Hunt of the Bandham (The Bowl of Souls: Book Three) (3 page)

A shadow passed over Lenny’s countenance and he seemed as though about to say something more, but he was distracted by the sight of Fist and Gwyrtha pulling something out of the entrance of the castle. Slowly, the ogre and the rogue horse began backing down the stairs.

Justan looked up to see what the dwarf was looking at and was puzzled until he realized that they were dragging a tapestry loaded down with over a score of dead goblins and orcs. Fist had both gigantic hands wrapped around one corner of the tapestry while Gwyrtha was grasping the other with her razor sharp front teeth.

Justan almost laughed aloud at the strange sight, but a shout pierced the air.

“Hey you! Ogre!”

Fist looked up in puzzlement as a man dressed in worn travel clothes ran down the stairs and stood before him breathing heavily. There was anger and despair etched into the man’s face.

“Are you Fist?” Zambon asked.

The ogre nodded, and Justan could sense that Fist wasn’t sure why this man would know him. Then again, something about his face seemed somehow familiar. It didn’t take long for him to figure out why. The memories Justan had shared with him through the bond came to the forefront of his mind. A grin split Fist’s face and he dropped his corner of the tapestry.  The bodies of several goblins rolled free and tumbled down the stairs.

Fist clasped one hand on each shoulder of the man and gripped him warmly.

“You are Zambon, son of Tamboor!”

Zambon pulled out of Fist’s grip.

“Yes. My family has written me about you,” he said. Desperation filled Zambon’s dark eyes. “Tell me. Were you there when Jack’s Rest was attacked?”

Fist nodded hesitantly, unsure of the man’s intentions. This man was Tamboor’s son and Justan’s friend, therefore part of his adopted tribe, but Fist still did not know him. Was he angry that he had not been able to protect his family? Would he attack? Fist did not want to have to hurt Tamboor’s son.

“Hey Zambon,” Justan said.

“Tell me what happened to my family!” Zambon demanded.

Fist hesitated. “That is for Tamboor to tell.”

“He won’t tell me anything!” Zambon shouted, frustration thick in his voice. “When I found him, he was lost in some sort of rage. He was hacking away madly at the body of an orc and screaming. He wouldn’t stop! When I finally shook him out of it, he . . . he pulled me to his chest and wouldn’t let go. I asked him over and over where they were, but he wouldn’t tell me! He wouldn’t say anything! He wouldn’t even look at me! He just turned and ran down into the dungeon.”

“Please, Fist,” Zambon pleaded. “If you are truly a friend of my family, tell me. Where is my mother? Where are Cedric and Lina?”

Fist looked down. He felt inadequate with his speaking. He had learned a lot of the human’s way of using the common speech from Tamboor’s family and since bonding with Justan, it seemed a bit easier, but how could he say all the things that Zambon needed to know? He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Justan’s voice echoed into his mind, sending soothing thoughts.

It’s okay, Fist. He is my friend. I’ll tell him.

“Tell me!” Zambon yelled.

Justan arrived at Fist’s side. “Zambon.”

Zambon whirled to face him. Tears were in the guard’s eyes. “Why won’t anyone tell me what happened?”

“Zambon, I am sorry, I-”

“No,” Fist said, his deep voice rumbling through the air. “I will tell him.” The ogre grasped Zambon’s shoulders again in his gigantic hands and said, “They are killed.”

Zambon looked into the ogres sad blue eyes and stood still. His lips quivered. “I . . . I thought so.”

“Your father and me and Pete, we tried to stop them but the wizard, he . . . froze us. The orcs, they . . . we can not move . . .” Fist searched for the words. His voice trembled and great tears rolled from his eyes. “The orcs did bad things and . . . and Efflina, Cedric, Lina. I-I am sorry. They-they were my tribe and I could not save them.”

Fist dropped his gaze in shame. Zambon nodded. The guards face was pained, his eyes red-rimmed.

Fist’s hands fell from Zambon’s shoulders. “Your father. Tamboor, he is . . . hurt. His head and heart are . . . broken. The wizard m-made him watch.”

Zambon slumped in understanding. “I must go find him.” He stepped back from the ogre and walked away from them, ascending the steps towards the castle.

“Zambon!” Justan called out as the guard reached the top of the steps. “It was your father’s sword that slew the wizard.” Zambon froze for a moment at his words and Justan saw the guard’s head nod once before he continued into the castle.

“Poor boy.” Lenny shook his head. He squeezed the handle of his hammer until the leather creaked. “Dag-blast it! I wish there was more orcs around to kill.”

Justan had hoped to leave the castle right away, but there was too much to be done. By the time the dead were cleared away it was late afternoon. Then he found out that there were still a few men that Qyxal had not finished healing and Captain Demetrius asked them to stay the night.

Captain Demetrius had the castle staff prepare a feast for all of the escapees that still remained. It was the best meal that Justan had eaten since leaving the
Mage
School
and he enjoyed it immensely. Fist ate more than any two men, while Lenny raided Ewzad Vriil’s private wine stores.

“All that money and it still ain’t as good as my pepperbean wine,” the dwarf grumbled after emptying a dusty old bottle and tossing it aside.

After the meal, Captain Demetrius gathered any that would stay. Fist excused himself politely and Justan wanted to leave with him but Lenny’s pointed gaze compelled him to remain in his seat. Tamboor still hadn’t come out of the dungeons and Zambon had given up the search for his father for the time being. The guard sat at the table quietly, a full wine goblet sitting unnoticed in his hand.

