Progeny (The Children of the White Lions)

by Kaelin, R. T.

  An anger hotter than a thousand bonfires burned inside Nikalys’ chest. Staring into his brother’s eyes, he said, “Lay still.”

  Nikalys stood and faced the brigands. None had a bow, meaning the arrow had come from within the house. He eyed the darkened doorway, expecting to see another shaft fly out at any moment.

  A great whoosh of wind blew past him, shoving him in the back as it rushed toward the house. The roof launched high into the air, the bundles of grass ripped apart by the gust. Clumps still bound by cord dropped to the ground while individual blades floated down like leaves from a tree. A moment later, the wall with the door appeared to shimmer and shift. The river rocks lost their shape, crumbling and collapsing into a piled heap of sand. The door remained upright for a moment before tipping over, falling outward, and making a solid thud as it struck the ground.

  Nikalys gaped.

  Through falling grass and a cloud of dust rising from the sand, Nikalys spotted two men—one of whom held a bow—standing inside the ruined cottage, near where the door had been. A young woman stood in the back corner. All three were looking between the sky and the sand pile, most likely trying to figure out what had happened to the house. Nikalys certainly was.

  The bowman recovered from his shock first. While yelling at the others to fight back, he pulled an arrow from a hip quiver, nocked it on the string, and raised the bow, preparing to fire.

  Eyeing the dirt ground just beyond the former threshold of the home—

  Shift.

  —Nikalys grabbed the man’s shirt and, somehow, lifted the man off the ground. The startled bandit dropped his weapon and clasped Nikalys’ arm, smacking it. Bow and shaft struck an overturned table, clattering as they tumbled to the ground.

  A vicious roar split the air behind him. A moment later, the men outside began to scream.

  Holding the man suspended before him, Nikalys hesitated, unsure what to do next. His indecision cost him.

  Pain exploded behind his right ear.

  He dropped the man he held, stumbled forward a step or two, and collapsed to the house’ dirt floor, falling to his hands and knees. He shook his head, blinking repeatedly, trying to chase away the tiny balls of lights flashing before him. Through the haze, he saw a pair of eyes staring up at him, blank and lifeless.

  The body of a bearded man dressed in the simple tan clothes of a farmer lay next to him. A precise, clean cut spread from one side of the man’s neck to the other with crimson blood still oozing from the wound. The man appeared to be the right age to be the little girl’s father.

  The hot fury that surged through Nikalys again cleared his head in an instant. Pushing himself up so that he was kneeling, he whirled, expecting that the man who had hit him would come and finish him off. He was right.

  An unclean man, both shorter and stockier than Nikalys, was advancing on him, a thick, wooden stick with a dark metal cylinder at the end, raised and ready to strike. Nikalys looked to a spot on the man’s right—

  Shift.

  —wrenched the weapon free, and slammed it into the bandit’s chest, eliciting a sickening crunch as metal smashed bone. Nikalys’ gifted strength sent the man flying back to crash into one of the remaining walls. The brigand bounced as he hit the stone, slid down the wall, and slumped on the ground.

  Nikalys stared at the crumpled body, wondering if he had killed again.

  A rage-filled battle cry exploded to his right.

  Spinning around, Nikalys found the other man charging him. Lifting the weapon he had just used, he found that he was holding nothing but a short handle of wood. The blow to the bandit’s chest had snapped off the metal end. He was weaponless again.

  A whistle of air kissed his ear. The man charging him stopped, threw his hands up to his face, and began screaming. A white-fletched arrow shaft protruded though his clasped fingers. From its placement, Nikalys guessed the other end was in the man’s left eye.

  A flood of crimson blood poured from the man’s hands and down his face. He stumbled about the interior of the cottage, bumping into overturned chairs and tripping over the farmer’s body. Screaming the entire time, he managed to make it to the small opening in the sand pile sand where the door used to be. Catching the edge of the sand pile, he tripped, falling atop the heap of pulverized wall. His movements turned wild and random for a few heartbeats before ceasing completely. His shrieks stopped.

  Looking behind him, Nikalys found the young woman standing against the far wall of the cottage, holding the bandit’s bow and staring at the body on the sand. She had killed the murderous bandit with his own bow and arrow. Justice colored with irony.

