The Bander Adventures Box Set 2

by Randy Nargi

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Eton Sward led them out of the temple and back into the walled courtyard, Bander leaned over toward Valthar.

  “How much does he know?” Bander whispered.

  “Enough. You may speak freely in his presence.”

  Eton Sward invited them into his cottage, a modest one-room home with a large fireplace, a sturdy table, a wardrobe, a chest, and a single bed.

  “No books?” Bander asked. “Odd for a mage. Doubly odd for a scholar.”

  Eton Sward smiled. “My books and research would fill this abode a hundred times over.”

  “He has an office in the dimmery,” Valthar said.

  “The chapter house, actually. It’s quite peaceful there.” He fetched a bottle and a few earthenware cups and placed them on the table. “And once we reinforced the walls and repaired the windows, quite safe.”

  Eton Sward poured out some amber-colored liquid into the cups and handed them around.

  “You still have some of this old rotgut left?” Valthar asked.

  “Rotgut, Devil Dog? Is that what you think of my hospitality? I’ll have you know this is Tolworth’s finest creation. You, sir, are not worthy of ambrosia such as this.”

  Bander sniffed at the liquid. It was uskbow. The first sip was smooth and peaty. He was no aficionado, but it tasted fine to him.

  “What say you, Bander?” Eton Sward asked.

  “I approve.”

  “See that, Devil Dog? Your friend has a much more refined palette than you do.”

  The two of them bantered back and forth for the better part of an hour, talking about nothing in particular. The cups were refilled several times before Eton Sward decided to answer Bander’s original question. And even then, it took some prodding.

  It turned out that, some years ago, as a young adept, Eton Sward had the misfortune of embarrassing a prelate named Rhodan Lunt during Synod. Apparently, Eton Sward rather publicly contradicted the prelate regarding disposition of a certain artifact—an artifact which Eton Sward declined to mention by name. The man never forgot the slight and Eton Sward found himself reassigned from teaching duties at Delham University to field work here at the Temple of Dreams. The only problem was that there wasn’t much in the field for Eton Sward to study.

  “They had to make me a third adept, of course, but I believe that I am the only third adept in the Empire who has to grub around in the dirt, looking for bone shards or pottery fragments.”

  “Don’t forget the parchment scraps,” Valthar said.

  Eton Sward laughed and refilled their cups. “The crumbling parchments, yes. How could I forget those? I find one every year or so, but inevitably it turns to dust by the time I extract it from its case.”

  “How long have you been here?” Bander asked.

  Eton Sward looked up at the ceiling. “Hmm. This summer it will have been seven years. Yes, seven years of exile.”

  “And how long is the term of your posting?”

  “How long?” Eton Sward snorted. “Why? Until that old fish Lunt passes away, I wager. He’s a decrepit old git, but his memory has been undulled by time. He still hates me, I’m afraid.”

  “Until he passes away, you say?” Valthar’s eyes narrowed. “That could be arranged, my friend. That could be arranged very easily.”

  “By whom? You?”

  “Bah, I don’t stoop to common murder. But this one here might!” He clapped Bander on the shoulder.

  Bander shook his head. “Valthar has had too much to drink. We should be going.” He stood up.

  “Sit your outsized body back down, you lout,” Valthar said. “We haven’t traveled all this way just to gossip like old women. We are on a mission, are we not?”

  “Mission?” Eton Sward asked, clearly intrigued. “What kind of mission?”

  “I finally found it,” Valthar said, with a big grin on his face. He dug into his belt pouch. “Actually, to be fair, it was Bander here who found it.”

  “Found what?” Eton Sward asked.

  “This!” Valthar removed one of his aonae from a pouch and clicked it down on the table.

  “Another one?” Eton Sward asked. He leaned forward to get a better look.

  “Not just another one,” Valthar said. “752!”

  “A mid-700s!” He whistled. “That’s what you’ve been looking for all these years, you lucky bastard!”

  “Yes. Now I am on the cusp of victory.”

