Thanking her for her foresight, Nundle moved back around to the other side of the table, climbed the chair, and sat on the crate. Heriot stood by, making halting movements as if she intended to try to help Nundle up, but was unsure if she should. Nundle was glad the innkeeper did not try to lift him up and place him on the crate like a sack of potatoes.
Once situated on his crate, and after Heriot had moved away, Nundle smiled at the two longlegs across from him.
“Heriot mentioned the two of you are from the Borderlands. I was hoping in exchange for the drink, you might tell me more about your home as I had hope to visit the region one—”
“No! Gods, no!” interjected Boah, throwing up his hands and waving them back and forth. “A visit to the Nine Hells would be more enjoyable!”
The outburst earned him a few sidelong glances from the other patrons as well as a sharp look and murmured warning from Joshmuel.
“Boah! Lower your voice.”
Boah glanced around the room, pressed his lips together, and sighed.
Looking back to Nundle, Joshmuel explained, “Talk of home makes him upset.” He glared at Boah again. “Sometimes I wonder if it is wise for him to go to Freehaven. One outburst like that before the First Council and we will be thrown from the chambers.”
Boah nodded, grunted, grimaced, and sipped from his mug all at once. Nundle supposed there was an admittance of guilt in there somewhere.
“What he says is true, though,” said Joshmuel. “The Borderlands are not safe for visitors.” He lifted an eyebrow. “For anyone, truly.”
“Why? What is happening there?”
The two Borderlanders stared at each other for a long moment. Boah nodded and said, “I told the last man that asked. It’s your turn. Besides, you like the practice.”
Joshmuel took a long sip from his ale, set the mug down, and leaned forward, placing both arms on the table.
“For generations upon generations, those of us in the western Borderlands have lived under constant threat of oligurts, mongrels, and razorfiends raiding our lands and homes. Years might pass, generations even, without any sign of the Sudashians, but eventually some glory-hungry chieftain or pack leader would raid the duchy. Villages burned, people died, and the duke would respond, sending the Dust Men forth to repel the invaders.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Nundle “Dust Men?”
“The Borderlands’ army,” said Boah.
Nodding, Joshmuel added, “The Southlands’ have the Southern Arms, the Great Lakes have the Red Sentinels, and Marshlands, the Reed Men. I have had no dealings with any of the others so I do not know what they are called. Perhaps they have no name. Who is to say?”
“You have had ‘dealings’ with them?” said Nundle, eyebrow raised. “That sounds ominous.”
Smiling, Joshmuel shook his head and said, “You misunderstand. I mean to say only that I have seen them, said good day in passing. That is all.”
As Joshmuel seemed a respectable sort, Nundle did not press the issue.
“So these…Dust Men fight the invaders?”
“Yes, they would,” said Joshmuel. “They would fight and they would win, driving the raiders back. Then our ancestors would rebuild, refusing to give up our lands, refusing to give in to fear.” Letting out a heavy sigh, he added, “Of course, the raiders would come again. And the Dust Men would drive them back. And we would rebuild.”
Wearing a sympathetic frown, Nundle asked, “And the raiders would come again?”
Nodding, Joshmuel said, “Such is life in the Borderlands.”
Nundle did not think that sounded like much of a life.
Joshmuel leaned forward, lowered his voice, and said, “A year ago the cycle changed. Men, women, and families who lived closer to the border than we—” he indicated himself and Boah “—began to come east. Raiders had come again. Only instead of a few hundred, now there were thousands, tens of thousands. Oligurts, mongrels, razorfiends, and even men all banded together, fighting as one.”
“But they don’t do that,” said Nundle. “They hate one another.”
Both Borderlanders eyed him closely. Joshmuel asked, “How did you know that, little one?”
Nundle smiled and shrugged.
“I like to read.”
“A wondrous and worthy luxury,” said Joshmuel. “And informative, it would seem, for you are correct. Such cooperation amongst the Sudashians is unheard of. Their constant warring amongst each other was the one thing keeping the Borderlands truly safe.”
