.

  In regards,

  Your master, the Wizard Valtrek

  “Of course you hope I will decide to stay at the MageSchool,” Justan grumbled. He still couldn’t entirely forgive the man, but he did have to admit that having Valtrek on his side was a lot more convenient than having him as an enemy. He pondered the wizard’s words as he picked up the final unread letter. This one was sealed with wax, but also tied crisscrossed with a green ribbon.

  Perhaps Valtrek was right. Wizards continued to study all their lives even after being named, but he did not know how the academy would feel about taking a named warrior in as a student. Then again, it could all be a moot point after his bonding to Fist. How would the academy react to a student that came with an ogre at his side?

  He turned the last letter over in his hands, still mulling over what Valtrek had said, when the significance of the green ribbon struck him. His heart skipped in his chest. He ran his fingers along the ribbon. There was no mistaking it, the letter had to be from Jhonate. It was the same kind of green ribbon that she kept in her hair.

  Justan lifted the letter to his face, but stopped himself from smelling it. He laughed. What was he expecting? It couldn’t possibly smell like her after traveling so far. Besides, what was he hoping for? The most common smell that came with his memories of her were of the dirt of the training grounds mixed with his own sweat after hours of training while she stood over him and scolded him over some clumsy attempt at an attack.

  Justan knew he was lying to himself, though. There was one scent he longed for. It was the one that always accompanied her in his dreams . . .

  He shook the thoughts from his mind and carefully untied the ribbons from the parchment. He paused before breaking the wax seal on the back. Why was she writing him? He didn’t know what to expect.

  His feelings for her had evolved over their time together and in
the time since leaving Reneul, he had come to realize that he truly cared for her, or maybe even . . . Justan stopped that train of thought. He knew that he couldn’t expect Jhonate to feel the same way. But what if the letter showed that she felt nothing for him? Could he handle that?

  Justan’s hands trembled as he unsealed the letter and opened it. A slight smile reached his face. The handwriting fit her personality so well. The lettering was perfectly formed and legible and the tone was quite formal.

  To Justan, son of Faldon the Fierce,

  I am unaccustomed to writing former pupils of mine, but your father has suggested that I write you with words of encouragement to help you during your time at the Mage School. He has told me of your letters home and the things he has heard from your teachers there.