The Bander Adventures Box Set 2

by Randy Nargi

  Neddic sullenly placed the tankard in front of me and I took a swig. The ale had a funny taste. Almost like juniper.

  I turned toward the miner and said, “Well that might be a problem.”

  “Why’s that?” He stood up and I saw that I had misjudged his size. He was bigger than I thought. Nearly seven feet tall. His hair was dark and thick. So was his beard. And his eyes were dark too, under bushy brows. He reminded me of the bears I had been concerned about when I first entered this area.

  I said, "I'm tired, I have an injured ankle, and I spent most of the last night in the river—trying to keep from being swarmed by those damned spiders you have around here."

  The miner laughed. “You picked the wrong time of year to travel in these parts. Finish up your ale. We’ll go to see my father.”

  AS HE LED ME ACROSS THE COURTYARD, THE MINER ASKED WHERE MY PACK WAS.

  I told him, “I travel light.”

  That was the extent of our conversation. We walked around a long narrow structure which nearly bisected the inner ward and then up an exterior staircase which opened up into a balcony. Below us were more women. working around a fire pit. At first I thought they were cooking something, but the smell wasn’t right. Maybe they were making soap.

  The balcony was shaded and an older man sat beside the door leading in. He was whittling something with a knife that was far too large for wood carving.

  “Is he in there?” the miner asked.

  The older man nodded but didn't look up from his whittling.

  The miner pushed open the door and I followed him into a library with a large desk covered with ledger books. A man about a decade older than me was writing in one of the books. He was as bushy as his son, but his hair was white and he was physically smaller. But not by much. He didn’t acknowledge us for nearly a minute. Finally, he placed his quill down, rubbed his eyes, and stared at me and then back at his son.

  “Who’s this?” he asked his son.

  “My name is Leocald Grannt,” I said, using one of my favorite aliases. Back when I was the Imperial Investigator, my true name had been known throughout the Empire. Although there was little chance of someone recognizing ‘Bander’ this far out in the wilds, I still preferred some anonymity.

  He glanced over at me. “Good for you, Leocald Grannt. What are you doing in my mining camp?”

  “I need to rest a bit. And I was trying to slake my thirst.”

  He stared at me for a while and then asked, “You with the mill?”

  “No, I’m a sellsword. Currently unemployed.”

  “Currently?”

  “I was riding with a caravan out of Lhawster and I had a falling out with my former employer.”

  “Where’s your weapon?”

  “I lost it. In the river. Hiding from spiders.”

  He grinned. “Aye, you got to watch out for them.”

  I’m not sure why everyone here thought that overgrown spiders were humorous, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “What did you argue with your employer about?”

  “Compensation,” I said.

  “Strange. Most guard contracts are decided upon before the engagement, are they not?”

  “Yes, that’s customary. But sometimes the situation changes.”

  “And how did your situation change, Leocald Grannt?”

  “I realized that they weren’t paying me enough, so I decided to give myself a raise.”

  “You stole from your employer?”

  “I took what I was due.”

  “How much did you steal?”

  “It wasn't gold. I took my compensation in other ways.”

  “No gold? Well, that is a pity, isn’t it?”

  I continued to spin my tale. I was actually enjoying creating this particular fiction. "There were women traveling with the caravan. One, in particular, helped settled the score."

  “You are lucky you aren't dead.”

  “It was easier to just part ways with me. Melanchin knew it wasn’t worth losing three of his men to get rid of one of me.”

  The man behind the desk laughed again. “Oh really? You can vanquish three men?”

  “If I am in a good mood.”

  “And if you are not?”

  “If I am in a bad mood, I can vanquish four.”

  He laughed again. “I like you, Leocald Grannt. You are amusing. We could use a little amusement around here.”

  I GUESSED THAT I HAD PASSED SOME SORT OF TEST. Both the man behind the desk and his son relaxed. Not a lot, but a bit. The older man introduced himself as Wilmer Connaught. His son was Toat Connaught. And just like Hildur had said, they told me that they owned this mining operation and the town.

