The brothers led the horses through the muddy streets and out of Fallsbottom. Two were geldings, tan in color and identical in every manner except that one had a white ring around its right eye. According to the stable owner, the one with the white ring was called Goshen while its ring-less twin was Hal. The third horse, a mare, had black legs that faded to a light at her shoulder. Her name was Smoke.
They walked with the horses because neither of them was accustomed to riding. Jak could count on one hand the number of times he had ever sat atop one.
About a mile south of Fallsbottom, the road turned dusty again. Occasional breaks in the trees lining the road provided brief glimpses of the Great White River. There were no boats on its surface now. From past visits, Jak knew most left in the early morning hours.
They were discussing how much they thought the horse-trader had overcharged them when they crested a small rise in the road and spotted a man lying, face down, a few hundred paces from them.
Nikalys made to rush to the man’s aid, but Jak stopped him, grabbing his brother’s arm and squeezing tight. “Wait.”
Nikalys stared at him as if he were mad. “Why?”
Jak ran his gaze along the sides of the road, the trees, the broken rocks and boulders strewn about the area. “He could be bait.”
“Bait? Bait for what?”
“An ambush.”
Nikalys glanced north, asking, “This close to the city? They’d have to be mad.”
“This isn’t Yellow Mud, Nik. We are farther from home than ever. You have no idea what could happen out here.”
Nikalys lifted an eyebrow. “And you do?”
Jak wanted to say, “Yes, I do,” but he had promised Broedi three days of silence. Holding his tongue, he instead said, “What does it hurt to be careful?”
“Fine. We’ll be careful. Now, let’s go help the ‘bait.’”
They moved down the road, Jak on the left leading Goshen and Hal, while Nikalys held Smoke’s reins. Jak frowned, noting it was impossible to see out of the gully. That meant others could not see into it.
When they were two dozen paces from the man, Nikalys handed Smoke’s lead to Jak and approached on his own. “Hey! Do you need help?”
The man, dressed in dark brown canvas pants and a ragged, torn shirt, lay motionless, entirely unresponsive.
Goshen nickered softly. Hal answered.
As Nikalys knelt beside man, Jak heard a light rustling of leaves behind him and spun around to find a huge, black-haired man swinging a club at him. Nikalys cried out in surprise.
Jak released the horses’ reins and lifted his left arm to block the blow while Goshen, spooked by the sudden sound and movement, danced into the man, throwing the bandit’s aim off and robbing the intended blow of some of its force. Nonetheless, when the wooden club slammed into Jak, pain exploded up and down his arm, into his hand and shoulder. His eyes went round. He did not think his arm was broken, but it sure hurt as if it was.
Off-balance from the horse bumping into him, Jak’s attacker stumbled, his follow-through sailing downward, the club thumping into the dirt. Reaching out with his good arm, Jak grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted hard. The man screamed in pain, dropped the club, and dropped to a knee in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his bent arm. A whiff of stale ale, weeks-old sweat, and filth washed over Jak.
Quick to recover, the bandit reached out with his free arm and grabbed Jak around the waist. Already bent over, the man pushed upward with his legs, lifting Jak in the air a few inches, tipping him backwards, and driving him into the ground. Air exploded from Jak’s lungs as the man landed on top of him. Gasping for breath, unable to move as the man straddled his chest, Jak watched helplessly as the brigand lifted a rock into the air. Jak wondered from where the melon-sized stone had come.
With a feral snarl, the man started to bring the rock down, aiming for Jak’s face, when his arm stopped, frozen in mid-blow. With his back pressed into the rocky dirt road, Jak peered upwards to see another hand holding the man’s wrist in place. A fist flew forward, slamming into the black-haired man’s nose with an audible crunch. The bandit dropped the rock—Jak had to twist quickly to avoid the stone—and slumped over, falling onto the dirt road.
Still gasping, Jak rolled over, readying himself in case the attack was not over.
Kneeling at his side, Nikalys asked, “Jak! Are you alright?”
Squinting against pain and kicked-up dust, Jak had a difficult time understanding the scene before him.
