“You, little sir, are a liar.”
“I swear I did not know I was following anyone.”
The soldier sheathed his sword, apparently deciding that Nundle was not much of a threat. He did not give an order for the mysterious, hidden bowman to stand down, though.
“Say I do not believe you, little traveler. Instead, let us say that you know all about the soldiers traveling ahead of you.”
“Soldiers? Truly? I did not—”
Raising his voice, the longleg interrupted, saying, “And we know that you have been trailing us for the better part of the day.”
Noting they had thought he had been following them for only today, Nundles’s chest swelled with pride. He thought the title, ‘Nundle Babblebrook, Master Woodsman’ had a nice sound to it.
“Truly, I did not know.”
“Then why are you in these woods?”
Nundle stared at the man in silence, his mind racing for a logical answer.
Stepping closer, the soldier asked, “Why did you stray from the roads?”
“Perhaps I enjoy the wilderness?”
“You can end the show, little playman. Hollins and I have been watching you since midday, following our path straight away.”
Eyebrows arching, Nundle asked, “Midday?” He rescinded his self-granted title of ‘Master Woodsman.’
Nodding slowly, the longleg said, “Midday. Now, care to answer my question?”
“Which one was that again?”
“Why are you following us?”
Nundle remained quiet for a moment, biting his lip, before letting out a long sigh.
“Perhaps I am merely curious why soldiers of the Great Lakes are traipsing about the Southlands?”
“That is a question you can put to the Master Sergeant.”
Without thought, Nundle asked, “Is he the tall one with the dark hair and a beard?” He instantly regretted his bumble.
His eyes narrowing, the soldier asked, “Just how long have you been following us?”
Nundle stared at the longleg, gave a weak grin, and shrugged. “Ah…well…” Deciding that it was a good idea to keep his mouth shut, he said, “If you take me to this ‘Master Sergeant’ of yours, I can explain.”
“You most definitely will.” Moving forward, the Red Sentinel grasped the bridle of Nundle’s horse and said, “Hop down. I don’t want you trying to ride off on us.”
Nundle began the process of dismounting, first sliding his right leg back over the horse’s rear, then, while holding one side of the saddle, his slid his belly along the other side, his legs dangling in the air.
“Do you need help?” asked the soldier, concern in his voice.
“No, thank you,” grunted Nundle. He let go and landed on the ground, managing not to fall over as he had the first few times he had dismounted. Turning around to peer up at the soldier, Nundle said, “You should see me try to get on the beast.” He stared at the chestnut. “Or saddle him. I bought the smallest one I could find but…” He shrugged and stared at the longleg again. “There’s a reason tombles don’t ride horses.”
A grin crept over the soldier’s face. “I suppose so.” Swiveling to the west, he shouted, “Hollins! Let’s go!”
Curious as to where the bowman was hiding, Nundle peeked under the neck of his horse and was shocked when a solider stepped from behind a tree nearly two hundred paces away and began to walk towards them.
“That was quite a shot from that distance,” muttered Nundle.
The soldier standing with him said, “Actually, Hollins is one of our worse shots. I’d be surprised if—” He stopped and turned to the approaching soldier. “Hey, Hollins! What were you aiming for?”
“His hat!”
Nundle’s stomach dropped. He could not tell if the soldier was joking or not. Looking up at the first soldier, he said, “Good thing he missed wide and not low, eh?”
The soldier set off to the south, leading Nundle’s chestnut horse by the reins. Nundle walked behind his horse while Hollins brought up the rear. They moved through the forest until the sun was a giant glob of red hovering just above the horizon, its light spilling through trunks and branches.
Nundle smelled the camp first: smoky campfires and charred wood mixing with something scrumptious and meaty cooking over the fires. His stomach growled. Shortly after, the sounds of soldiers talking and laughing, pots banging, and metal clanking metal filtered through the trees.
