The Bander Adventures Box Set 2

by Randy Nargi

  “My friends, do come in!”

  The mage was perched upon a divan, eating—as usual—from a bowl of berries like some obese rabbit.

  “Forgive me for not rising, but my legs have been giving me pain as of late.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Master,” Mortam Rowe said.

  “Ah, the perils of aging, my friend. I recommend avoiding it at all costs.” He looked over expectantly, but neither Keave nor Mortam Rowe laughed at the jest.

  “In any case,” Harnotis Kodd continued. “I have been thinking about the situation at Pritchard’s and I would like to hear your account once more—directly, from the horse’s mouth so to speak. Specifically, I’d like to hear your opinion about the whereabouts of the aona.”

  “Of course, Master. As we reported, we confirmed that the aona was in the possession of Phaler Jeigh—”

  “The courier who was nearly killed by robbers?”

  “Yes, although he was much more than a courier. The Jeighs own Pritchard’s.”

  “Of course they do. I am quite familiar with them, but as a point of fact, Phaler Jeigh was acting as a courier, was he not?”

  “He was indeed, Master. And we know that Jeigh was transporting the Dubbard lot from Whill to Gilweald. According to Gaon Jeigh, it is Prichard’s standard practice to hide valuables being transported in a special hollow in a horse’s saddle. That was information he did not give up readily, I might add.”

  “I can imagine. So that would explain why the highwaymen did not steal the shipment…”

  “Indeed, Master. And the clerk in Gilweald claimed to have logged in the shipment personally.”

  Harnotis Kodd nodded to himself. “So in all likelihood the aona is in the vaults at Pritchard’s?”

  “Yes, Master. But…”

  “But what, Rowe?”

  “There is the matter of the sellsword.”

  “Kant?”

  “Grannt, sir. Leocald Grannt. He’s the man who brought in Phaler Jeigh. Saved his life. And was given a reward. As I mentioned, after considerable effort we were able to locate the inn where he stayed, but the man himself had left the city by the time. We, of course, tried to find some remnants that Keave could use to track him, but his room had been cleaned.”

  “No matter. It is doubtful that he even knew of the Dubbard shipment.”

  “Of course, Master,” Mortam Rowe said. But he wasn’t so sure. He had a feeling that there was something significant about the old sellsword. But he knew Harnotis Kodd was not one who put much stock in hunches or feelings so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Well, Rowe. That’s that, then. Thank you for your service in this matter. You may speak with Reddiger on the way out and settle up.”

  “What about the other task you mentioned?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with, Rowe. It was regarding another matter and I’ve changed my mind about it.”

  “But I don’t understand. We’re not giving up on the aona are we?”

  “Not by any means,” Harnotis Kodd said. “I have another team in mind for the next phase of the mission.”

  “Another team?” Mortam Rowe felt his mouth go dry. He and Keave had worked for the mage on and off for the past month. Harnotis Kodd paid extremely well, and—although the mage didn’t elaborate—he had mentioned upon more than one occasion that he was in league with the highest powers in the land. Bryn Eresthar’s name had come up in passing several times. So besides the money, there was the prestige. That’s not something Mortam Rowe was eager to give up.

  “Hmm? Oh yes. I shall send my man if I require your services. You will be around town, won’t you?” It was less of a question than an order.

  “Yes, of course, Master. We remain eager to help in any way we can.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nine days after he had left Gilweald, Bander arrived at a familiar country lane a few miles west of Hamwick. A patchwork of dried out fields and pastures stretched out in all directions, dotted with the occasional tiny farmhouse or much larger estate.

  He was close; he knew it.

  But every time he tried to focus on the name of the estate or its location, his memory blurred.

  The only thing he could picture with any certainty was the door of Valthar’s house. It was a tall, sturdy door, carved ceaon, stained a deep rusty red color—with heavy iron hinges. In the center of the door, at eye height for a normal man, but neck height for Bander, was a decorative scene sculpted in relief from the wood.

  The scene depicted a bearded man peering from out of a tangled forest of vines and branches. The man’s face was old and wise-looking, but his expression was fearful. Like he knew something bad was coming.

  He was the Green Man. A green man on a red door.

  Once Bander focused on that image, the cloud in his mind lifted and he was able to get his bearings. By noon he was standing in front of an actual red door attached to an old hunting lodge. Valthar’s home.

  As Bander knocked on the door, it almost appeared as if the Green Man was wincing at the loud hollow knocking sound. Bander knocked a few more times and then stepped back from the door.

  The lodge itself was a two-story stone building with tall narrow windows, but Bander couldn’t really see the stonework or the windows. Everything was covered in dead vines as thick as Bander’s wrist. The vines looked like they were trying to suffocate the structure—and maybe drag it down into the depths of the ground below.

  Bander knocked one more time for good measure and then waited patiently. He knew that his friend moved slowly.

  Even though Valthar was a few years younger than Bander, he acted as if he was a quarter century older. Valthar walked with a cane, shuffling along, hunched like an ancient ragged fellow. It very well could take him a quarter hour to make his way to the door. Bander gave him twice that and then checked the door. It was unlocked.