The man who had been lying in the road was still there, but was now on his back, bright red blood pouring from his nose. A second man lay on the ground next to the first, doubled over and groaning.
“Jak! Answer me! Are you hurt?”
Jak twisted his head and peered up at an anxious Nikalys. Between gulping breaths, he asked, “How in…the Nine Hells…did you do that?”
A relieved smile split Nikalys’ face. Reaching down, he helped Jak to his feet. Jak tried to straighten, but was incapable of doing so right away. Hands on his knees, Jak sucked air, trying to breathe normally again.
Nikalys patted him on the back. “That guy was going to turn your head into a crushed grape.”
Jak could only nod.
Nikalys said, “Keep an eye on that one over there, he’s still conscious. I’m going to go get the horses.”
Looking up, Jak saw that their new horses had run down the way a bit, back toward Fallsbottom. Nikalys moved off, jogging down the road, slowing as he approached the spooked horses. As Nikalys went about trying to calm them to grab their reins, Jak turned his attention to the fallen men.
He toddled over to the groaning man on the ground and kneeled beside him. Pulling the bandit’s head up by his long, grimy hair, Jak glared at him and demanded, “How did the Cabal find us?”
The man, his face twisted in pain, responded with a confused, “What did you say?”
Jak tugged the man’s hair hard, eliciting a shout of pain. “Are you as deaf as you are ugly? I said, how did the Cabal know where to find us?”
The man stared at him if Jak were mad. “What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?”
Jak paused. The man was genuinely befuddled.
The bandit shook his head, pleading, “I’m sorry, my Lord, truly. Please give us over to the guard!”
“My Lord?” muttered Jak, baffled. He glanced back down the road and saw that Nikalys had gathered up Goshen and Hal. Smoke was still prancing away from him, stubbornly avoiding his attempts to corral her. He looked back to the bandit. “Who do you think we are?”
The bandit nodded at the man with the bloody nose and, grunting through pain, said, “Saul said you were buying the town and figured you heavy with coin. He said you were some rich noble’s brats.”
Jak glanced down at the unconscious man lying on his back. Scowling, he let go of the man’s hair and shoved him to the ground. “When Saul wakes up, tell him he has as much sense as a blasted rock.”
These men were nothing but simple, brainless highwaymen.
Hearing nervous nickering, Jak turned to find Nikalys walking up with the three horses. Gesturing to the men on the ground, Jak was about to ask Nikalys what had happened when his brother made a sign to keep quiet. He pointed south, down the road, handed Jak the reins to Goshen and Hal, and started walking. Jak fell in beside him, silent.
Atop the next crest in the road, he took one last look behind them and found the lone conscious brigand crawling about the dirt, trying to rouse his friends.
The moment they dropped below the rise, Jak turned to Nikalys. “Mind telling me what happened back there?”
Nikalys glanced over at Jak, his brow furrowed, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s see. In a couple of heartbeats, I get hit with a club, thrown to the ground, and am a moment away from having eveningmeal with Maeana. In that time, you knock out one guy, cripple another, and have enough time to save my hide? How in the N
ine Hells did you do that?”
Nikalys appeared even more baffled than Jak felt. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Things just sort of happened. The man on the ground flipped over and grabbed me, so I punched him. I heard something behind me, so I turned and saw the other guy and…I don’t remember. Somehow, I kicked him. I looked up, saw the other guy about to slam that rock in your face and…”
His eyebrows drew together and he shook his head. Bewilderment did not begin to describe his expression. “Jak, I have no idea how I got to you in time. One moment, I’m squatting on the ground, and the next, I’m holding that man’s arm.”
Jak studied his brother’s worried expression, all the while struggling to mute his own reaction. Hearing the hillman’s tale last night had ripped apart Jak’s world. Realizing it was true hurt ten times worse.
Forcing a smile, Jak reached over and grabbed Nikalys by the shoulder. “Hey, however you did what you did, I’m grateful. Thank you.”
Nikalys gave him a tiny smile. “You’re welcome. You can owe me one.”
