The sergeant did not reply. He was reading the letter a second time before the fading sunlight was completely gone.
When he was done, he muttered, “Too much of this rings true for me to discount it. This, for instance: ‘claimed a giant flood had destroyed the town.’” He stared at Nundle, his eyes intense. “Tomble, I stood in the ruins of Yellow Mud. I saw the destruction with my own eyes.”
Nundle thought that to be a rather surprising coincidence.
Looking back down, the soldier said, “And this? ‘Killing everyone except a man he had met on the road to Smithshill.’” He held up the parchment. “I met him. I spoke with him.”
Nundle’s eyebrows drew together. That just might cross the line dividing impossible coincidence and destiny.
Shaking his head in dismay, the sergeant said, “But if I accept all that as truth, I must believe the rest as well. Which is madness.”
“I can sympathize,” said Nundle. “When I discovered my teacher was involved with something as sinister as what that letter describes, I was shocked. I knew I needed to do something to warn them.”
“Warn who?” Tilting the parchment to catch the last rays of sunlight, the sergeant asked, “These…‘Progeny?’” He looked to Nundle. “Who are they?”
Lifting his eyebrows, Nundle murmured, “Oh my. That is a whole other story.” The wind shifted, bringing with it a waft of whatever the soldiers were cooking. Nundle’s stomach grumbled. “Could we get something to eat, perhaps? I’ve had nothing but blueberries for days.”
Sergeant Trell immediately called over to the camp for two bowls of stew. The soldier who brought them apologized to Nundle for the size of the wooden bowl and spoon, saying that they did not have anything smaller. Nundle insisted that the giant bowl was just fine and set to devouring the stew.
The sergeant did not pester him with questions as they ate, instead making idle conversation about how they were running out of vegetables and roots and would soon need to hunt for food or find a place to purchase supplies.
Nundle’s stomach filled before the bowl emptied. He set the remainder of the stew aside and let his food settle for a moment. Blue Moon had risen over the trees to the north, a pale blue oblong oval against a backdrop of stars, only the brightest of which were visible as the last vestiges of dusk lit the sky.
A quick examination of the camp revealed most of the soldiers sitting around their campfires, staring at Nundle and the sergeant. The Tracker stood off to the side by himself, his gaze locked on Nundle alone, the rather unsettling expression he wore lit by the campfires’ flickering. For reasons unknown, Nundle shuddered and looked back to Sergeant Trell.
“Thank you for the meal. Much better than a handful of blueberries.”
“You are quite welcome.” Putting down his own bowl, he picked up the preceptor’s letter and asked, “Do you suppose we can continue?”
“Of course,” said Nundle. He paused, gathering his thoughts while wondering how the longleg might take this next bit of information. “Have you ever heard of the White Lions?”
A deep furrow split the soldier’s brow.
“I’ve heard the legends.”
In a somewhat cryptic tone, Nundle asked, “What if I said that their epic was not legend?”
Sergeant Trell paused a moment before replying with newfound skepticism.
“I would say you have a great deal of talking to convince me you’re not mad ahead of you.”
As succinctly as he could, Nundle covered the history of the Oaken Duchies up to the inception of the White Lions. He explained what had happened with the Assembly of the Nine in the Celestial Empire, and how the White Lions had repelled the demon army of Norasim. The sergeant nodded at the parts that sounded familiar to him, and listened with patient interest at the new. When Nundle reached the tale of the scourging of the Carinius coast, the sergeant interrupted.
“That part always bothered me.”
“Why?”
“They were heroes, honored servants of the duchies. Then suddenly they kill thousands of people?” He shook his head. “It never made sense.”
“I would agree. And once you hear Indrida’s prophecy, I expect you will draw a different conclusion as to what happened at Carinius.”
A frown creased Sergeant Trell’s face.
“What prophecy?”
Nundle recited the three stanzas, word for word. Sergeant Trell listened, the frown on his face deepening into a full scowl by the time Nundle was finished.