“What about your Dust Men?” asked Nundle. “Did they not fight back?”
A mirthless, derisive chuckle slipped from Boah.
“The blasted Dust Men are worthless.”
“Are they not up to the task to fight back?”
Joshmuel shook his head slowly.
“It would seem they are not.”
Boah eyed his countryman and with a bitter smirk, muttered, “That, or Duke Vanson chooses not to fight back.”
Nundle did not understand.
“Why would a duke do nothing while his lands are invaded?”
Staring at Boah yet answering Nundle, Joshmuel said, “That, my little friend, is the same question I ask Boah every time he makes such an outlandish statement.”
Boah leaned toward Joshmuel, his elbows resting on the tabletop.
“Then explain the actions he has taken. Or better yet, hasn’t taken!”
Joshmuel held his friend’s gaze for a moment before dropping his head to stare at the table. “I cannot, Boah.” He picked at the carved wooden handle of his mug. “As much as I wish I could.”
Looking between the pair, Nundle asked, “What has—or hasn’t—the duke done?”
Boah peered over at Joshmuel and raised his eyebrows expectantly, seemingly daring his companion to answer. Nundle sensed that he had stepped into the middle of a long-running debate.
Joshmuel reluctantly looked up from the mug in front of him.
“Every Sudashian attack, every single one, the Dust Men arrive too late to drive back the attack.”
“If they arrive at all,” grumbled Boah.
Nodding, Joshmuel said, “True. It seems rather improbable that their scouts could be so wrong so often, or the army so slow to respond, but I can think of no other logical explanation.”
“No other explanation?” asked Boah, his eyebrows arching high. “Are you not forgetting something?”
After a pause and a sidelong look at Boah, Joshmuel added, “In the past, duchies would aid one another against bandits, raids, and the like. Just today in fact, I saw a band of Red Sentinels moving through town, although I am not sure what they are doing here. We could use them in the west.”
Boah muttered, “Perhaps they would be there if Vanson would blasting ask.”
Looking between the Borderlanders, Nundle asked, “So the duke has not asked for aid?”
With a shrug of his shoulders, Joshmuel said, “If he has, none has been sent. No Reed Men. No Red Sentinels. And without help from the other duchies, the Borderlands will surely fall.”
“What do you hope to gain by going to Freehaven?”
Setting his now-empty mug on the table, Boah replied, “Duchy law says that any citizen may petition the First Council on the first day of each turn. We go there to ask that someone do something since Vanson seems content to sit on his rear in Gobas and wait for an oligurt to introduce himself in the Duke’s Hall.”
Joshmuel said, “We had hoped to make it there by the Turn of Thonda, but as that is but twelve days away, and we are here…” He shrugged. “We will have to wait until Rintira’s turn.”
“Surely the First Council know by now, don’t they?” asked Nundle. “People in the east have already heard rumors.” He told them about the stories shared by Pelter and his crew. When he was done, Boah shook his head, frowning.
“It’s nice to know word has reached this far east, but…if they hear much more, they’ll stop believing and start laughing.”
/> Confused, Nundle asked, “What does that mean?”
Both men were quiet, staring at one another for a few moments.
Eventually, Boah mumbled, “People are going to find out eventually.”
Joshmuel looked like he had swallowed something that did not agree with him. He studied Nundle for a few heartbeats, judging. With a definitive nod of his head, he spoke.
“What I tell you now I have seen with my own eyes, so do not doubt—no, do not laugh at my words.”
He paused to look around them, ostensibly to ensure that the only people capable of hearing what he was saying were sitting at their table.
“My eldest son, Zecus, and I were riding patrol around the lands near our village. There had been rumors of a group of oligurts nearby and Zecus and I went to see if they were true. Understand, little one, that the land where we live is harsh. Rain comes only during the winter turns, coloring the land green for a short time. When the rains stop, everything browns again, leaving dead, dry grasses everywhere as tall as a man. It is difficult to see much of anything unless you are on a hill or a horse.”