  “If we can find the temple,” Bander added.

  “Yes, yes. A small matter. I have a very good feeling that Eton Sward will be our savior in that regard.”

  “Which temple?” Eton Sward asked.

  “The fourth one, of course!” Valthar said. “The Temple of Fate.”

  “Ah, the mythical Temple of Fate,” Eton Sward said.

  “Mythical?” Bander asked. “How so? Valthar means to drag me to the Wilderlands to find this temple.”

  “It is a fool’s errand,” Eton Sward said.

  Valthar stood up. “Explain yourself.”

  “You know as well as I do we have insufficient data on the relative locations of the temples.”

  “Yes, but the Burritch book—” Valthar was clearly agitated.

  “That has never been verified. You know that.”

  “Hold,” Bander said. “Am I to understand that the Temple of Fate may not even exist?”

  “Of course it exists!” Valthar said.

  “It may not!” Eton Sward said, at the same time.

  “Explain,” Bander said.

  “We know of three temples for certain,” Eton Sward said. “The one here, the Temple of Dreams, is the northernmost. 130 miles south and 65 miles west is the second temple, the Temple of the Ages.”

  “Yes, yes,” Valthar interjected impatiently. “Near Vale.”

  “The third confirmed temple is in Tamoa. The Temple of Curses. Again, it is 130 miles south and 65 miles west of the second temple.”

  The temples were all equidistant. Fascinating. “And you believe that there is a fourth?” Bander asked.

  “I do,” Valthar said. “Not just I, but many scholars.”

  Eton Sward said, “Where do you get many? One. Burritch. And he wasn’t even a proper scholar.”

  “A reputable source, then.”

  Eton Sward shook his head. “’Tis conjecture. No more.”

  “How would you know?” Valthar asked.

  “I’ve read Burritch’s Travels more times than I care to admit. I just about have the tome committed to memory.”

  Bander asked, “Does this book mention the Temple of Fate?”

  “No, not specifically.”

  “Yes!” Valthar shouted at the same time.

  “And how would you know?” Eton Sward asked. “You’ve never laid eyes on the book!”

  “That is because you won’t let me, you red-cheeked villain!”

  Bander tried to calm down the two men. “Has anyone actually made an effort to find this Temple of Fate?”

  “Of course. Over the past century there have been many expeditions to find this fourth temple. Some Guild-sanctioned, some not.”

  “And?” Bander asked.

  “And nothing,” Eton Sward said. “No sign of any structure resembling the other three temples.”

  Valthar asked, “Have you ever set foot in Tengan jungle, Sward? Have you?”

  “Of course not. I am a scholar, not a tramper.”

  “Well I have been down there and I can tell you that the jungle is hungry. Literally. It will swallow anything it can. A two-thousand-year-old structure is likely thirty or forty feet underground by now.”

  Eton Sward refilled the cups. “Then the question is moot. Even if you could find the general location of Fate on a map, you could walk over it a million times and never know it was beneath your feet.”

  “I beg you, Sward. Let us take that chance.” Valthar stared right into the eyes of the mage.

  No one said anything for several minutes. Then Eton
Sward sighed and drained his cup.

  “Come with me.”

  Eton Sward led them back into the temple, but instead of proceeding to the Nave, they turned the corner to the south transept where a staircase led down. The mage cast a light spell which lit up an ancient underground passage. It had been shored up by thick timbers and a dank smell hung in the hair. Everything down here seemed to be covered by a sheen of stagnant moisture.

  “Above us is the old chapter house,” Eton Sward said. “This is the only way to access it.”

  They passed through a pair of swollen wooden doors and then up a half flight of stairs. The air changed here; Bander felt a cool fresh air breeze that seemed to blow away the dampness. After turning a corner, they walked up a short flight of stairs into a large circular stone chamber ringed with tall windows. Most of the windows had been sealed by wooden shutters, but a few had been rebuilt with glass panels. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the gloom, illuminating desks and work tables overflowing with stacks of books, scrolls, papers, wax tablets, and journals. The ceiling was vaulted and supported by thick stone columns decorated by various swirls and flourishes. Newer-looking braziers held large lightstones which provided even more light.

