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

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  Fist exited the lodge and walked out of the keep towards Miss Nala’s house. He started down the long hill towards the farmlands just as the sun broke over the trees. Light poured over the long expanse of fields and the smell of tilled earth filled his nostrils. Fist’s breath caught in his throat. What if this was the last time he walked this road? He hoped he hadn’t lied to Becca. He fully intended to return, but what if he couldn’t? What if-.

  Fist stopped and reached for his mace. Something was in the woods on the left side of the road. He listened, but there was only silence. What do you think it is, Squirrel? Squirrel poked his head out of the pouch and sniffed a few times before ducking back in. Fist grunted. I see.

  “Why are you following us, Deathclaw? Justan is not here,” he called out. What did the raptoid want? “Do you want to talk? Come out and talk!”

  There was no response, but Fist hadn’t really expected one. As far as he knew, Deathclaw couldn’t talk. Though they were both connected to each other through the same bonding wizard, they couldn’t communicate directly unless Justan willed it, and Deathclaw had never cared to communicate before.

  “If you do not want to talk, do you want to race?” There was questioning chirp from the trees beyond. Fist chuckled. “Good. Can you beat me to Miss Nala’s farm?”

  He reached up, grasped the handle of his mace, and ran. Fist was a good runner. He had long powerful legs and plenty of stamina. Normally he wasn’t too fast, but the magic of the mace gave him twice the speed. He felt like he was soaring. It was exhilarating. Squirrel even left his pouch to perch on Fist’s shoulder as he ran. Fist heard skittering in the trees and knew Deathclaw was right behind him, but the sounds grew fainter and soon he was sure that he had left him far behind. Fist laughed as his long legs ate up the distance.

  Miss Nala’s house came into view before he knew it. Reluctantly, Fist slowed and stopped. The moment he let go of the mace, he became overwhelmed with weariness. He leaned against a stout fencepost. Lenny had been right. The mace’s magic did make him tired.

  A rock hit the ground near his foot. Fist looked up towards Miss Nala’s house and didn’t see anything at first, but then his gaze moved to the trees. Deathclaw’s lithe form was outlined in the sunlight for a brief moment before he scampered up a tree. The raptoid had arrived first. He must have taken a short cut.

  “You win, Deathclaw!” Fist yelled. “But not next time!”

  At the sound of his voice, the door to the house burst open. Miss Nala’s children ran out the front door. “Fist!” they cried. The youngest girls grabbed his hands to pull him towards the house and peppered him with questions.

  “Is it true?” “Mom says you are leaving!” “Please tell us it’s not true!” “Whoa, is that your new mace?” “Can I see it?” “Can I hold it?”

  They reached for it and Fist had to hold the weapon up out of their reach. The spikes were sharp and one of them might get hurt. Besides, the children were fast enough as it was. This only encouraged them and they tried to climb his body to get to it. Fist protested and turned and gently pried them off until Nala finally arrived to save him.

  She pursed her lips and let out a sharp whistle. Fist winced. That whistle always hurt his ears. “Stop it this instant! You get inside and finish setting the table! Fist is going to have breakfast with us this morning before he leaves.” She paused to look at him. “Aren’t you, Fist?”

  “Yes, Miss Nala,” he said.

  Fist hunched over as he entered the house and leaned his new shield and mace against the wall just inside the door where he could keep an eye on them. The smaller children were busy at the table now but the two older boys, Steffen and Jerrold, were eying the mace with fascination and he didn’t want any mishaps.

  Miss Nala saw their looks and called the boys to the table right away. Fist walked over and sat at his regular spot while the children started their usual squabbling over who would get to sit next to him. Nala had long ago developed a system for this situation and quickly sorted it out.

  Meals at Nala’s table were much simpler than the meals at the lodge. She didn’t have all the resources that Becca’s kitchen had, but in Fist’s mind, she made up for it with the quality of her cooking. The morning meal consisted of freshly baked bread, eggs from her new chickens, and the ever present honstule plant. The bread was crusty and warm and she made the eggs just the way Fist liked them, fried on both sides, but with the yolk still runny. He liked to pile the eggs in between two thick pieces of bread along with a few pieces of honstule and eat it in one big sandwich.

  As they ate, the children continued to ask him questions about why he was going and where, where did he get his new mace and shield, and when he was coming back. Fist tried his best to answer around mouthfuls of food. Miss Nala said nothing. She just directed the children when necessary and pushed the food around her plate.

  When they had finished eating, Fist went to help her with the dishes as usual, but she suggested that he go play with the children instead.

  “I do not have much time to play,” he said. Justan had finished eating and they were loading up the horses for the journey. “They are coming soon.”

  She stood in the kitchen with her eyes fixed on the floor, her hands clenched at her sides. “Must you go, Fist?”

  “Yes, Miss Nala,” he said.

  She stepped forward, reached both hands up to his ears and pulled him down to kiss him gently on the forehead. Her lips brushed the scar left behind by the arrow that had struck him the day Tamboor’s family had been killed, and Fist felt a lump in his throat.