“Hells, Nik, I owe you five. Perhaps ten.”
Looking over his shoulder, Nikalys asked, “Do you think they’ll come after us?”
“Not if they’re smart. But if they do…” He gave his brother a wink. “I’ll let you handle them. All by yourself. I’ll cheer you on.”
With mock admonishment, Nikalys said, “That is a proper way to treat your champion.”
As he had done a thousand times before, Jak gave Nikalys a brotherly smack to the head. “Come on, champion, we need to hurry if we’re going to reach Broedi and Kenders before nightfall.”
As the pair headed down the road, a determined smile spread over Jak’s lips. As far as he was concerned, this changed nothing.
Chapter 25: Magistrate
For two long days and two dark, never-ending nights, Nundle had kept a constant eye on the sea’s horizon. Occasionally, he had risked crafting a few Weaves of Air to give the cutter’s sails a little extra wind, trying to get to his destination as quickly as possible.
Upon docking in the City of the Strands’ harbor yesterday, Nundle had given the ten longleg sailors three gold arcans each instead of the promised two, a fortune for simple seamen. Out of the view of the men, he gave Abiv an extra five for the captain, attempting to stave off the wrath the longlegs were sure to face when explaining why they had taken the Morning’s Mist on a weeklong joy ride.
Leaving the docks, he had immediately gone to one of the great libraries in the city and asked he be shown the map room. An old, gray-haired longleg had slowly—very slowly—led him to a large room lined with wooden shelves and asked if he needed any assistance. Nundle requested all of the maps of the Oaken Duchies that the library had.
The old attendant made a face—apparently his offer to help had been mere formality—and shuffled off to a set of dusty shelves grumbling about “ignorant mainlanders.” Nundle had wondered if the insult was directed at him or the Oaken Duchies themselves and their outlawing of magic.
Back home, in the Five Boroughs, magic users were shunned, but by no means were they named lawbreakers. In fact, nearly every culture Nundle had encountered in his travels treated magic with awe, wonderment, or reverence. The idea of it being banned seemed ludicrous and crude. He could not understand what had led a group of people to do such a thing. It was not until his semester at the Academy at Veduin that he appreciated the history.
When it had become apparent Nundle was deaf to Fire and his preceptor banished him to the library, he stumbled upon Kemir, an atarkas from Mourlok. The pair struck up a friendly conversation and at some point, the topic somehow turned to the ban on magic in the Oaken Duchies.
Nundle’s natural curiosity took over and the questions poured forth. Kemir answered what he could, but pointed Nundle to a particular volume, The Complete History of the Oaken Nation. Over the course of the next few days, Nundle read the entire book.
Ages ago, the lands that now made up the eastern half of the Oaken Duchies was part the L’antico Impero, a massive empire spread over four continents. Approximately eight hundred ninety years ago, an Imperial army general known only as Nolbis led a revolt and, backed by his army, broke away from the empire. Inspired by the great oak forests that filled the land, Nolbis called his new nation “The Oaken Kingdom” and proclaimed himself sovereign, changing his name to King Alagar Rathburn.
For five, mostly peaceful centuries, the Rathburns ruled the Oaken Kingdom, expanding the western border further than it had ever been under Imperium rule. However, fortune, prosperity, and providence would not last indefinitely.
After three generations of war with the monstrous races of Sudash, the dukes decided the Rathburns were not fit to rule, deposed the king, and withdrew the tired and withered army. Hostilities with Sudash ceased.
Upon returning to the capital, Port Royal, the dukes debated what path their war-torn country must take. Ultimately, they chose to keep the country intact and rule it by a council of sovereigns, one from each of the ten duchies. The Oaken Kingdom became the Oaken Duchies and Port Royal was renamed Freehaven.
Through the next fifty years, power struggles among the ruling dukes and duchesses were constant. It was simply a matter of time before war broke out.
An advisor to Duke Alistair of the Red Peaks, a divina named Norasim, persuaded the noble that it was his destiny to unite the land again under the single banner of King Alistair. Swayed by sweet words and promises, the duke launched an invasion of his neighbors. His armies won battle after battle with ease, slaughtering their enemies with ease. As time passed, the reason for their repeated victories became clear: the Red Peaks soldiers were no longer men.