  “Valthar!” he called, taking one tentative step inside the dark entrance way. “Ho! Valthar!”

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Bander saw the usual clutter of junk in the entrance way: crates and trunks and chests, piles of books, papers, scroll cases, maps, and who knows what else.

  “Anyone here?” Bander called again. He was leery of going much deeper into Valthar’s home since it was likely guarded by traps.

  Only silence greeted him.

  Bander peered into the parlor and then into the library, but remained in the hall, listening.

  Nothing.

  Maybe Valthar was away. Bander knew his friend took frequent trips to Hamwick and beyond, gathering the old books and maps and codices which cluttered up his home.

  Snatching up an old walking stick from the corner of the hall, Bander started prodding and poking the route towards the double doors at the end of the corridor, checking for traps.

  He didn’t trigger anything.

  After another quarter hour of checking the doors, Bander eased one of them open and looked through to the great hall which was the main room of the lodge. It was where Valthar spent most of his time, usually in one of the old chairs situated in front of the large stone fireplace.

  But the room was damp and cold and devoid of life—unless you counted the mouse which scurried under a couch stacked high with crates and baskets.

  “Valthar!” Bander called again, even though he could tell that no one was home.

  Checking the ground in front of him for tripwires, Bander made his way to the fireplace and felt the ashes.

  They were cold.

  No one had been home for a while.

  There was nothing for Bander to do but wait. So he spent the time making a thorough search of the house, from top to bottom. He didn’t find any traps or anything that led him to believe Valthar had been attacked. As best as he could tell, no one had been home for a week or two at the very least.

  As night began to fall, Bander lit a fire in the hall fireplace, ate some of his provisions, and pulled an old couch close to the hearth. There he stretched out and watched
the fire flicker and dance until he fell asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Early the next morning, Bander was awoken by a sharp prod to his ribs. There, hunched over him, brandishing a carved walking stick, was Valthar. His face was drawn and his skin was ashen. He looked even older and more weary than usual.

  “I suppose you’ve come for Wylla,” Valthar said.

  Wylla. Bander had to admit that he was curious about the fiery redhead from Hytwen who turned out to be not at all what she had seemed.

  “Yes, but that’s not why I’m here.” Bander sat up, wincing. His legs were cramped and his back ached from sleeping on the sofa.

  Valthar noticed, of course, and said, “Plenty of beds upstairs. You didn’t have to sleep there.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Away,” Valthar said. “And now I’m here. And so are you.” He fished a handkerchief from a pocket in his vest and wiped his nose. “Gods, it’s been a long time, Bander.”

  “A couple of years,” Bander admitted.

  “More than that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. I have no one in this world.”

  Bander didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not doing well,” Valthar said, easing himself into one of the battered old chairs.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Bah, if you were sorry, you’d have come by. At least once in a shadow of a wyvern.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know a lot of things. Make us some moxa and I’ll tell you what I know of Wylla.”

  Bander fumbled around in Valthar’s kitchen until he found the moxa beans and the grinder and the various kettles and strainers used to prepare the beverage. When he finally emerged from the kitchen with two heavy earthenware cups, steaming in the cold morning air, he discovered that Valthar had fallen asleep in his chair.

  Turnabout’s fair play. He prodded Valthar with his own walking stick until his friend groaned and opened his eyes.

  “Villain!” Valthar muttered.

  “Moxa’s ready.” Bander handed a cup to Valthar, who drank the brew greedily.

  After a time Valthar wiped his nose again and peered at Bander. “She’s not here.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “But she was. She came back two months after you first brought her here. And she had a little girl with her.”

  “Jillen.”

  “Yes.”

  Jillen was Wylla’s daughter, and they both had some very unusual abilities.

  “You must have liked that,” Bander said.

  “Actually, I did. Children delight me. Especially magical ones. I didn’t care for the theodrestre, however.”

  “The what?”

  “The Drinker.”

  “I thought she was a harlot in your book.”

  “I was wrong,” Valthar said.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “In any case, Wylla wanted my help in locating the Witches of Melikti.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know. You put the idiot idea into the woman’s head.”

  “It wasn’t an idiot idea,” Bander said. “It was her best chance.”

  “I can’t speak to Wylla’s fate, but the girl is safe. I know that for certain.”

  “How?” Bander asked.

  “I was eager to be rid of them both so I did what I could,” Valthar said with a sigh of annoyance. “It wasn’t easy. Took nearly a half year, and we had a lot of close calls, but the Witches came.”

  “Came here?”

  “Yes, of course they came here. I’m in no shape to travel to lost isles.”

  Bander nodded. “I was hoping it might all work out.”

  “It didn’t all work out,” Valthar said. “The Witches took in the girl. They didn’t want anything to do with her mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was too old. Too uncontrolled. And they probably sensed her true nature.”

  “Wylla is a good woman.”

  “Maybe a good lay.”