Nundle and the two soldiers emerged from the trees and stepped into a large clearing where the Red Sentinels’ camp rested. Longlegs standing near them stopped what they were doing to stare as he strolled past, smiling and nodding to them all. Most nodded back, a few even returned his smile.
Hurrying to draw even with the longleg leading his horse, he said, “I take it most of them have never seen a tomble?”
The soldier shook his head.
“Some have. Although I bet they could count how many on a clumsy woodcutter’s hand. For most, though, I suspect you are their first.”
“You didn’t stare at me like they are.”
With a quiet chuckle, the soldier said, “That’s because I’m familiar with your kind.” He glanced down and added, “I’m originally from the Foothills.” He said that as if it explained everything.
Not grasping the implication, Nundle said, “I don’t understand.”
His response drew an odd look from the soldier. Furrows split his forehead. “I’m from Rodrics Field.” Again, he spoke as if that should be sufficient to clarify things.
Nundle shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I am unfamiliar with the area.”
The longleg looked as confused as Nundle felt.
“Rodrics Field. You know—the city within a day’s ride of Four Towns?”
The longleg might be trying to make things clearer, but he was failing miserably. Baffled, Nundle asked, “And what might the Four Towns be?”
The soldier slowed his step and peered down at Nundle, his eyes narrowed.
“The Four Towns. The tomble villages?”
Nundle nearly tripped over his feet.
“Tomble villages? Here? In the duchies?!”
The longleg stared at Nundle for a long moment before asking, “Where exactly are you from, little one?”
“Deepwell. In the Thimbletoe Principal.”
The soldier shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, an indication that Nundle’s clarification meant nothing to him.
“You know,” said Nundle. “The Five Boroughs?”
Understanding washed over the soldier’s face. “Oh! My apologies, then! I had just assumed…” He trailed off and, eyeing Nundle closely.
Nundle was nearly at a loss for words. Besides a few towns scattered just inside the borders of Cartu, he had never heard of a tomble settlement outside the Five Boroughs.
“To be clear, you’re saying there are tombles liveing in the Foothills Duchy?”
The soldier nodded.
“I am. In four separate towns. Hence the rather unoriginal name.”
“Why?”
“Why the name?” asked the soldier. He shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t—”
“No! Why are there tombles living in the Oaken Duchies?”
“Ah. I see. Well, I used to be friends with a tomble from Tinfiddle. If I recall, he said they all left a few generations back because of…” He trailed off, his face scrunching up in thought. After a moment, he shrugged and said, “Hells, I don’t know. Bumbar talked too much. I rarely paid attention.”
Nundle stared at the man in quiet awe. ‘Bumbar’ was certainly a tomble name.
“You don’t know which principal they came from, do you?”
The soldier peered down at him and said, “I’m a soldier, not a scholar. You’re asking questions I couldn’t hope to answer.”
Nundle asked a few more anyway, and all remained unanswered. Falling back a few steps, Nundle tried to make sense of what he had just learned. On top of ev
erything that was happening with the Progeny and the preceptor, Nundle now had a new set of questions about something else entirely.
The soldier led Nundle and horse to a small group of longlegs sitting between two tents. The tall, bearded Red Sentinel Nundle had been watching for the past few days sat at their center, talking with the other longlegs. The moment he noticed Nundle, he stood and scrutinized the tomble. Nundle stared back as the soldiers who had captured him gave a quick, concise report.
When they were done, the Master Sergeant turned his full attention back to Nundle.
“So, little tomble, mind telling me why you are following us?”
Nundle had wanted this meeting to occur later—perhaps a day or two from now—but fate had nudged him along a little earlier than he would have liked.
“Happily, sir,” said Nundle. “In private, please.” The use of the word ‘sir’ prompted quiet chuckling from nearby soldiers, their mirth cut short by a sharp glare from the sergeant.
“First off, I am not a ‘sir.’ I do not have the correct pedigree for such a lofty title. You may call me ‘Master Sergeant,’ ‘Sergeant Trell,’ or just ‘Sergeant.’”