The captain cleared his throat. “Thank you for staying here with me a bit longer. What I wish to discuss could have repercussions for all of us. I am going to have to put together a full report for the king. He and Duke Vriil were close. He won’t be happy to hear that his best friend is dead. You need to understand that if he is not satisfied with my explanation, we could all soon have a price on our heads.”

Justan winced. He hadn’t thought about that.

“Come on. King Muldroomon’s got to understand considerin’ all that happened here,” Lenny said.

“I am confident that under normal circumstances the King would understand,” the Captain said. “But from what I hear the King has been, well . . . unstable lately. What I’m saying is when you leave here, stay inconspicuous and keep an ear out for the King’s decision. If I am unable to convince him, you will need to stay out of Dremaldria.”

There were several murmurs among the group, the loudest among them being Lenny, who openly grumbled about the worth of a king who couldn’t see reason. Captain Demetrius cleared his throat and turned to Justan.

“Sir Edge, if you please, I was hoping you might answer a few questions. You see I need to learn as much about what the duke was doing as possible if I am to make a convincing case. Can you add anything?”

Justan told the captain everything he could think of that would help. He told him of the duke’s men that were hiding along the roads posing as brigands. He told him about the altered orc he had killed and how he had seen the duke use magic to seduce the princess into going to the castle with him.

“What does the Princess say about all this?” Justan asked. “Surely she could convince her brother that Duke Vriil was in the wrong. She did say that he killed her father after all.”

“I’ve asked, but she refuses to speak of it and I’m afraid I can’t force her to tell her brother anything. She just wants to go home.” Captain Demetrius placed a hand on Justan’s shoulder. “You have filled in some of the missing pieces, though. Thank you, Sir Edge. It is indeed fortunate that the duke was destroyed before he could bring whatever he was planning to fruition.” He looked into Justan’s eyes. “Will you come with me and present this information to the King?”

“Uh, w-well,” Justan stammered. He hadn’t been expecting such a request. “No. I mean, I am sorry sir, but it is not my place. Um, I have a quest of my own to complete and it really can’t wait.”

“I see,” said the captain, looking disappointed.

Justan thought about it some more. Was he being selfish? He needed to continue to Master Coal’s as commanded by Wizard Valtrek, but could it wait a little longer while he helped the captain?

No, he decided. He thought back to the night they had left the
Mage
School
; how he had fallen too deeply into the bond and what he had almost done to Gwyrtha. Now he was bonded twice and he needed to learn how to control the magic before things got out of control. The wizard’s threat was gone and the captain could figure out what to do on his own.

“I think you are ignoring the real danger here,” Qyxal said. The elf had remained at the table despite being exhausted from the heavy use of healing magic. “You heard him, didn’t you? Ewzad Vriil called himself ‘The Messenger of the Dark Prophet’.”

There was silence for a while. Of course they had heard what the wizard had said. Everyone in the throne room had heard. In fact they had all been avoiding the subject. If the Dark Prophet were truly back, then a price on their heads would be the least of their worries. Captain Demetrius assured the elf that he would tell King Muldroomon everything and quickly dismissed the meeting.

Captain Demetrius invited Justan to stay in one of the luxurious castle guest rooms. He was certainly tempted by the thought of a warm bed. Lenny and Qyxal had agreed readily enough, but Fist didn’t want to spend another night inside the castle and had decided to sleep in the stable with Gwyrtha. So Justan declined the captain’s invitation. He took some extra blankets with him instead.

As Justan carried the load of blankets through the courtyard on the way to the stables, thoughts of Ewzad Vriil’s true purpose weighed heavily on his mind. What if Qyxal’s fears were right? What if the Dark Prophet was back? The prospects were frightening. It had taken decades for the world to recover the last time the Dark Prophet had awakened.

The smells of hay and manure soon filled the air and Justan reached the stable door. He stepped inside and sighed. The stable was only slightly warmer than the courtyard outside. The thought of a soft bed still tugged at his mind.

The stables were dark and quiet. Gwyrtha was already asleep, curled up on her side very un-horselike in the straw. Justan reached down and ran one hand down her side, feeling the patchwork mix of scales and horseflesh beneath his hand. She looked a monster, and fought like a monster, but inside she was the sweetest creature he knew. He had missed her.

Fist was still awake. Justan could sense that the ogre’s thoughts were full of indecision.

“You could have stayed for the meeting with us,” Justan said.

Fist snorted. “They did not want me. They do not trust an ogre.”

“Of course they do,” Justan replied unconvincingly. Even though everyone had been cordial to the ogre once the fighting was over, it was obvious that the humans had avoided him when possible. “Well, okay, not everyone is used to having an ogre around.” He was still getting used to the idea himself, in fact. Justan changed the subject. “I brought a blanket for you.” He set them down and pulled out the largest comforter the servants had been able to find. He handed it to the ogre.

“Thank you,” Fist said. The ogre sniffed at it and squeezed the material as if wondering how it was going to keep anything warm.

“Um, you just cover yourself in it. Here.” Justan opened the blanket up and draped it over the ogre. It barely covered Fist’s large frame.

“Like a fur.” Fist said. He sent Justan thoughts of huddling under a pile of furs with the other ogres during cold nights. “But smells . . . nicer.”

“Kind of like that.” Justan laughed. He sent memories through the bond of warm blankets on cold nights while sleeping in a soft bed in his house at home. The fond memories had a trace of sadness for him. He realized how much he missed his parents.

The ogre had never slept in the kind of comfort he felt in Justan’s memories. The smells though . . . they reminded Fist of the smells inside Tamboor’s house. He ran one hand along the outside of the comforter. It was so soft. His legs were already starting to feel warm. He liked it.