The Temple of Fate Read online

  The Temple of Fate

  A Bander Adventure

  Randy Nargi

  The Bander Adventures

  A Conspiracy of Shadows

  In Terror’s Thrall

  Revenge of the Battle Mage

  The Owl and the Dragon

  The Temple of Fate

  Dear Readers

  The Temple of Fate takes place three years after The Owl and the Dragon and contains spoilers for that novel. If you haven’t yet read The Owl and the Dragon, please start there.

  Contents

  People & Places

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Review Request

  People & Places

  PEOPLE

  Bander’s Friends & Foes

  Ardara - a woman with a mysterious past who is now the Empress of Harion

  Bryn Eresthar - former Lord Governor, now Imperial Viceroy, friend of Bander

  Harnotis Kodd - an old mage in Lhawster

  Hirbo Thrang - a rogue mage, friend of Bander

  Keave - a locestra who works with Mortam Rowe

  Mortam Rowe - a bounty hunter who works with Keave

  Silbra Dal - a rogue mage, friend of Bander

  The Merchants of Pritchard’s

  Gaon Jeigh - Phaler Jeigh’s brother, works at Prichard’s in Whill

  Gard Coverstone - Melanthris Jeigh’s steward

  Melanthris Jeigh - runs Prichard’s in Gilweald, Phaler Jeigh’s sister

  Phaler Jeigh - works at Prichard’s in Whill

  Zarla Jeigh - Phaler Jeigh’s wife

  In Irfals

  Albech - the miller in Irfals

  Eton Sward - mage stationed at the Temple of Dreams in Irfals, friend of Valthar

  Frida Heffring - woman in Irfals lets out a room in her house

  Langer - Mrs. Heffring’s hired hand

  In Malverton

  Chumbold - one of Talessa Kreed’s sailors

  Dartminter Rigg - Talessa Kreed’s steward

  Dunegan - a bookseller in Malverton

  Fenrue - Talessa Kreed’s bodyguard

  Larandar - Talessa Kreed’s first mate

  Nyanel - one of Talessa Kreed’s sailors

  Talessa Kreed - a riverboat guide and explorer supposedly related to the legendary explorer Arrington Kreed

  PLACES

  Delham University - the Guild-run college of mages

  Gilweald - a small city upriver from Rundlun

  Hamwick - the capital city of the province of Hamwick in the center of the Empire

  Irfals - a village east of the Steading; site of the Temple of Dreams. Also known for its beer

  The Malverton Trading Post - a very old trading post located in the Tengan Territories, approximately two hundred miles south of Vale

  The Tengan Territories - the vast forested wilderness on the southern border of the Empire of Harion, also known as the Wilderlands

  The West Way - the longest Imperial highway stretching east from Sulmos through Vale, Kreed’s Keep, Mynwal and then further east into the kingdom of Gadmark

  Vale - the ancient capital city of the province of Vale in the heart of Harion’s cattle country

  Whill - a small city east of Rundlun; the location of Delham University

  Chapter One

  The last day of the year 1715

  Eighteen miles southeast of Gilweald

  The exhausted horse kicked out, and Bander caught its leg with one meaty fist. The animal struggled halfheartedly, but Bander held firm.

  “Easy, now.”

  He guided the animal’s leg down, but not before he noticed the splash of black blood on the horse’s hoof and pastern.

  If it hadn’t been ensnared in the tree, its reins wedged among the low branches, the steed would have been able to extend its leg fully and its kick would have had much more velocity and power. That would have been a much different story. A much more painful one. Deadly, most likely.

  But Bander had been lucky.

  And so had the horse.

  Moving as quickly as he could, Bander worked the reins free, and led the horse out into a clearing.

  The animal was magnificent. A Valer steed. The best of the best. It stood a good foot taller than a normal horse and was as smart as a hunting dog—and even more loyal. And even though its body was scored with fresh gashes and cuts and its face was covered in spittle and foam, the horse stood proud and glared at Bander defiantly.

  Valer steeds were certainly a breed apart. While normal horses were prey animals who only attacked to escape a predator, Valer steeds had been bred as warhorses. They certainly wouldn’t shy away from a fight. And this one looked to be no exception.

  “What in Dynark’s name happened to you?” Bander asked.

  The steed still wore bags and a saddle—a very finely crafted one. But as he looked closer, Bander saw a smear of blood near the pommel. That didn’t look good.

  He stroked the horse on the side of its neck, speaking in a calm voice. “Where’s your master?”

  The steed sniffed and lowered its head. His head, if you wanted to be precise. The horse was a stallion, and it was obvious that he was well-trained. In fact, Bander wondered if the steed hadn’t actually understood his question. The steed snorted and looked off to the west as if trying to tell Bander something.