Not entirely understanding why it mattered, Nundle agreed to the request.
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Much better. Now, should you like to speak in private, we will still have to do it out here in the open somewhere. I am without my normal command tent.”
“I know,” said Nundle with purpose. “It headed southwest last night with the Southern Arms.” He wanted to draw the longleg’s full interest. And it appeared he succeeded.
The sergeant’s brow furrowed. The soldiers sitting on the ground nearby glanced at one another, mirroring their leader’s expression. With a frown on his face, the sergeant murmured, “Follow me, please.”
The sergeant ordered Nundle’s horse be tended to and began walking away from the campfire. Nundle followed, leaving the other soldiers staring after as they headed up a small hill upon which stood a massive oak tree, its sprawling, mature branches spreading far over the grass like a top-heavy mushroom.
As they walked, the sergeant slowed, allowing Nundle to catch up with him. Glancing down, he said, “I must say, your horse is the smallest I’ve ever seen, Mister…?” He trailed off, expecting Nundle to give his name.
“I will share my name when I feel I can trust you,” said Nundle.
The sergeant nodded, accepting his answer.
“Fair enough. Please understand if I am equally cautious about you.”
“Oh, I do, Sergeant. Fully.” Glancing up to the longleg, he asked, “How did you know I was following you?”
The soldier shrugged. “Something told me to keep an eye behind me today. Although—” he glanced down and gave Nundle a friendly smile “—you are not what I expected.”
Nundle grinned back. He liked the longleg.
Stopping by the large oak’s trunk, the sergeant motioned around them.
“This is as private as it gets, little one.”
Nundle looked around him. The forest was mostly gone now, the area dominated mostly by tall grass and shrubs. Content that they were alone, the tomble stared up at the soldier.
“Before I begin, I feel it necessary to say two things. First, despite what I plan to share with you, you must understand that I have only the best interest of you, your men, and all of the Oaken Duchies in mind.”
The longleg’s eyes narrowed.
“That sounds rather ominous.”
“Probably because it is.”
Frowning, the sergeant asked, “And the second?”
“I want your word that you will listen to my entire tale before you take any action or make any decision.”
“You are not in the position to make such a demand, little tomble.”
“It’s not a demand, Master Sergeant. It’s a request.”
The remained quiet for a long moment, his gaze locked on Nundle’s face.
“As you ask something I would mostly likely do anyway, I see no reason not to give my word. I will hear you out.”
Nundle released a breath he had not recalled holding and peered up to the soldier.
“Do you trust your men, Master Sergeant?”
Without hesitation, the longleg answered, “With my life.”
“What about the Tracker with you?”
The large soldier crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.
“Exactly how long have you been following us?”
“Truthfully? Since Lakeborough.”
Sergeant Trell’s gaze bored into him. Nundle forced himself to stare back, meeting the soldier’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the longleg sighed and motioned to the grass.
“Let’s sit down. I feel rude talking down to you.”
Nundle found a gnarled oak root jutting from the soil he upon which he sat. The sergeant settled across from him, flat on the grass so they were near eye-level with each other.
Once seated, the sergeant said, “To answer your question: no, I do not trust the Tracker. He seemed a decent man when we met. But now?” He glanced back to the camp, a perplexed expression on his face, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “Not so much.” Looking back to Nundle, he added, “His name is Cero. But perhaps you already knew that as well?”
“No, I did not.” He paused before adding, “Although I did know the name of another in your company. One who left last evening.”
“Who?”
Watching the sergeant’s face, Nundle said with emphasis, “Jhaell Myrr.” He expected anything from simple acknowledgement a passionate curse regarding the ijul. Instead, he received a blank expression.
“I’m sorry. Who?”
“Jhaell Myrr,” repeated Nundle, confused.
Sergeant Trell shook his head.
“I know of no man by that name. Was he in the Arms? ‘Jhaell’ does not sound like a Southlander name.”
