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

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  Pain shot through Justan as he rolled, his lower back and knee striking jagged rocks. He struggled to his feet, preparing for the next attack.

  Kenn lurched towards him, one leg still bleeding from Qyxal’s spell, his abdomen leaking boiling ichor, and his maimed face a mask of rage. Justan backed away and grimaced with the sudden realization that he didn’t have his bow. Ma’am had been thrown to the side when he fell. It lay on the ground several yards away. Gwyrtha, her hide seared by Kenn’s last attack wanted to return to Justan’s side, but at his urging, went for the bow.

  Kenn sent a wave of heat rolling towards him and Justan put up another shield. As the heat struck, a lance of pain seared Justan’s chest. Not now, Justan pleaded through the bond. A chill mist leeched from the frost-encrusted rune.

  Kenn intensified the spell. Justan’s shield began to crumple once more and he struggled to reinforce it. The great beast grinned and Justan realized that he wasn’t going to be able to stop him.

  Then the heat spell cut off unexpectedly. Kenn lurched forward as a boulder struck him in the back of the head. A familiar laugh rang out. Charz stepped out of the trees. With a wide grin on his face, the rock giant ran and leapt onto Kenn’s back. Though he was only two thirds Kenn’s size, his weight bore the red beast to the ground.

  Before the orc could spit its acid, Deathclaw attacked. He leapt onto its back, wrapping his good arm around its throat. He pulled back and dug his rear claws into the tiny gap between the armored pates in its lower back. The flesh on his side still steamed and bubbled from the acid, but he ignored the pain and strained. His claws dug deeper, piercing through the fibrous crease in its armor until he felt warm blood seeping between his toes.

  The orc screeched in real pain for the first time and stumbled. It thrust its head back, but Deathclaw moved his own head to the side, avoiding the blow. The orc began throwing punch after punch over its shoulder. Several of the blows landed in Deathclaw’s face with stunning force, breaking skin and blurring his vision. He bit into its bony ear and didn’t let go, digging in even further with his claws, widening the hole in its armored skin.

  The ogre still sat on the ground, watching with a surprised look on his face. Hurry, Deathclaw hissed.

  Fist rolled to his knees. Deathclaw had actually come to his rescue. The raptoid could have run, but it didn’t. Fist stood. It was time to end this fight. He stumbled forward and raised his mace over his head.

  The orc saw him coming and turned its back to him, putting Deathclaw in the way. Fist had thought it might do that. He swung the mace low. The head swept under Deathclaw’s perch and struck the back of the orc’s knee. The blow landed with such force that one spike punctured through the armor, tore through muscle and tendon, and scored the bone deep within.

  The orc crumpled to the side. It screeched and rolled, trying to shake Deathclaw from its back. Deathclaw held firm, digging with his toes, and tore more of the fibrous skin around the armored plate.

  Fist grasped the orc’s wounded leg by the ankle and yanked, stopping its rolling long enough for him to swing his mace again, this time striking the side of its knee. The joint bent inward with a crunch. In a panic, the orc threw a series of elbows back into Deathclaw’s sides.

  Deathclaw felt the flesh on his left side give, felt ribs crack and knew he would not be able to hold on. He tightened his grip and with one last strain, tore the section of armored skin away. The creature rolled again and this time Deathclaw let it go. It skittered forward on its hands and one good leg until Fist caught up to it.

  The ogre’s strike hit the back of its head, stunning the creature. He swung again and again, knocking its armored head back and forth until a series of cracks appeared in its helmet-like skull. It slumped to the sand.

  The ogre swayed, bleeding profusely from the knife wounds and tired from the mace’s magic. He felt a pang of sorrow through the bond and turned just in time to see Qyxal and Lenny tumble to the ground.

  Behind him, the orc stirred. It struggled to push itself up to one knee, but Deathclaw had retrieved his sword from the mud. He thrust Star through the gaping hole in its back. A wisp of steam rose from the wound and the orc shuddered one final time before collapsing to the ground. Its armored plates began to melt.