“That’s a nice verse,” said the sergeant. “But what does it mean?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Nundle said, “I’m not entirely sure. But when I saw that letter, when I saw ‘the Progeny,’ I…I felt I had to act. So, I did.” With a start, he realized that the sergeant still held the parchment. “Speaking of which—I don’t suppose I could have that back now?” It was the only proof Nundle had that some sort of conspiracy was taking place.
The sergeant paused a moment, worrying Nundle that he might not give it back, but then reached over and handed the letter over.
“You have given me much to consider, tomble.”
“My name is Nundle. Nundle Babblebrook.”
There was little point in hiding his name now that he had told the sergeant everything else.
With a nod and a polite smile, the longleg said, “Good days ahead to you, Nundle Babblebrook.”
“You, as well, Sergeant.”
The sergeant’s smile widened.
“The expected response is ‘And good memories behind.’”
“Oh. My apologies. And good memories behind, Master Sergeant.”
“You aren’t in the army, Nundle. Feel free to call me Nathan. In private only, though. In front of the men, I remain Sergeant Trell. Is that understood?”
“Completely, Sergeant—ah, Nathan.”
With a satisfied nod, Nathan said, “Now, are there any other unbelievable tales you are going to ask me to accept as truth?”
Shaking his head, Nundle said with a smile, “Not tonight.”
“Good. Then let me tell you what I know of our riddle, and we’ll try to figure out what to do about it all.”
Nundle leaned forward, anxious.
“Please do.”
The pair talked deep into the night.
Chapter 41: Farm
27th of the Turn of Sutri
Nikalys was miserable.
Day after day of sitting in Goshen’s saddle, the horse’s jagged backbone digging into his rear, was enough to drive him mad. His muscles were sore, his skin raw, and his bones weary. He tried not to focus on his suffering, but as he spent his entire day staring at endless, uninterrupted fields of grass, he could not help it.
Growing up, he had never been a stranger to backbreaking work. Mornings after long, dawn-to-dusk days in the groves or vineyards would certainly find him sore. Yet his body had never ached like this. He twisted in his saddle—yet again—trying to stretch out his back but there was no relief to be had.
Before this journey, he had only sat on a horse to satisfy a dare from friends. If you wanted to travel somewhere, you hitched the horse to a cart and rode to your destination while sitting on a nice, comfortable, wooden seat. Nikalys missed that seat. Perched atop the back of a bony horse, being jarred, jumbled, and jostled all day long a horrible way to travel.
“That’s it,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve had enough.”
He pulled on Goshen’s reins, drawing the horse to a standstill. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his right leg over the horse’s rear. Bending his left leg—foot in stirrup—he stretched his right to the ground as every muscle in his legs screamed at him. Once both boots were on the ground, he sighed, relishing the sensation of not being on the horse. A tiny, relieved smile touched his lips.
Taking advantage of the pause in travel, Goshen bent his head to the ground, ripped a mouthful of Southlands grass, and looked back at him. If a horse could smile, Nikalys thought Goshen would be doing so right now.
A little ahead of him, Jak spoke.
“Something wrong?”
Looking up, Nikalys found his brother—still astride Hal—stopped a few horse-lengths ahead and staring back. Beyond Jak, Kenders and Broedi continued moving through the grass, her atop Smoke and the hillman striding beside her.
“I’ve had it, Jak. My rear—Hells, all of me—hurts. I’m going to walk for a bit.”
Grabbing Goshen’s reins, he took a few halting steps, his face contorting into a twisted bundle of scowls and winces. Thighs, knees, calves, and ankles complained with each movement.
“You look like an old man,” teased Jak. He wore a wide smile. “Shall I ride off and find you a walking stick?”
Glaring at his brother, Nikalys said, “Please do. I need something to knock that grin off your face.” Parts of him started to loosen, but he was still moving slowly. Upon reaching where Jak waited, he nodded to where Broedi and Kenders were quickly outpacing them and said, “You know, for someone with six senses, you’d think his hearing would be better. They don’t even seem to realize we’ve stopped.”