  I asked them if they needed a sellsword.

  “You see my men?” Wilmer Connaught asked. “No one would dare to trouble us. Besides, we have nothing worth stealing here. Don’t know if you heard, but the mines have run dry.”

  There was something strange about the way he said that phrase. It was almost theatrical.

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Sure is. Don’t know how much longer we can manage.”

  “What do you mine around here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Lightstone.”

  “More valuable than gold,” I said.

  "Yes, it is. When there's lightstone ore to be had."

  “When did it play out?”

  Wilmer Connaught glanced at his son. Then he said, “Maybe a month ago.”

  I nodded. “How deep are the mines?”

  “It varies. Couple of thousand feet for most. We dig until we reach the end of the lode.”

  “You try forking?”

  Wilmer Connaught made a face. “What’s that?”

  I said, “I don’t know about lightstone, but rylben and thader crystals come in forks. Parallel veins. When you get to the end of a vein, you check on either side for another. One fork could be pinched off, but the other’s fine.” Then I made a mistake that would come back to haunt me. I offered, “I can take a look if you want.”

  “What do you know about mining?”

  "I was a prospector in the Cadaenor when I was a young man. That was for rylben. But I imagine it's similar enough to lightstone." This was another lie, but I knew enough about mining in the Laketon area to sound reasonably knowledgeable about the subject.

  Wilmer Connaught thought for several moments. Then he said, “Why not? Couldn’t hurt anything. Toat will show you the last find.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “You locate another vein and you’ll be richly rewarded.” He ushered me out to the balcony and I heard him speak to his son in a hushed voice. “Take Davan with you.”

  The younger man mumbled something negative that I didn’t fully catch and then we left.

  Chapter Four

  TOAT CONNAUGHT DIDN’T SAY MUCH AS WE LEFT THE FORTRESS AND FOLLOWED A RUTTED WAGON TRACK TOWARDS THE CLIFFS. The only thing he inquired about was my injured ankle.

  I told him, “It seems to have gotten better.”

  He smirked but continued onwards. We walked for a half hour or so, following a switchback trail up into the cliffs. It divided three or four times, and I tried to pay attention to the route back. There were different trees here. Among the ura, grew white-barked trees with bright red leaves which glowed in the sun. The trail met up with the river and ran along it for a while until it ended up in a large open structure, standing fifteen feet tall. There was a heavy timber frame with chains and winches. And there was a mine rail that snaked away towards the cliffs. Several small ore carts were lined up on the tracks. There were planked boards and a heap of iron contraptions as well. As I got closer, I saw that these were actually the undercarriages of the ore carts. It almost looked like a place to repair the carts, but then I noticed that the rail led right into the river and I finally understood what I was looking at. The carts were taken off their wheels, sealed, and floated down the river—presumably to the mill somewhere downstream.

  “How do you g
et the carts back up?” I asked.

  “Wagon,” Toat Connaught said. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to be out here after dark. On account of the bristlers. But you know all about that.”

  We followed the rail and after another quarter hour, we took a branch and arrived at a hole in the cliff face, shored up by timbers. This was the entrance to the mine. There were pickaxes and shovels and ropes and other tools stacked right inside. Toat Connaught hefted a pick and told me to follow him. I started to take a pickaxe for myself, but he stopped me.

  “I’ll do the digging—if it comes to that,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  Inside, the mine was lit up by chunks of lightstone lashed to five-foot wooden poles stuck in the ground every thirty or forty feet. The lightstone had been fairly recently mined so it shone brightly. I could see fragments of the glowing substance scattered on the ground as well. The air here was cool and a little damp. The tunnel itself was only a couple yards across and low in places.

  Toat Connaught moved quickly through the tunnel and I tried to match him. But not too closely. I knew he was going to make a move and I didn’t want to be within reach if he decided to jab the pickaxe in my direction.

  As we got deeper into the mine, Toat Connaught became more talkative.