  The giant had caught Kenn completely unawares. Charz straddled him and roared with mocking laughter, pounding away with his fists, elbowing, kneeing, gouging. Kenn turned and contorted. He tried to push the giant away, claw him, bite him, but the attacks were ineffectual against the veteran brawler.

  The heat grew more and more intense as Kenn grew more desperate. The ground bubbled and smoked. Charz laughed it off at first, but his skin blackened and started to glow red and his laughter turned to curses. The heat grew until the giant finally stood and backed away, his arms thrown up to protect his face.

  Kenn didn’t let Charz escape. The great red beast tackled the giant to the ground. The temperature grew. Charz’s curses turned into screams of pain. Kenn roared and threw punch after punch. The earth around them glowed. The giant’s screams stopped.

  The extreme heat drove the rest of them back. Master Coal arrived with his bonded and helped Lenny take Qyxal’s still form further down the beach, while Gwyrtha backed to the treeline.

  Justan felt the heat wash over him but he refused to move. Pitying both monsters, he reached up and unsheathed his swords. His emotions melted away and he could feel his right sword throb with restrained power.

  Kenn continued to punch the giant’s still, white-hot form until he was sure it was dead. He slowly stood and turned to see Justan standing on the riverbank alone, both swords in hand, mist rising around him in a small cloud. Kenn snarled and limped towards him.

  Justan!

  He sensed Fist’s and Gwyrtha’s fear, knew that they were approaching despite the heat. Stop, he said, I have to be the one to do this. He acknowledged their doubts, and exuded such calm that they obeyed.

  Kenn, though he towered over Justan, no longer looked as imposing as before. His wings were bent and torn. One great horn had broken off near his head. His face was battered and bloodied, his empty eye socket spewed black smoke, and the snarl on his face pulled back his bruised lips to reveal several broken teeth. He limped and bled freely from multiple wounds, leaving steaming pools on the scorched earth. Still, his heat burned as fiercely as ever.

  Justan felt movement under his shirt. Something was happening to his scar, but his sword leeched away the pain. He would worry about that later. If he survived. He stepped forward, vaguely aware that his friends were yelling at him. He was glad that the heat kept them away. No one else needed to die.

  His left sword assured him that it would be okay. His right sword assured him that it had the power he needed. The heat swirled around him with the intensity of a kiln. He stepped forward again.

  Kenn’s remaining eye widened in surprise. “ARE YOU SO WILLING TO BURN?”

  “I am sorry, Kenn,” Justan said and continued to walk forward. Steam rose all around him. He supposed that it was his own flesh melting, but for some reason, he wasn’t concerned.

  Kenn limped forward and reached out. Justan didn’t try to dodge. He felt the hot coals that were Kenn’s fingers wrap around his waist and lift him in the air. Kenn grinned and focused his heat on Justan.

  Justan’s vision switched to mage sight. Kenn’s magic was more deeply red than orange now, but oddly it wasn’t touching him. His body was unhurt. His clothes weren’t even singed. In fact, they were caked with frost. Justan looked down to see blue and gold magic flooding from his chest, blending together into a tide of green.

  “BURN!” Kenn shouted. He strained and the rocks around them cracked. The water at the river’s edge boiled. The trees at the forest’s edge went up in flames. Justan’s friends had to back further and further away.

  The front of Justan’s shirt shattered and a pasty white hand with long black-taloned fingers burst from his chest. The hand extended out on a long slender arm
and clutched Kenn’s forearm, its black talons digging into his red skin. Frost leeched from its touch as it pulled. A skeletal noseless head popped free from Justan’s chest. It pulled again. A set of shoulders followed. The Scralag grasped with its other arm and completely pulled free of the rune, then released Kenn’s arm and stepped onto the ground.