  “Watch it.”

  Bander took a sip of his moxa. Wylla was completely devoted to Jillen. He had seen that with his own eyes. It must have been very difficult for her to surrender her daughter to the Witches. A big sacrifice. But she probably knew that it was just a matter of time before the Guild found Jillen. And between the girl’s abilities and what she had witnessed with Haddon Fane, Jillen was looking at spending the rest of her life in a relorcan prison cell. At least now she had a chance to live free.

  “Where’s Wylla?” Bander asked.

  “How should I know? Do I look like a locestra? Besides, the snakes were coming out that week. I was a bit distracted.”

  “What snakes?”

  “The snakes that live in the old cairn. Redbelly and his ilk.”

  “Redbelly’s a snake, I gather?” Bander asked.

  “He’s their king.”

  “And what does this have to do with anything?”

  Valthar’s eyes narrowed. “When the snakes emerge from the rocks, it means the sun has shifted. Enough to make a difference at least. Redbelly is a harbinger.”

  Bander had been through this before. Valthar sometimes would go off on weird tangents. Half the time he didn’t know what his friend was talking about.

  Neither of them spoke for a minute or two, then Valthar struggled to rise from his chair.

  “Help me, you cur!”

  Bander grabbed Valthar’s arm and gently pulled him to his feet. His friend was so light it was like he was made out of paper.

  “I need a nap,” Valthar said. “I had a long night.”

  “Tell me what happened to Wylla.”

  Valthar reached for his walking stick. “She stayed around for another few months. I think she was waiting for you. Then, one day, I woke up and she was gone. No note. I have no idea where she went. End of the story.”

  With that, he shuffled off towards the stairs. “If you go out,” Valthar called. “Stay within sight of the house. I can’t be responsible if you don’t.”

  Bander did go out. He needed to be out in the sun. Valthar’s house was cold and dark and drafty. It was souring his mood.

  He walked east along the wide path leading away from the lodge, then turned south where Valthar kept a vegetable garden and some chickens. Or at least he used to. There was no sign of them now.

  The land was fairly clear around the lodge, but a hundred yards away was a dark forest that provided firewood, mushrooms, and the occasional deer.

  Halfway between the garden area and the edge of the forest, Bander spotted the old cairn that Valthar had mentioned. He didn’t bother walking over to the cairn. It was much too cold for snakes.

  Instead he strolled to the north end of the property where a small twisty brook rambled. Bander picked out a good sitting boulder nearby and made himself comfortable. The sound of the brook was comforting, but his memories of Wylla weren’t.

  Normally, regret wasn’t something that Bander ever felt much of. He had always tried to live his life a certain way. He did his job without complaining, was naturally inclined to look after the people who needed some help, and he had no problem standing up to those who tried to take advantage of others. His life was about what was right and what was wrong.

  But still…

  He had made some decisions that turned out to be not so clear cut. He thought back to Wylla.

  Had she loved him?

  Maybe.

  But maybe she had just needed a protector. And he had done that job. No question about that. At the end of the bad business at Hytwen, she was safe and sound. So was Jillen. And they were together. That was the important thing to Wylla. It had always been the important thing.

  Bander looked at the brook, watched as the sun glistened off the water.

  He had offered. He remembered that.

  She’s the one who had said no. Called him a vagrant, but said it with a
smile. Wylla made it clear that she didn’t want that kind of life for her daughter.

  So they parted.

  And being a vagrant or a wanderer—or whatever he was—meant that his eyes were on the road in front of him. Not the road behind him.

  He could take comfort in knowing he was being true to himself.

  But it still hurt.

  Chapter Twelve

  When he pushed open the red door to the lodge, Bander smelled bread baking. He made his way to the kitchen where he discovered Valthar hunched over the table, his hands and forearms white with flour.

  “What are you making?” Bander asked.

  “Stuffed bread.”

  “Stuffed with what?”

  “That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” Valthar cackled.

  “That witticism has seen better days.”

  “So have I, my son, so have I.”

  “I trust your nap was productive?” Bander asked.

  “Quite. I dreamt of my uncle in Laketon.”

  “I assume this was one of your ancient uncles who has been dead for a thousand years.”

  “Show some respect for a legendary king, you savage. I don’t know when Krili died or if he died at all. For all I know, he is still striding this land, a giant among gnomes. He was always a god to me.”

  From the very first moment Bander and his team had rescued him from some sort of stasis trap in a temple deep in the Wilderlands, Valthar had maintained he was from the year 729—which was nearly 1,000 years ago. He also claimed that he was of the House of Forn and his father was none other than the fabled hero Klothar.

  “Well, I’ve got something that might take your mind off your dreams for a bit,” Bander said. He took one of Valthar’s kitchen knives and went to work on the secret pocket at his collar.

  “So you are going to slit your throat right in front of me? That is your distraction? I knew you were a miserable wretch, but—”

  “No, I brought you a present,” Bander said.

  “What?”

  “This.” Bander handed Valthar the crescent pendant.