  “You’re not really a sellsword, are you?”

  I was wondering when he’d get around to this. “Why do you doubt me?”

  “No one hires old men to guard caravans.”

  “Are you trying to malign me?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m trying to get to the truth.”

  “Well, if I am not a sellsword, who do you think I am?”

  He didn’t say anything for a while, but he kept up his quick pace. The route twisted and turned into side tunnels that were even narrower than the main tunnel. There were fewer lightstones poles here and the darkness slowed our progress a bit. The ceiling was more uneven here and we had to duck more often.

  Finally, Toat Connaught stopped to catch his breath. He fixed me with what he probably thought was a knowing grin and said, “I think you are from the mill. I think you are one of Gurran’s men.”

  “I don’t know who Gurran is.”

  “I think you do. I think you were sent here to check on the mine,” he said.

  “Well, you seem to do a lot of thinking,” I said. “For a miner, that is.”

  He ignored the insult. “What did you expect to find?”

  “I’m just trying to help out. Pay you back for your hospitality. Such as it is.”

  He had no response. We walked for another ten minutes through a dark, narrow tunnel until we arrived at a small circular cavern lit up by another lightstone pole. It was a dead end. However, that wasn’t completely accurate. The tunnel continued, but it continued straight down into a shaft in the ground. The shaft was a half dozen feet across and was framed with a heavy timber collar. It looked like a natural fissure that had been expanded and reinforced into a squared off pit. The cavern itself wasn’t much bigger than the shaft. There was maybe a yard of rough ground around the shaft. And that was it.

  Toat Connaught circled around to the far side of the shaft and beckoned me in. I stood near the lightstone where I could get a good look at the shaft.

  I asked, “What’s this?”

  “Take a look. You’re the mining expert.” He leaned on his pickaxe. “You tell me.”

  I guess he was trying to be efficient by leading me to a deep hole in the mine where he could toss my body. Easy disposal. No dragging a 230-pound corpse through the tunnels. Of course, he could have killed me somewhere else and just dumped my body into an ore cart, but that might be messy. An ore cart covered with blood probably wouldn't be very inspiring to the other miners.

  He was across the shaft from me and that meant he had just four choices. Jump, circle around, throw the pick at me, or wait. I would have waited, but he decided to throw the pick. And he timed his attack pretty well.

  The second I opened my mouth to reply, he jerked upwards and—in a single fluid movement—flung the heavy tool at me.

  I knew what was coming. And even though he was fast—very fast—he was still throwing a large chunk of iron and wood. It took time. But I didn’t try anything fancy, like try to catch the pick and toss it back at him. No, I used the least amount of motion to get the job done. I pivoted and took a small sideways step. The only thing I had to think about was whether to step to my left or to my right. Normally I try to pay attention to whether an opponent is right handed or left handed. But I guess I am getting old. I didn’t really know in his case. But he was lined up across the shaft from me at a slight angle. And that meant he might compensate and throw a little to his left. So I twisted to my left. But not quite fast enough.

  I felt a stab of pain in my abdomen as the chisel end of the pick grazed me. It wasn’t enough to spill my guts, but it was enough to tear some skin off. And there would be blood.

  The first wound in a fight is an important thing. It creates a reaction in the body. And that reaction is to shut down. We naturally recoil from an attack. And even if you’ve been getting bloodied for nearly half a century, you still never fully get used to it. But I could control my reactions better than most. Which is why I am still alive.

  Toat Connaught did what every good predator does. Continue attacking.

  He didn’t wait to see what my reaction was. He didn’t stop to taunt me. He just kept going. But now he was down to two choices: circle the shaft or jump.

  He was a big man. Bigger than me. And big men don’t like to jump. Especially over six foot wide holes. I knew plenty of thieves and rogues in my time. Small, lithe men who could scale the side of a building and jump from parapet to parapet. Or swing from a drainpipe into an open window. That wasn’t me. And it wasn’t the miner who was trying to kill me, either.