  “WHAT IS THAT?” Kenn grimaced in terror at its razor grin and swung his other fist at the creature, but it raised one thin arm and caught the blow without so much as a quiver. Frost extended from its touch and caked Kenn’s fist in ice. It gazed at him with its beady red eyes and a hiss escaped through its lipless mouth. It released his frozen hand and took a step forward.

  The Scralag pulled its arm back, straightened its fingers and leaned forward, plunging its hand into Kenn’s chest. Its arm sank in to the elbow and an explosive gout of steam shot from the wound. Justan watched with his mage sight as Kenn’s orange glow weakened and faltered. Green flowed from the Scralag, entering the great red beast’s body. Ice grew from the wound and expanded outward. Kenn’s mouth opened in a soundless scream as ice crawled out of his throat and sprung from his empty eye socket. The ice grew over his body until he was completely encased.

  Now, said a cold voice in Justan’s mind.

  He swung his right sword and struck Kenn’s arm. There was a small click. All of the pain and emotion that had been siphoned away by his left sword was converted into an explosion of force that extended in a straight line away from the impact. Kenn’s arm shattered, as did half of his frozen torso.

  Justan fell to the ground and pieces of the great beast landed all around him. Kenn’s enormous head crashed to the earth and cracked down the center.

  Justan sat on the ground, bruised, weary and amazed. The Scralag walked up to him holding something large and steaming in its hand and Justan realized that it was Kenn’s heart. The Scralag held it out to him. Justan cringed and shook his head.

  The Scralag cocked its head at him, then raised the prize to its mouth. It opened its set of grinning razor teeth and bit down. The heart instantly froze and shattered. The Scralag chewed the icy shards.

  I return, it sent, and reached out with one claw to touch Justan’s chest.

  “No! Wait!” Justan said, but it vanished, leaving only misty particles behind.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Justan reached up and felt his chest, almost expecting to find a gaping icy hole. Instead, beneath his ruined shirt, he found only the familiar frost encrusted rune. It had returned to normal almost as if nothing had happened. He looked around himself at the frozen chunks of Kenn’s body and shivered. Something had definitely happened.

  He felt oddly disturbed about Kenn’s destruction. It wasn’t just the fact that Kenn was dead. It was the way that he had found himself sitting there, unmoving, watching it all unfold, almost like he didn’t have a choice in the matter. The Scralag had done everything.

  Justan forced his body to stand and winced. His lower back and knee still hurt, and he was covered in bruises, but to his surprise, he was otherwise unharmed. All that heat and he had come away unscathed. Somehow the Scralag had protected him the whole time. The horrible visage of the Scralag as it bit into Kenn’s heart came unbidden to his mind. Justan pushed the horrible memory away. He rubbed his chest. Somehow he didn’t feel very protected.

  Justan! Gwyrtha arrived at his side, looking him over and sniffing at him worriedly. Satisfied that he was okay, she gave him a lick and snorted in approval.

  Are you okay? Fist asked.

  Justan saw the ogre far away, standing alone at the river’s edge. During the intensity of the fight with Kenn, he hadn’t been able to monitor their battle with the orc. Fist was bruised and exhausted and cut in several places, but the wounds weren’t severe. I’m okay, Fist.

  Deathclaw was hurt, but he is gone.

  He didn’t go far, Justan replied. But he seems-.

  What was that thing that came out of you? Fist asked.

  I’m not sure. Justan briefly shared his memories of the day he had met the Scralag. The wizards called it a frost elemental. Whatever it is, it is a part of us now.

  I see, Fist said, troubled.

  Qyxal! Gwyrtha said, nudging Justan.

  I will follow after you, Fist said in understanding.

  Justan nodded and climbed onto her saddle. He could see his friends gathered around the elf’s still form. Lenny and Master Coal knelt at his side, while Bettie and Samson watched somberly. Gwyrtha arrived and Justan slid down to join them. He walked to Master Coal, but Bettie grabbed his shoulder and shook her head.

  “He’s trying, Sir Edge. Give him some time.”