  She appeared to be near Nikalys’ age—or perhaps Jak’s—and wore a simple dress similar in color and style to that of the dead farmer. Her hair—long, glossy, and as black as a moonless night—framed a pretty face. At least Nikalys thought it would be pretty were it not a twisted mask of hatred and sorrow.

  Nikalys took a step toward her. “Are you alright?”

  She looked up at him and raised the bow up, holding it like a club. Her eyes, brown and large, burned with a cold fury.

  Nikalys held his hands up. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to—”

  “Nikalys!” cried Kenders.

  Glancing to the front of the house, he saw Broedi—as a hillman again—kneeling on the ground beside Jak. Kenders was sitting with Jak’s head resting in her lap.

  Forgetting the girl, Nikalys ran to the sand pile, leaped over it and dashed toward his brother. He passed the bodies of the four other brigands from outside, all of whom were most definitely dead, the chunks of flesh missing from their necks rather indicative of their condition.

  Skidding to a halt, he dropped to a knee beside his brother.

  “Oh, gods…”

  Jak had clasped his blood soaked hands over his stomach where the arrow stuck out. He was coughing, each hack sending more frothy blood dribbling down his cheeks to drip on Kenders’ green dress. A frustrated Broedi was trying desperately to get Jak to let go of the arrow shaft.

  “Uori! Please! I must take a look.”

  Nikalys felt helpless. He placed his hands on his head, fingers interlocked.

  Jak’s wide-open eyes repeatedly shifted between the arrow and the faces peering down at him. Kenders joined with Broedi, pleading for Jak to release the arrow and let the hillman look at the wound. Nikalys remained quiet, unable to find his tongue to speak.

  Finally, Jak moved his hands aside. Broedi ripped open Jak’s shirt, wiped away the excess blood, and began probing the area around where the arrow was lodged. With each poke and prod, Jak let out a small, pain-filled gasp. After a few moments, the hillman relaxed.

  “You will be fine. It looks worse than it is.”

  Nikalys stared at the hillman and muttered, “Are you sure?” He wanted to be relieved, but was wary.

  “Quite,” rumbled Broedi. He looked to Kenders. “Uora?”

  She did not respond, her gaze remaining fixed on the bloody arrow wound.

  “Uora!”

  Startled, Kenders looked up, her eyes full of worry, which was to be expected. Yet what surprised Nikalys was the utter exhaustion paired with her anxiety. She appeared as if she was going to pass out at any moment.

  “Your kaveli will be fine. I can help him heal this. Please, go find the little one that ran. And be gentle. She will be scared.”

  Nikalys glanced to the grasslands southeast of the farm, having forgotten all about the toddler. Not seeing her anywhere, he figured she must be hiding in grass.

  A woman’s voice called, “Hold a moment!”

  Turning back to the house, he found the raven-haired young woman approaching them. Her gaze danced over each of them several times, cautious and judging. In a firm tone, she said, “You all stay where you are.”

  “We mean you no harm,” rumbled Broedi, his tone gentle.

  “Sweet words can hide sour intentions. Stay here. I’ll find my sister on my own.”

  With th
at, the woman began to march toward the eastern grasslands.

  Staring after her, Kenders muttered in disbelief, “Sour intentions? We risked our lives for them.”

  Broedi said, “Imagine you are her, uora. She does not know us from the bandits who assaulted them. Trust is earned, not given.”

  “We saved them,” insisted Kenders.

  “And I saved you from three wolves, yet none of you trusted me for a week.”

  Kenders’ mouth was open, some sort of protest ready, but Broedi’s rather salient point squashed it.

  Jak said through hissing breaths, Can you please get the arrow out?”

  “Of course, uori.”

  Nikalys glanced back to the woman and noticed she was heading in the wrong direction. The little girl had ended up running more to the south.

  Kenders saw the same thing, muttering, “She’s going to need help whether she likes it or not. That’s the wrong way.” Letting out a sigh, she bent over and gave Jak a small kiss on his forehead. “Don’t you die on me.”

  Through gritted teeth, Jak hissed, “Wouldn’t consider it.”