  “This was the first part of the temple we restored,” Eton Sward said proudly. “It houses all my research.”

  The chamber appeared originally to have been some sort of meeting hall—with stone benches and vestibules, and a raised dais at the far end. Opposite the dais was a large doorway, blocked with a bookcase. The benches were all covered with books and boxes and journals and a half dozen large bookcases were arranged in rows like a library.

  “Help me with this,” Eton Sward said to Valthar. The two men set about clearing one of the work tables. Then Eton Sward removed a large rolled map from a case and spread it on the table, weighing down its edges with books. He brought over a candelabra set with bright crystals, which lit up the table.

  Bander had seen similar research libraries before. Like this one, none had candles or open flames of any kind. Magical light sources were much safer in the vicinity of ancient scrolls and books.

  He moved in to get a better look at the map and recognized it as from the Thoudian Era. It showed the Empire of Harion with its southern border at Vale. This was pre-Tengan Territories, of course, so everything to the south was labeled simply as ‘Wilderlands.’ Still, it was a well-executed map from a time when people truly valued cartography.

  Eton Sward rifled through the drawers of a cabinet until he found what he was looking for. Then he placed a small coin near the Steading.

  “Here’s where we are. The Temple of Dreams.”

  Next he placed a coin just west of Vale. “The Temple of the Ages lies here. I know these two locations very well.”

  “I believe Ages is a bit more to your left,” Valthar said. “The width of a beckbit, no more.”

  The mage ignored him and placed another coin south and a little west of Vale. “And finally Curses.”

  “I know that one,” Valthar muttered. “But don’t say finally. Give me a coin.”

  “Use your own,” Eton Sward said. He stepped away from the table to one of the desks where he retrieved a mapping tool. Bander recognized it as a divider caliper.

  “I don’t have one with me,” Valthar said.

  “Very well, then. I’ll indulge you.” Eton Sward returned to the map and took a measurement with the caliper. He pivoted the device and marked the map with a coin. Then he took another measurement and put down another coin.

  “There. That’s as close as anyone can ever get.” He tapped the far coin. “On a map, at least.”

  Bander examined the map. The location Eton Sward had marked lay at the end of a range of mountains known as the Crantochs. It was not far from a lake on a large river that wasn’t identified on the map. The Urfantis River that ran southwest from Malverton flowed into this unmarked river a hundred or so miles away from Malverton.

  The problem was that the area that the coin covered was quite expansive.

  Valthar drew closer to the map, but he blinked and moved his head closer and then farther. “Damned eyes. Do you have a glass?”

  Eton Sward brought him a magnifying glass from another table and then Valthar leaned over and studied the map.

  “How accurate is this map?” Bander asked.

  Eton Sward shrugged. “How accurate is any map—especially one that purports to have charted the Wilderlands five hundred years ago?”

  He was right. Bander moved from the table and walked around the room, trying to clear his mind.

  Eventually, Eton Sward approached Valthar and said, “I am truly sorry I could not have been more helpful, Devil Dog.”

  “It’s right here.” Valthar stabbed his finger down on the map. “I know it.”

  “Yes, if it exists, the temple is somewhere there. But the tip of your finger on that map represents at least a hundred square miles of jungle. And, as I said, any structure older than a century or two is likely buried underground.”

  Valthar didn’t reply—just stared forlornly at the map until Bander took his friend’s shoulder and steered him towards the stairway out.

  “Let us think on it,” Bander said. “I believe we’ll be staying in the village for a day or two more.”

  “Come by tomorrow.” Eton Sward smirked. “We can look at another map that will tell us the same thing.”

  Bander nodded, and they left the office the way they came. The light spell still illuminated the underground passage back to the main part of the temple and the way out.