  “We will miss you,” she said, looking into his eyes.

  “I will miss you too,” he promised.

  She took a step back and lifted a heavy linen bundle from the edge of her stovetop. “I have prepared a few goodies for you to take along with you. The girls helped me make cookies last night. There should be enough to share with your friends.”

  “Thank you,” he said with gratitude and took the bag from her. “Um . . . Benjo will be watching over you while we are gone. He will make sure that you are safe.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “I am sure he will do just fine. Now go on outside and say goodbye to the children. And play with them as long as you can. They need that.”

  “Yes, Miss Nala.” Fist gathered his mace and shield and stepped outside.

  He immersed himself in the children’s play forgetting about his departure for a time. It was over too soon. Justan and Gwyrtha appeared first, with Qyxal and Lenny mounted on Albert and Stanza close behind. They waved to him and he nodded before turning to the children.

  He said his goodbyes. The older boys took it stoically and hugged him farewell. The younger children cried and pleaded with him not to go. It nearly broke his heart to do so, but he gently extracted them from his legs with their brothers’ help and joined his companions at the road. He watched the door, but Miss Nala didn’t leave the house.

  Master Coal soon arrived astride Samson and Bettie astride her favorite horse Pansy and it was time to go. Fist put the extra food she had given him in one of Gwyrtha’s new saddlebags, settled his shield and mace to the harness on his back and walked down the road away from Miss Nala’s farm, having no idea when he would ever return.

  Gwyrtha nudged him, excited about the journey and he patted her head, but couldn’t summon up any excitement of his own. Justan tried to cheer him up, talking about the wonders of Gwyrtha’s new saddle. Normally he would have been enthusiastic, but now it just reminded him that there was going to be a lot of walking ahead. Justan finally understood his mood and patted him on the shoulder, letting him walk in silence.

  The road soon left the farmlands behind and moved through a series of sparsely forested hills. Justan moved back to talk with Master Coal and Bettie cantered up alongside Fist as he walked. She pulled out her new weapon, a great hammer much like Lenny’s but with a longer handle. She showed him the two sets of runes on its head.

  “One set makes h
im work like Lenui’s Buster, hitting with twice the power of my swing, but if I twist the handle like this,” She twisted until there was a click. The handle rotated and clicked into place again, causing the second set of runes to line up. Bettie giggled. “Now he’s a fire hammer like Lenui’s Bessie, except mine’s better because all I have to do is click it back and it don’t burn anymore.” She looked back over her shoulder at Lenny. “Look at him. The dwarf’s still mad he didn’t think of it first.”

  Fist smiled and nodded politely, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I call him Maker,” she added. “Because sometimes I’ll be using him to make things and other times I’ll be using him to send things to their maker. Get it?”

  “No,” he said. “But it is a good name.”

  She scowled and trotted along side him in silence for a bit longer before leaning over and swatting him upside the head with her open palm. “What’s wrong with you, ogre?”

  Fist raised his hand to the side of his face in surprise. The blow had stung. The half-orc was strong. “Why did you hit me?”

  “So you’re going to miss people? Big deal, ya baby!” she said sternly. “You think you’re the only one leaving friends behind? We’re on a journey. Moping and missing folks is for late at night when you’re sleeping on the cold ground. Right now you’re traveling with a group of friends that accept you far more than anyone else. Enjoy it! Believe me. I’m half orc. Everyone hates half-orcs. These trips may be the best times of your life.”

  Fist stared at her dumbfounded. Squirrel emerged from his pouch, climbed to his shoulder and shook a finger at him, scolding in agreement. Okay, Squirrel. “You are right, Bettie. I will try to be happy.”

  She nodded and trotted over to throw curses back and forth with Lenny. Fist reached up and scratched Squirrel’s back, feeling the tiny creature’s pleasure through the bond. A smile slowly spread across Fist’s face. She was right. There was no room for sadness. This was an adventure.

  They soon reached the bank of the Wide River and traveled a few miles downstream until they came to the shallows. Master Coal had traveled his route many times and knew the way, so he and Samson took the lead, followed by Bettie, Lenny, and Qyxal, while Justan and his bonded took the rear.

  The water was icy cold, but unlike last the time they had crossed, Fist wasn’t delirious with a fever or running for his life. Crossing the river at Justan’s side wouldn’t be so bad. They made good time, following Master Coal’s direction, but a third of the way across, Justan reigned in and looked back.

  This could be an issue.

  Fist followed Justan’s gaze back to the shoreline. “What is it?”

  Concern creased Justan’s brow. “Deathclaw’s afraid of the river.”

  Deathclaw stood at the river’s edge, staring at the water, cold and swift, that spilled across the rocks of the shallows. There were places where he could see the river bottom, but there were also places where the water was dark, deep, and swirling. Deathclaw forced his fingers to unclench. He hadn’t known how hard it was going to be to cross the river again.

  A note of concern drifted from the back of his mind and he glanced up, to see Justan sitting safely astride his strange beast looking back at him. Deathclaw hissed inwardly, his head throbbing in time with his swiftly beating heart. The human felt his fear. He hated that it knew his weakness.