  Earlier that morning Bander had been on the road between Whill and Gilweald when he had heard a whinny coming from a place where no horse should be: the forest. A dense forest of twisted spindly trees covered with thorns. Heartnut orchards long since gone wild. Not some place you’d ride into. Not willingly.

  Bander took a deep breath.

  He wasn’t especially fond of horses. They were too unpredictable. And, truth be told, he felt slightly sorry for any animal that had to bear his weight. Over 230 pounds. The size of a stag.

  But there was something about this Valer steed.

  Blood on the saddle.

  He ran his finger over it while the steed made impatient noises.

  “Let’s go, boy.”

  They found the campsite ten minutes later. It was a clearing not far from the main road. The horse led him right to it.

  Bander immediately saw the bodies.

  Two men. But very different. Both in life and in death.

  The first man died from a crossbow bolt punched through his cheek and up into his brain. Judging from how much of the man’s face was missing, he was likely shot at close range. Which surprised Bander a bit because the man looked like a sellsword. A seasoned one, at that. Generally, trained fighters out on the road don’t allow anyone to get near enough to fire a crossbow at extremely close range.

  The sellsword had been a big man, and he wore well-maintained leather armor and expensive boots. His blade was missing, but the scabbard was a work of art, with intricate designs carved into t
he leather.

  It took a minute, but Bander recovered the bloody crossbow bolt. Nothing special. Certainly not military issue. No sign of poison either.

  Still leading the steed, Bander walked a small loop around the perimeter of the campsite. The ground had been torn up pretty badly and some of the shrubs broken. A pretty big commotion certainly. And not too long ago. The embers in the fire pit were still warm, but barely.

  Bander found the other man sprawled on his back, a dozen yards away from the first. His chest had been crushed—like an anvil had been dropped on him. Broken ribs jutting through flesh. Organs splashed out. A mess. But it wasn’t from an anvil. It was from a pair of horse’s hooves.

  Bander looked over at the steed, but the animal refused to meet his gaze. The horse was sniffing the air and surveying the forest.

  The man with the crushed chest also had his throat cut. Probably out of mercy. Better a slashed throat than suffocating to death because your lungs have been mostly stamped to pulp.

  There was a lot of blood on this one, but Bander could tell that he didn’t obtain his clothes at the same place the sellsword did. This second man wore tattered pants and a threadbare shirt, both caked with filth from many days on the road. Or from living in the old orchard. He wasn’t wearing a cloak, but he did have two empty short blade scabbards at his belt and a quiver of crossbow bolts peeking out from under his shoulder. Bander extracted one of the bolts and examined it.

  It was a brother to the bolt that had killed the sellsword.

  So that was that. The crossbowman—who was most likely a bandit—had surprised the sellsword and shot him in the face. Then the Valer steed had lashed out at the bandit and mortally injured him.

  The pieces were falling into place.

  An early morning robbery gone wrong.

  Bander looked around at the campsite again. Checked the footprints and hoofprints in the dirt. Thought about it some more. And then wondered, who slashed the bandit’s throat? And who took the sellsword’s blade?

  There must have been more combatants.

  The steed snorted and turned his head, tugging at the reins. Bander held firm, but he looked over to where the horse had been trying to go. It was a narrow game trail leading north through the overgrown orchard.

  And there, clear as day, was a dark splotch on the trunk of one of the trees.

  As Bander moved closer, he saw that the mark was a bloody handprint.

  Over the past 30 years there had been many occasions when Bander had regretted not getting trained as a tracker. This was one of them.

  He was able to follow the trail well enough. With all the broken branches, flattened foliage, and drops of blood, a half-blind beggar could have done that. He even determined that at least one man and one horse had passed along this path since he could make out both boot prints and hoofprints.

  What Bander couldn’t ascertain was exactly how many men he was chasing, and how much of a lead they had.

  Both pieces of information would have been welcome.

  No matter how far ahead the men were, Bander knew he had to move quickly. But he also knew that he had to move quietly. He wasn’t inclined to walk willingly into an ambush. Even with a Valer steed by his side.

  In the end, he got lucky.

  The horse heard the men first.

  His ears swiveled toward a sound that Bander couldn’t hear and the animal froze.

  A moment later Bander strained his ears and heard faint voices, the sound carried by the breeze.

  This would be tricky. There were a lot of unknowns. How many men were up ahead? In what condition were they? How were they armed?

  The trail wound up along a slight rise. As he drew closer, Bander got a better sense of the voices. There were at least three. Male. And they were arguing loudly.

  The steed must have sensed the tone of the conversation because his ears pinned back and he started to pull towards the sound.

  “Easy, easy. Just follow my lead, if you will,” Bander whispered to the horse.