At that exact moment, Broedi halted and, putting a hand on Smoke’s neck, stopped Kenders as well. The hillman turned halfway and stared back at the brothers.
Nikalys’ eyes narrowed.
“Show off.”
With his own moans and grunts, Jak dismounted and the brothers walked side-by-side. Glancing over, Nikalys found Jak walking as gingerly as he was. Throwing a friendly elbow at his brother’s side, he said, “Looks like you need to find two walking sticks.”
“Hey, I’m every bit as sore as you are. The only difference is you are the one complaining like a girl.”
From up ahead, Kenders shouted, “I don’t appreciate that!”
Both brothers turned and looked toward their sister. She and Broedi were still a hundred paces away.
Jak leaned over and whispered, “How did she hear that?”
Nikalys guessed magic had something to do with it. Lifting an eyebrow, he said, “I think she’s been holding out on us.”
They continued their approach, silent now, walking through the ever-present, waist-high grass. Kenders glared at them both, a stern expression upon her face.
As they drew near, Jak smiled wide and asked, “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today, sis?”
The compliment did nothing to chase away Kenders’ frown.
“Truly, Jak? Complaining like a girl?”
Jak’s grin slipped a bit.
“So you heard that?”
“I did.”
Looking between Broedi and Kenders, Nikalys asked, “Magic, I suppose?”
Nodding, Broedi rumbled, “A simple Weave of Air and Soul.” He shifted his gaze to Kenders. “We have been working on it all morning. Only now did she get the pattern correct.”
Jak said, “What wondrous timing…”
Nikalys smiled, happy not to be the target of Kenders ire. Taking a moment, he turned his head, staring out at the endless prairie around them.
“Broedi, is the entire Southlands one giant field of grass?”
“No, uori, it is not,” rumbled the hillman. “Had you not stopped, you would have never asked the question.” Broedi faced south and resumed walking, leaving the three siblings behind. Jak called after the hillman.
“What does that mean?”
Broedi did not stop nor look back.
Nikalys looked up at Kenders, thinking she might have an explanation.
With a shrug of her shoulders, she said, “Don’t look at me. I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s talking about.”
The three of them set off after the hillman, Kenders urging Smoke into a quick trot, while Nikalys and Jak hurried on with their horses in tow. Up ahead, Broedi had stopped again and was still facing south. The line of grass appeared to fall away right past where he stood.
When Kenders halted beside Broedi, she turned back and waved her hand to Nikalys and Jak, urging them to hurry. Gritting his teeth, Nikalys broke into a slow jog, wincing as new muscles revealed their aching presence. Jak shuffled alongside, his quiet groans mimicking Nikalys’ grunts.
Upon arriving beside Kenders and Broedi, they stopped. Apparently, the Southlands were not one, endless prairie.
They stood atop a gradual slope leading into a shallow valley, at the bottom of which flowed a wide, muddy river less than a quarter mile away. Halfway between them and the riverbank sat a river-rock cottage—no bigger than the Isaac home in Yellow Mud—topped with a pitched roof of bundled prairie grass, dried and bound with cords.
On the side of the building that faced them was a single, closed door along with two uneven holes no bigger than a water bucket. Well-tended fields flanked the cottage, each filled with a variety of vegetable crops. A half-dozen chickens strutted around the four-wheeled wagon sitting before the home. Seven horses—all under saddle—stood beside the wagon, their reins leading to the cart and tied off.
Jak said good-naturedly, “Look at that. Someone went and ruined the prairie by putting a river—”
A woman’s raw, knifelike scream cut Jak short, shattering the stillness of the prairie and turning Nikalys’ insides cold.
“Nooooooooo!”
The door to the house burst open and a small girl—no older than four or five—with long black hair ran out. Dressed in a common tan field-dress, she scurried away from the house, crying and screaming. Her terrified shouts, while awful, did not match the soul-rending shriek from a moment ago. A burly, bearded man emerged from the house, following the girl. The toddler looked back at him and screamed even louder, her eyes wide open.