  “Wait!” Eton Sward called after them. He jogged quickly over, breathing heavily. “I feel bad, Devil Dog. Take this.” He pressed an ancient-looking leather-bound book into Valthar’s hands.

  Valthar’s eyes lit up as he flipped the book open to the first pages. “Burritch’s Travels!”

  “Yes, I wager the only way to shut you up is to let you read it for yourself. You may have the book overnight, but you must return it in the morning. Do you understand?”

  Valthar clasped Eton Sward warmly, his eyes wet with tears of joy.

  “Thank you, Sward. Thank you! You’re not half the villain, I thought you were.”

  “Guard it with your life and don’t think of running off with it. The book may be useless, but it is extremely rare. If you fail to return it, I shall engage a team of battle mages from Whill to hunt you down! Then you’ll see what kind of villain I am.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh and take this as well.” He handed Valthar a bright crystal. “No candles. Understand?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You might be wondering why I sent for you, Mortam Rowe,” Harnotis Kodd said. “Especially after your somewhat lackluster performance in Gilweald.”

  “But Master—”

  “Water under the bridge, my boy. Water under the bridge.” He paused to slurp his tea. “Sit down, won’t you? You are making my neck crick gazing up at you.”

  The hefty mage was in his usual position, sprawled on the patterned cloth-upholstered divan and looking like a rather large slug swaddled in a garish robe. He stared mockingly at Mortam Rowe.

  But Mortam Rowe didn’t care. He had been excited to receive the summons to Kodd’s estate and was still eager to redeem himself in his employer’s eyes.

  “Where is your reticent friend?” Harnotis Kodd asked.

  Mortam Rowe had left Keave back at their home. His partner became easily bored and didn’t comport himself properly in front of the fussy mage.

  “Training,” Mortam Rowe lied. “Keave is fanatical about training.”

  “No matter,” Harnotis Kodd said. “He doesn’t really add much to the conversation, does he? Sit down, Rowe. You are making me nervous.”

  Mortam Rowe settled into the carved wood chair opposite the mage.

  “Since we last spoke, an interesting development has arisen,” Harnotis Kodd said. “Two of my men were able to infiltrate Prichard’s in Gilwe
ald and gain access to their vaults.”

  “Did they locate the aona?”

  “No, they did not.”

  Mortam Rowe leaned forward in his chair. He suspected who had the aona. “The sellsword must have it then.”

  “Indeed. And you must find him, this Leocald Grannt.”

  “The trail is long cold, Master. It has been weeks since he left Gilweald.”

  “Precisely why I am calling on you, Mortam Rowe. The aona has no intrinsic value to most people. Even the so-called experts at Prichard’s were ignorant of its worth. Were the sellsword to offer the aona to a jeweler, he would likely be told that the crescent is but a cheap bauble. My sources tell me that there are only a handful of people who might buy an aona—and none are especially easy to locate.”

  “That might work in our favor, Master.”

  “Yes, it might. Just outside of the Steading, in some pitiful excuse for a village, is a mage named Eton Sward. I use the term ‘mage’ loosely, of course. By all accounts, the man is a feeble excuse for a practitioner—a fact which was not lost on his superiors. I understand he was all but cast out of Delham, exiled to the hinterlands to immerse himself in research.”

  “What type of research?”

  Harnotis Kodd fixed him with a look. “Does it matter?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Indeed not. What matters is that this Eton Sward is a collector of aonae. Thankfully for us, the man is as dutiful as he is stupid. Every aona he comes across is studied, catalogued, and sent to Faran Marr who, of course, sends them all to us. But since time is of the essence…” He let that last phrase hang.

  “Of course, sir. We will find this mage at once and determine if he’s been contacted by Leocald Grannt.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, Rowe. Initiative. Good man. I have a good feeling about Sward. Despite his failings as a mage, he is well-known in certain circles. I’d wager your left nut that Grannt will seek him out.”

  “Thank you for your confidence, Master.”

  Harnotis Kodd continued, “However, there is another figure in all of this. A trader down south with an interest in aonae.”