  Because he was in the company of a 2500 pound animal, Bander knew that a stealthy approach just wasn’t an option. He would have to just hope that these men didn’t have crossbows at the ready.

  Bander strode confidently into the clearing at the top of the rise.

  “Anyone lose a stallion?”

  He saw a horse tied to a tree and four men. One of the men looked close to dead—slumped on the ground and too injured to move. Next to him another man sat on a rock eating an apple and arguing with a second who was binding the wounds of a third man. These latter three were caked in dirt and dressed like the man back at the campsite with the crushed chest.

  It didn’t take Bander more than a moment to piece together the puzzle: three bandits and their captive.

  For their part, the men didn’t waste any time in discussion. They grabbed for short swords and cudgels and sprang to their feet.

  But Bander was already moving. He dropped the steed’s reins and exploded forward, which put him within kicking range of the man with the apple. No way to get a clean kick to the man’s lower body, so he settled for a quick sweep that knocked the bandit off balance. As the man stumbled, his blade flew from his grasp. Bander shuffled to the right and smashed his elbow into the bandit’s face, right between the eyes. Crack. It wasn’t a killing blow, but the man wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  A big black shape reared up in Bander’s peripheral vision and he heard the two other bandits cry out.

  Bander turned and saw the steed spin and lash out with his back legs, perfectly aiming the kicks at the closest man’s head. The bandit jerked in the air and was dead before he hit the ground.

  The last man dropped his sword and staggered back.

  “Hold!” he cried. “I yield.”

  Bander was prepared to let the man live, but the horse had other ideas. He leapt forward and slammed into the bandit, knocking the man to the ground.

  “Stop!” Bander called.

  But the animal ignored him. As the bandit tried to escape, the steed trampled and kicked the man until he stopped moving.

  Bander felt a tinge of remorse for the bandits, but he also knew what the steed was feeling. He had experienced it plenty of times himself. It was almost like a rage. All you wanted to do was destroy those who hurt you or someone you cared about.

  The animal breathed out sharply through its big nostrils and walked towards the man who had been beaten, nickering quietly.

  His owner. He must be.

  The man was in rough shape and barely conscious. One eye was swollen closed and the rest of his head looked like it had been used as a training dummy.

  “Arran…” he croaked, as the horse nuzzled him. Then the man caught a glimpse of Bander and his eyes widened in fear.

  “I’m a friend,” Bander said. “I found your horse in the old orchard. He led me here.”

  “Take me to Gilweald,” he said in a whisper. “To Prichard’s. Arran, too. Don’t let him out of your sight…”

  “Prichard’s? Is that a healer?” The man needed a healer—and soon. Bander doubted he’d make it through the night.

  “Prichard’s. Everyone knows it. Not far. ”

  Bander had never heard of the place, but to be fair he hadn’t spent much time in Gilweald.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Phaler Jeigh. I’ll reward—” A coughing spasm cut him short. Some of what he coughed up was bloody. Not good.

  “Don’t speak.”

  Bander tended to Phaler Jeigh as best he could. The man suffered from broken ribs, a serious gash on his shoulder, a crushed cheekbone, and a host of other injuries. Bander cleaned and bound the wounds and held a canteen up so that Phaler Jeigh could drink. Then he made the man as comfortable as possible while he quickly checked on the bandits.

  He needn’t have hurried. They were all dead. Every one. Even the man with the apple. Bander must have hit him harder than he had first thought.

  This was a mess.


  Bander took a deep breath and took stock of the situation. On his hands he had three dead bandits, two live horses, and a well-dressed man who was on the verge of expiring, but asked to be taken north to Gilweald.

  Of course Bander would do it. There was no question of that. Plenty of times he himself had been on the verge of death. Plenty of times some stranger had helped him out. So Bander knew where he was going next. He just didn’t know how he was going to pull it off—especially with an injured man.

  The second horse, the one tied to the tree, was not a Valer steed. He was a normal riding horse, a bay gelding. This gelding, like the steed, wore a finely crafted saddle and bags, and if Bander were to hazard a guess, he’d venture that this horse was the sellsword’s.

  On the ground near the gelding was a tangle of rope. Probably used to tie the injured man to the saddle. After working through—and dismissing—several possibilities, Bander admitted to himself that he would have to do the same thing. Short of building a cart—there was no other way to transport the man to Gilweald.

  Bander set to work making preparations. He took anything useful from the dead bandits’ bodies and then pitched the corpses down into a ravine on the other side of the rise. He watered the horses and checked on Phaler Jeigh.

  The man was still breathing, but not doing much more than that. He certainly wouldn’t be able to sit up in the saddle, so Bander thought about how he might safely lash Phaler Jeigh to a horse.