  Do you want me to come back for you? Justan’s thoughts intruded. Gwyrtha would let you ride across on her back.

  A vision was pushed into Deathclaw’s mind. He saw himself astride the beast, riding comfortably as it took him across unscathed. Ride another creature? The concept was so foreign that he immediately thrust the vision away. Ridiculous. He would cross on his own . . . somehow. Go! I will cross.

  He waited until Justan had turned and continued on before wading into the shallows. The water’s chill caused him to gasp, yet he moved forward, careful to keep his tail up and dry. The trail Justan and the others had taken was easy at first. The water never rose above his shins, and the pull of the current was not enough to make him lose his footing. His confidence grew, but the water’s cold began to stab his feet like daggers and his headache increased in rhythm. Deathclaw slowed and focused on his feet, willing his body’s magic to kick in. His legs throbbed and warmth spread downward, lessening the pain. He picked up his pace, completely focused on the path in front of him. Then the path disappeared.

  The water before him was muddied and swirled slowly so that he could no longer see the bottom. His heart thumped in his chest. Deathclaw looked up. Justan and the others were now far in the distance.

  Justan sensed his indecision and sent reassurance that the path was still there. A flood of Justan’s recent memories echoed through Deathclaw’s mind, showing him the route that the others had taken. The ogre Fist was afoot just as he was. Justan linked the ogre’s thoughts to his and Deathclaw saw that the water ahead had never been more than waist deep. These deeper parts were mainly swirling pools where the river’s current had dissipated and would not sweep him downstream.

  Deathclaw nodded, reassured, and stepped into the muddy water. The bottom gave out from under him and he sunk chest deep. He thrashed frantically forward, hissing angrily at Justan and the ogre. Finally he climbed out of the pool, back to the shin-deep water, and stood shivering as his body slowly adjusted once more.

  Sorry, the ogre’s thoughts rumbled. You are shorter than me.

  Deathclaw hissed at him and looked back. The shoreline was distant but visible. He was only a third of the way across. His head pounded and he doubted himself once more. Was it really worth following this human just to satisfy his own curiosity and have the vague chance to kill the wizard Ewzad Vriil?

  He pushed on. The route Justan showed Deathclaw took him around great rocks that jutted out of the water like great curving fingers. Some were just taller than him, while others were nearly small islands in and of themselves. There were times that he lost sight of the distant party all together. Only Justan and the ogre’s assurances kept him moving forward. The water churned and swirled but was never more than waist deep.

  Deathclaw sloshed past the last of the craggy spires just as Justan and the others reached the far bank. He could see them gathered in front of the tree line and felt frustration come from Justan’s mind. They were arguing about something. Finally, the human’s voice came again.

  Deathclaw, we cannot wait for you here. Memories of a fearsome rocky giant were sent into his mind. The riverbank was the edge of this monster’s territory and they were afraid that their presence would draw its attention. We will head up the hill to the outskirts of Charz’s territory and wait for you to finish crossing. Hurry as quick as you can.

  Deathclaw understood their urgency. His years in the Whitebridge desert had made him familiar with the necessity of avoiding the territories of stronger creatures. He watched as Justan and the others traveled down the shore and up a grassy hill. They faded from sight and he redoubled his pace, more confident in the directions he was given and in his own ability to traverse the shallow waters. Soon the bank sprawled before him. Deathclaw’s body was weary and numb with the cold, but he exulted in his achievement. He had not let the river beat him.

  A short distance from the shoreline, a large shadow flowed across the bank. Deathclaw looked and saw an enormous beast circling in the sky above and forgot about his triumph. He knew it immediately. That night, so much had been hidden in shadow, but he remembered the great horns on its head and the heat of its passing. This was the beast that had taken Talon. Its skin was scaled a deep red; its wings, claws, and horns a deep black.

  It swooped down close to the shore and a figure leapt from its back, rolling as it hit the ground. This green-skinned creature, about Deathclaw’s size, stood from the pebbled ground of the riverbank and brushed itself off. It wore some kind of thick green overlapping plate armor.

  Deathclaw crouched and watched it warily. It saw his stance and copied his motion,
settling into a crouch of its own. Neither of them made a move for several seconds. Then in a smooth motion, it drew two daggers from a belt at its waist and charged.

  It was fast.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  The party had been waiting at the outer edge of Charz’s territory only a short time when they saw the red beast glide overhead and bank towards the shoreline.

  “What the blasted hell was that?” Bettie said, from atop her chestnut mount.

  “It was huge. Was it a dragon?” Qyxal asked.

  “No,” said Master Coal. He placed a hand on Samson’s shoulder. “Do you recognize it?” The centaur shook his head.

  Justan had no idea just what it was, but it was headed towards Deathclaw’s position. Lenny opened his mouth to speak just as Justan felt Deathclaw’s recognition of the beast.

  “We need to head back,” he said.

  “But I was gonna tell you-,” Lenny began.