In Nundle’s opinion, it was at that point the factual history turned to playman’s saga.
Duke Alistair’s army had slowly morphed into twisted, demonic beasts with claws, horns, and black, cracked skin. Battles grew ever more one-sided until—in only three short years—the Red Peaks army had conquered the Northlands and the Foothills. The Oaken Duchies was on the precipice of collapse.
At some point during the campaign, the duke disappeared and Norasim proclaimed himself king. According to the author, Norasim was not mortal, but rather the incarnation of the god of Chaos. Nundle had almost stopped reading at that point, finding such a claim to be ridiculous. Nevertheless, he had read on, too interested to quit.
Nelnora, the goddess of Civilization and Balance, concerned by what she saw, reached out to the other gods and goddesses and argued for intervention. She met resistance, though, as the official policy of the gods was to abstain from the affairs of mortal nations. Nelnora contended that this was different, that an army of demons led by the god of Chaos warranted their involvement. Eight agreed with her and offered aid, forming the Assembly of Nine.
Eight of the Assembly sent forth envoys to select individuals living in the Oaken Duchies. Each of the chosen, if they agreed, would be given a great gift of power from one who selected them. The ninth member of the Assembly, Sarphia, the Eternal Queen, would bestow near immortality upon them all.
Eight mortals came to the Seat of Nelnora and eight champions left, charged with driving back the demonic armies.
As the champions began their quest to defeat Norasim, Indrida, the Enlightened Oracle and Nelnora’s sister, had a vision. Alarmed by what she had foreseen, the goddess sent a single scribing of the prophecy to her sister. Indrida’s predictions so disturbed Nelnora that she ordered the parchment destroyed immediately, an order that was not carried out in its entirety.
A portion of the prophecy survived which the author of the history included in the book. The words remained etched in Nundle’s mind to this day.
The roar of the Lions will drive back the spawn,
And the lines of men, strong once again, will be redrawn.
Yet that which drives man’s soul will fray at the seams,
While the strength of the Lions will fade as do last night’s dreams.
&nb
sp; Torn apart by deceit and distrust,
One will perish and One will be lost.
One will leave, while Another will stay.
And Two shall find each Other one day.
Against his will, one must fight,
While it falls upon the Half-man to unite.
Chaos will rise again, unraveling what has been made,
With Strife, Pain, and Deception in tow, lending aid.
Hidden, then found,
Willingly come around,
The Progeny must rise to lead the fight,
Along with new and old, seek to make it right.
The author believed the first portion of the prophecy had come to pass when the eight champions—known as the White Lions—rallied the armies of the duchies, drove back the demon spawn, and ultimately destroyed them. Norasim was captured and executed.
The people of the Northlands and Foothills duchies began their long march on the road to recovery, rebuilding cities and lives. Nobles and citizenry alike blamed the tortuous events of the Demonic War on all magic and not merely Norasim’s use of it.
A hundred years passed.
Most of those who remembered the Demonic War traveled to Maeana’s realm, taking with them the memory of the White Lions’ contributions. An anti-magic movement sprouted in the Red Peaks and grew outward like creeping, poisonous ivy. Mages—once respected and trusted—were attacked as they walked down the street. The nation was primed for an uprising. Events near the port city of Carinius were the spark that lit the inferno.
Before the year 4748 after the Locking, Carinius was known for the abundance of fish and crab in its chilly waters. Afterwards, it became renowned for the thousands people found along its rocky beaches, burned or drowned. Those who had survived the tragedy claimed to have witnessed several White Lions in the area at the time.
Accusations flew. The populace called for action.
The First Council convened in Freehaven and debated a radical proposal to outlaw the use of the Strands. Anti-magic fervor had not permeated the entire nation, and the leaders of the Southlands, Marshlands, and the Colonial duchies all argued vociferously against the proposal. Nonetheless, fear and distrust ruled the day and the measure eventually passed.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 23