  So immediately after he threw the pick at me, he charged around the shaft, leaping the corner to get at me as quickly as he could. But I was moving too.

  I grabbed the lightstone pole, jerked it from the ground, and whipped it up into position. When I use a weapon—just about any weapon—I prefer jabbing over slashing. The motion is much quicker with more force and you’re less likely to get your weapon caught up in anything. In this case, I didn’t even have to jab. The miner’s momentum did my work for me. I just swung the pole up, aimed right below his breastbone, and braced myself.

  And he ran straight into it. Complete dumb luck.

  Several hundred pounds of force behind a soft, unmuscled congregation of nerves impacting on a fairly immovable piece of wood an inch wide. As I said, it was an extremely lucky hit on my part, but that didn’t change the results.

  He crumpled to the ground, his chest convulsing, and he was unable to breathe. A few seconds later, it didn’t matter, because I kicked him headfirst into the shaft, where I’m pretty sure he died from a snapped neck. Better him than me.

  I tended to my stomach and was satisfied to see that the wound wasn’t even as serious as I thought. But it was messy and it hurt. I pointed the lightstone pole into the shaft. I couldn’t see Toat Connaught’s body. That was good enough for me. As long as he wasn’t climbing out of the pit like a tomb wight, I was satisfied.

  I allotted myself an hour to explore the mines before I knew I had to depart. But it didn’t take that long. After a few false starts and wrong turns, I connected back with the main tunnel. Ten minutes later, I found an open lode of lightstone. Hildur was right. This mine hadn’t run dry. I grabbed a fist-sized chunk of lightstone and placed it in my belt pouch and then exited the mine and went back to the river—where I cleaned out my wound and bound it. The sun was low in the sky and I knew I had to get back to Fort Sindal before it got dark and the bristlers emerged. I made it to the drawbridge just as the sun set, but found that it had already been raised.

  Chapter Five

  AS DARKNESS FELL, I WALKED ALONG THE ENTIRE CIRCUMFERENCE OF THE CANAL SURROUNDING FORT SINDAL. All told it was
a half mile or so. I tried to remain near the water just in case any bristlers appeared and tried to swarm me. But I also needed to stay out of sight. The good news was that I didn’t see anyone in the towers of the stockade. And I didn’t see anyone in the area outside of the walls, which was lit up by lightstone poles that were similar to the ones in the mine, but much larger.

  His family must have been worried that Toat Connaught had not returned, so I was surprised that no one was waiting at the gatehouse. Maybe they were going to give him some more time before sending out a search party.

  I continued to explore. I discovered that the canal was fed by a stream in the northwest corner of the town. Someone had built up a rock and timber bulkhead to divide the stream into two canals—one flowing southeast, the other flowing southwest. The canals joined up again at the southeast corner of the town. It was an interesting system. I also found another drawbridge on the south side of town—near a corral. I guessed that they had cows or something that needed to graze in nearby fields. I waited another hour, sitting on a stump with my back to the river. I was good at waiting and I needed some time to think about what I had seen and what it meant.

  Tomorrow morning I would return to Hildur and ask her some more questions. I wanted to know more about the mill. But right now I was hungry and I was thirsty and I was cold. But I was about to get much colder. After surveying the area again, I stripped off my boots and hose and waded through the canal. The water was shallow and slow-moving but frigid. I moved through it as quickly as I could, but I didn’t want to splash and make noise.

  On the other side, I shivered in the shadows of an outbuilding. I dried myself as best I could and then dressed, but I had left my cloak with Hildur and the temperature was dropping quickly. I needed to find some shelter somewhere.

  I had crossed the canal on the west side of the stockade—away from the pens and corrals. And I didn't want to cause the animals to start making noise. Even though it seemed that everyone in Fort Sindal dwelled inside of the stockade, and they had the canal to keep predators out, someone should be patrolling the grounds to make sure nothing was amiss. But maybe I was being overly cautious. Maybe this was a peaceful corner of the world and a twenty-five foot tall stockade was all you needed to stay safe.