Nundle was dumbfounded. Upon finding his tongue, he said, “I’ve watched you travel with him for days now. I’ve seen your disagreements with him. Hells—I saw you arguing with him at the fork last night. I thought he was going—”
“Hold a moment,” interrupted Sergeant Trell. “Are you speaking of Fenidar?”
Now it was Nundle’s turn to be confused.
“Fenidar? Who’s Fenidar? I’m talking about the saeljul, Jhaell Myrr.”
Sergeant Trell’s eyebrows drew together.
“I was told his name is Fenidar.”
“Fenidar?” repeated Nundle again. Bewildered, he stared at the ground, mumbling, “Why the false name? No one here would know him as a mage on name alone.”
The sergeant held up a quick hand.
“Hold. He’s a mage? Regent Alpert said nothing about that.”
Mystified, Nundle asked, “Who is Regent Alpert?”
Nundle had been hoping that his conversation with the Red Sentinels’ leader would provide some clarity to recent events. Instead, his list of questions was getting longer while his list of answers remained untouched. Judging by the look on the sergeant’s face, he was equally perplexed.
Waving his hands in front of him, Nundle said, “Let’s start with something simple. The saeljul you’ve been traveling with I know as Preceptor Jhaell Myrr of the Academy at Immylla in the Arcane Republic. I was a student of his.” He grimaced. “Briefly.”
Sergeant Trell’s eyebrows rose.
“You’re a mage?”
“I am,” said Nundle. Feeling it necessary considering his location, he added, “A nice one, though. Most of us are.”
Concern rippling over his face, the sergeant looked back to the camp.
“How is it the Tracker did not know?”
“From what I’ve observed, they are no different than any mage when it comes to detecting magic. I could be standing next to the most powerful mage in Terrene, and if he or she did not reach out to touch the Strands, I would never know.”
“The Strands?” muttered Serg
eant Trell. “What are—” He cut off, lifted a hand, and paused a moment. “You had best start at the beginning. It seems we both hold different pieces to the same puzzle. Tell me what you know.”
Nundle smiled. That was his plan all along.
He told Sergeant Trell everything that had happened since the night he had found the parchment in the preceptor’s office, save for the contents of the letter. He was holding that for later. The sergeant listened to his story, interrupting only to ask the occasional intelligent question. By the time he reached the end of his tale, Sergeant Trell had dropped his head to his chest and was staring at the ground. Even after Nundle stopped talking, the soldier did not move.
Nundle waited, silent.
He was beginning to think he should say something when the soldier finally looked up.
“I tend to be a good judge of a man—or tomble, I suppose—and I do not think you are playing me for a fool. You say this ijul was a teacher of magic from the Arcane Republic and I believe you. It explains much.”
Nundle was relieved that the soldier believed him.
“But I have one question for you, tomble.”
“Ask away.”
Sergeant Trell leaned forward, draping his arms over his legs and clasping his hands in front of him.
“You took rather drastic action based on a single letter. A letter about which I’ve noticed you’ve been deliberately vague. What did the message say?”
Nodding, Nundle said, “Granted, I have been vague. But only because its words might be hard for you to accept.”
The soldier gave him a grim smile.
“I’ve accepted this much, haven’t I?”
Sighing, Nundle reached into his leather travel pack and retrieved the parchment from Preceptor Myrr’s desk. He handed the letter over to the longleg and watched the sergeant read by twilight. The soldier’s face went through a series of expressions as he read—curiosity, sadness, anger, confusion, betrayal, and finally shock and disbelief.
When he was done, the sergeant waved the parchment in his hand and asked in a quiet, yet harsh, voice, “Do you realize who this is from?”
“I do now,” said Nundle, his tone grave. “When I first saw the letter, I was focused on what it said rather than whom it was from. I only recently discovered your duke’s name. I thought perhaps it was a coincidence, but after seeing how you and your soldiers were placed under the preceptor’s command…” He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 38