Nundle was beginning to wonder why anyone would want to live in the Borderlands.
“Zecus and I rode to a hill that overlooked where the Sudashians had been seen. Spread below us in a wide valley was a sight I still see in my sleep. Thousands of oligurts, mongrels, and razorfiends camped together. While each race stayed with its own, there was no fighting between them.”
“As unnatural as water flowing uphill,” muttered Boah.
Nodding, Joshmuel said, “What stabbed at my soul, however, was seeing men, both light and dark skinned, spread throughout the camp. At least I thought they were men.” He hesitated a moment, frowning. “Then I saw one with horns like a bull. Great wide horns, poking right out of the side of his head. Other men had horns as well, or the snouts of boars and legs like a goat. Or a horse!” Joshmuel’s brown eyes bore into Nundle. “Demon-men, little one. I am not afraid to say it. I saw men of the Nine Hells.”
Nundle suddenly felt quite ill.
Demon-men in the duchies. Just like the last time the god of Chaos marched.
The letter in his pocket seemed to weigh as much as a cartful of rocks.
Sitting tall in his chair, Joshmuel said, “Zecus and I rode back to Drysa as fast as we could. I packed my household. We tried to convince others we needed to run, but only a few listened. Boah here was one. We took our families east to Gobas.”
Nodding, Boah took over the story, saying, “We tried to gain an audience with Duke Vanson, but we were turned away at the gates. We tried to warn everyone we saw, but we were hailed as false prophets. Mocked. Spit upon. So, we continued east into the Marshlands. We left our families in Demetus and started our journey east.”
Their tale chilled Nundle to his soul. Any doubt that he had done the right thing by coming to the Oaken Duchies was gone.
He asked the Borderlanders a dozen questions, but neither man could give him more information than they had already shared.
Heriot came over and asked if they would like to eat anything. Nundle declined and excused himself, blaming road weariness, but offered to pay for the Borderlanders’ meal. They refused, claiming the drink was more charity than they should have taken. Nundle did not want to insult the men, so he wished them luck on their journey east and headed to his room. As he passed the bar, he handed Heriot another silver arcan and asked the innkeeper to give Joshmuel and Boah a platter of lamb and squash and claim it was on her.
He made his way upstairs to his room, settled on the straw mattress, and tried to fall asleep. He lay there for a long time in the dark before finally drifting off to a night full of unpleasant dreams.
Chapter 34: Invaders
20th of the Turn of Sutri
The wind whistled in Zecus’ ears.
Sand and grit pelted the back of his hand as he lifted it to pull back the scarf covering his face. He peeked out only for a moment, ensuring that his horse was still on course and following the rest of the group. The wind’s howl was so loud that it masked the sound of the horsemen around him, prompting him to check occasionally that he had not wandered.
He was part of a double column of men and horses snaking through a gully between two hills. The men with whom he rode were dressed in drab tans and ivory with long, multi-colored scarves of reds, yellows, and oranges hanging from their heads, held in place by the tight cloth bands wrapped around their crowns. Like Zecus, most wore their scarves drawn up to shield their noses and eyes against the dust storm.
The morning sun might have broken the horizon to the east, illuminating the tips of the hills above them, but it had no hope of reaching the valley. The dust and bits of parched grass whipping through the air saw to that.
Squinting against the dust buffeting his face, he spotted the hunched forms of two horsemen in front of him. Glancing to his right, he saw his column mate had his scarf drawn up. Zecus had yet to learn the man’s name.
Effectively alone due to the storm, Zecus raised the scarf over his face and contemplated the strange series of events that had placed him in this particular procession through this valley.
After leaving his mother, sisters, and younger brother in Demetus—a decision he regretted more as the days passed—Zecus had ridden west, back toward his home. His father had chosen to run from the Sudashian horde, to beg some distant eastern nobles for aid. Zecus wanted to stand and fight.