  Justan’s guts wrenched as he looked down at Qyxal’s blackened form. A great sense of frustration rose within him. What use was his magic, if he couldn’t help heal his friend? Justan clenched his fists and fell into the bond.

  He sent his thoughts through to Gwyrtha and inspected her injuries. They were relatively minor, just a few burns. He soothed the pain and reinforced her body’s natural healing ability before moving on to Fist. With Gwyrtha’s permission, he funneled some of her energy into the ogre’s tired muscles and went to work on the lacerations he had received during his fight. When he had done all he could, he moved on to Deathclaw.

  The raptoid was hiding in the trees once again. His wounds were more severe than any of the other bonded, but he did not want to let Justan inspect him closer. Justan didn’t back off. At that moment it was more important to him than ever that Deathclaw let him heal him.

  You can trust me, Justan pleaded.

  Deathclaw hissed and Justan saw the visage of the Scralag pass through the raptoid’s thoughts. Deathclaw had seen it burst free from his chest. Seeing the event from his bonded’s perspective gave Justan shivers. The raptoid was wary, but there was something more, perhaps approval. What was it?

  I still don’t know. I’ve been trying to find out myself. I-. Justan felt a tug on his shoulder. He withdrew from the bond and opened his eyes. Bettie released his shoulder and gestured towards Master Coal. The wizard still knelt by Qyxal’s head, his hands outstretched. Justan saw his magical energies pouring into the elf. Gwyrtha had laid down at Qyxal’s side, her scaled head nestled against his.

  A lump rose in Justan’s throat. It didn’t look good. Qyxal’s body was blackened and twisted and his chest rose and fell erratically, as he struggled for each breath. Only the right side of his face was untouched. Somehow seeing his one perfect brow and cheekbone combined with one unfocused and pain-filled eye made it worse. Justan knelt by his master but the wizard said nothing. Samson spoke instead.

  “Coal can’t talk aloud right now. H-he is trying but the damage is too severe. He thinks he could perhaps save his major organs but the majority of his body is just too badly burnt to fix. Even if he could somehow save his life, the pain . . .” A tear fell from the centaur’s eye and his breath caught. “The pain is the worst part now. He’s trying to soothe it, but . . .”

  Justan unsheathed his left sword. Gingerly, he placed its hilt in Qyxal’s withered hand. The elf sighed and the pain left his face. His one good eye focused and glanced at the people gathered around him.

  “I’m so sorry, Qyxal,” Justan said and the lump in his throat turned into sobs. “It’s a-all my fault . . . All my fault you are here. If not for me, you’d still be at the Mage School.”

  “Justan,” Qyxal said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “I . . . wanted to be here.” He coughed and the sound was horrible, but the sword sucked away all his pain.

  “But-,” Justan started.

  “Just listen, son.” Lenny said quietly. “This ain’t about guilt. This is about Qyxal. Listen to him.”

  “Justan . . . my books. The seeds . . .”

  “Yes, Qyxal.” They had been in his pack. They were on Albert. The warhorse was well trained. He wouldn’t be too far away. “I will get them to your people.”

  “Antyni,” Qyxal said. “Take them to A
ntyni . . . she is . . .” His eye looked to the side. A half grin hit his face. “Gwyrtha. Hi girl . . .” His eye unfocused and a final breath left his lungs.

  Master Coal gasped and swore. He stood and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.” Bettie and Samson each clasped his shoulder.

  Gwyrtha keened as Justan took his sword gently from the elf’s hand and resheathed it. He stood and stared blankly at his friend. Fist walked up and wrapped him in a big hug and Gwyrtha’s sorrow mixed with theirs. Together they mourned.

  Lenny closed Qyxal’s eye with one finger and stood. “Bettie.”

  The half orc didn’t respond. She had her head laid against Master Coal’s and was deep within the bond.

  “Bettie!”

  She looked at him and frowned. “What?”

  “I’m sorry, girl, but it can’t wait. We need somethin’ to wrap him in.”