Before he knew what he was doing, Nikalys was running down the slope, vaguely aware that Broedi was rushing along beside him.
From inside the building, through the open door, a woman screamed, “Run, Helene!” The voice matched the first, ear-splitting scream.
Nikalys watched in horror as the man trailing the toddler drew a longknife from a sheath on his belt.
From atop the hill, Kenders shouted, “No!”
Both the man and little girl looked up the slope. The toddler screamed louder and shifted directions, aiming for the tall grass east of the farm. The man paused a moment, his wide-eyed gaze darting between Nikalys and Broedi, before looking back to the fleeing girl. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the knife in the air and caught it, switching his hold from handle to blade. He drew his arm back, preparing to throw it at the little girl.
Nikalys was still two hundred paces away. Saying a silent prayer his gift would work, he stared at a spot right before the brigand—
Shift.
—grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted hard. He felt and heard bones shatter.
The brigand dropped the knife, screaming in agony, the shocked look on his face lasting only a moment as Nikalys drove a fist into the man’s nose with a loud, sickeningly wet crack. The bandit crumpled to the ground, landing in a heap beside his knife.
Expecting retaliation, Nikalys pulled his throbbing fist back and stared down at the man.
The bandit did not move.
Nikalys felt ill as the thought that he might have just killed a man dashed through his head.
“Nik! Turn around!”
Jak’s shout pulled his attention from the bandit. Glancing up, he saw Goshen and Hal alone at the hilltop, their reins dangling in the air. Kenders was thundering down Smoke while Jak was left to running. Broedi was much closer, pointing past Nikalys.
“Uori!”
Turning his head, Nikalys spotted four men rushing from the stone building, directly at him. They were dressed in dark, tattered clothes just as was the man he had just knocked out. Or killed.
“Hells…”
Three of them had swords drawn while the fourth held a thick wooden club. Nikalys considered drawing his own blade, but he stayed his hand. He was more of a danger to himself with the sword out than a threat to the bandits.
A deafening, feral roar ripp
ed through the air.
The brigands rushing him skidded to a stop, staring beyond Nikalys with wide, fearful eyes. The cry startled Nikalys as well, yet he did not turn around. He knew what was behind him.
The enormous, golden-furred lynx sidled up to stand beside him, a low growl rumbling deep in its throat. The fowl around the wagon scattered, clucking and screeching as they flapped their wings and half-ran, half-flew away. The seven tethered horses—their eyes rolled up in their heads—whinnied in terror, repeatedly yanking their heads back in a futile attempt to free themselves.
Hearing hooves pounding behind him, he assumed Kenders was drawing ever closer. Jak would not be far behind.
The nearest brigand—a lean man with wild black hair and a shaggy beard—stared at Nikalys, his sword gripped tightly in his right hand, his gaze flicking to the still-sheathed Blade of Horum on Nikalys’ hip. The man was probably wondering why Nikalys had yet to draw. Nikalys was reconsidering his decision when, out of the corner of his eye, Kenders moved into view on the other side of Broedi and spoke in an anxious whisper.
“What do we do!?”
As he had no idea, Nikalys kept quiet, his gaze darting between the bandits, the horse, and the house. Seven saddled horses meant seven men. With one unconscious—or dead—and four in front of them, Nikalys reasoned two men must still be inside the stone cottage.
Jak finally reached them and stopped beside Nikalys, his breathing heavy.
“What now?”
The second person in mere moments asking for direction prompted Nikalys to hiss, “How should I know?”
“Hells, Nik! I thought you knew what you were doing—”
Jak cut off, and let out a quiet, surprised “oomph.” Nikalys looked over and found Jak, chin on chest, staring at his stomach. Looking down, Nikalys spotted a white-fletched arrow shaft protruding from Jak’s gut, just below the ribs.
Jak took a step forward, stumbled, and began to fall to the ground. Nikalys reached out, caught his brother by the arm, and gently eased him to the grass. Jak’s eyes were wide, seemingly more in shock than pain.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 39