He had worked as a simple day laborer in Demetus for a time, wondering and worrying about what was happening in the Borderlands. Yet as more and more refugees poured into the city, work grew scarce. The little he could find paid almost nothing while, at the same time, prices for everything steadily increased. In short order, the Alsher family was scrounging for food. Zecus, his mother, two sisters, and brother had become beggars. The dishonor had stung deep. It still did.
Ultimately, Zecus resolved that the only way he could better his family’s plight was to go home to defend the Borderlands. Or at least die trying.
Leaving had been difficult. His mother begged him to stay but he would not listen. Neither her tears nor those of his youngest sister could persuade him. He left them with the remainder of the family’s meager coin and set out, doing his best to push their sorrowful faces from his mind.
As he went west, he passed countless families migrating east, forced from their homes by the Sudashian invaders. He asked what the Dust Men were doing about the invasion and received blank, defeated looks or bitter grumbles of “Nothing.”
Zecus rode through Gobas, the Borderlands’ capital, on his return home, and found it to be in even worse shape than Demetus. Bursting with people, Zecus had paused just long enough to determine the city was bare of supplies. His mother, sisters, and brother were actually slightly better off in Demetus.
He arrived in Drysa a few days ago and found their village nearly deserted. Most of the squat, tan sandstone and earth buildings were empty, shops and homes deserted with their stretched-hide doors hanging open. Of the few hundred who had lived in Drysa, only a handful remained, most of them too old or feeble to travel.
Besides the elderly and infirm, there had been one young man left with whom Zecus had grown up. Emiah had become a scavenger, collecting anything of value his former neighbors had left behind and claiming it as his own. Stepping into Emiah’s home, Zecus had spotted the hardwood table from the Alsher home, and bristled at the man’s boldness. Hardwood was precious in the Borderlands. Weak bulboa wood was readily available and used for small tools or utensils, but the porous wood easily broke. That table had been a point of pride for Zecus’ father.
That first night back in Drysa, Zecus had shared his frustrations with Emiah, his desire to fight back against the invaders. Emiah said men were gathering in the hills to the north, men who were doing whatever they could to slow the invasion. Zecus immediately offered to ride north with him, seek out these men, and join them. Emiah balked at first, but after some goading by Zecus
, he reluctantly agreed to go. The pair had left the next morning on two of Emiah’s ‘newly acquired’ horses, heading north through the sweeping, dry grasslands.
As they had ridden, Emiah asked dozens of questions about what Zecus and his father had seen from the hilltop. Zecus answered Emiah’s queries plainly, sharing everything about the horde.
Oligurts.
Mongrels.
Razorfiends.
All led by what could only be described as men of the Nine Hells.
With each offered answer, Emiah grew quieter, his questions fewer. When Zecus awoke the next morning, he found himself alone. Emiah was gone. None too surprised, Zecus was grateful the coward had left him a horse.
Continuing north alone, ignoring the danger of being a sole traveler in a land at war, he plodded along for several more sweltering days, keeping a careful eye out for any sign of a resistance group, the Sudashians, or the water holes that spotted the region. The wells were the only year-round source of water in the Borderlands. Most villages were built around such water holes, and as he moved north, he had come across one abandoned settlement after another. There was plenty of water for himself and his horse.
For days, he searched for the resistance, but his efforts were futile. He was beginning to think no such group existed.
In the end, they found him.
Yesterday evening, he had gone to sleep on a bare spot of dirt beneath the branches of a bulboa tree and awoke in the middle of the night, surrounded by a half-dozen men, a spear point pressed against his throat. They were a patrol for the elusive resistance.
After a few tense moments, Zecus persuaded them of his intention to join them. Grim-faced, the men welcomed him to their ranks and rode northeast, eventually meeting up with two larger groups that brought their number near thirty. Zecus prayed there were more than thirty men fighting the thousands of Sudashians he had seen.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 34