  Kenders rose and hurried away after the young woman, calling out and pointing in the direction that the toddler had run. The black-haired woman stopped and eyed Kenders for a moment, her stare wary. Soon, however, the pair was walking together through the waist-high grass. Gentle calls of “Helene” filled the air.

  A gasp of pain pulled Nikalys’ his attention back to Jak. Reaching down, he patted his brother’s shoulder.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Broedi rumbled, “I must get the arrow out.” He stared into Jak’s eyes. “Are you ready?”

  “Is it going to hurt?”

  “Very much so.”

  Nikalys grabbed Jak’s right hand and held it. Jak squeezed back, shut his eyes, and clenched his teeth.

  “Go.”

  Rather than pull it out, Broedi placed his hands on both sides of the arrow. Moments later, the shaft began to wiggle and withdraw from Jak’s stomach seemingly on its own. Nikalys winced, gritting his own teeth as Jak’s grip grew so tight that he was afraid bones might break. In short order, the barbed triangular head of the arrow popped out and the shaft fell to the grass.

  Jak let out a wheezing huff and exclaimed, “Blast the gods! That hurt more than getting shot!”

  Staring at the hillman, Nikalys said, “It didn’t hurt me when you took the thorns out.”

  “The thorns were not as deep,” replied Broedi as he probed around the wound again. “Nor did they have large, barbed arrowheads on them.”

  Nikalys peered down at Jak’s face. His brother looked pale.

  “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

  “He will be fine once I use the Strands of Life to help him heal.” A frown creased the hillman’s face. “Although, we will need to stay here while he sleeps.”

  “I can sleep on a horse,” muttered Jak.

  “No,” rumbled the hillman with a gentle shake of his head. “For the Weave to work, you must sleep soundly.” He glanced northward. “We will rest for a day. We should be safe that long.” The confidence with which he spoke did not reach his eyes.

  Looking back to Jak, Broedi placed his hands over the wound and glanced at Nikalys.

  “What did you find in the house, uori?”

  Looking to the woman with Kenders, he said, “Her and two more men.” The dead farmer’s vacant stare flashed before him. “Actually, three. The third was dead, his throat slit.” His voice dropped to an angry whisper. “I think he was the girls’ father.”

  He peered east, watching the young woman striding through the swishing grass, searching for her little sister. A massive wave of guilt flooded over him.

  “If I hadn’t got off my blasted horse, we could have made it here in time to save him.”

  Broedi rumbled, “Life is one long series of ‘ifs,’ uori. What is done is done.”

  Nikalys glared at Broedi, disappointed in the hillman’s callousness.

  “What’s done is done? Did you not hear me? If I hadn’t complained about a sore rear, their father might still be alive!”

  Nodding, Broedi said, “Yes, and had I decided to let you sleep a moment longer this morning, the little girl would be dead, and the other would be in worse shape.”

  “Worse than dead?” asked Nikalys incredulously. “How is that exactly?”

  Murmuring through his pain, Jak said, “Think, Nik. Seven brigands kill the father and try to kill the little girl. But the pretty young woman is alive and untouched?”

  Disgust, pure and cold, welled up in Nikalys.

  “You saved her from an awful ordeal, uori,” rumbled Broedi. “And saved the life of her iskoa. Take solace in the sweet. Do not dwell on the sour.”

  Nikalys went quiet as Broedi worked on Jak’s wound. The girls’ cries for the toddler drifted on the air, mixing with Jak’s muted grunts of pain. After a few moments, Nikalys muttered, “Broedi, I think I killed a man.”

  “A fate these men deserved.”

  Knowing that their deaths were justified did nothing to cure the sick feeling inside Nikalys. Killing another man was a horrible experience, even if the man was a murderer. His gaze drifted over the four men who lay dead in the front of the remnants of the house. Blades of grass from the blown-off roof dusted their corpses.

  “Broedi, how many men have you killed?”

  The question had been more of a thought than actual inquiry, but the words slipped out, taking Nikalys by surprise.

  Broedi removed his hands from Jak’s stomach and stared at the ground. A long, weary sigh slipped from his lips.

  “I do not know.”

  Nikalys did not know what to say to that.

  The hillman lifted his eyes to stare up at him, saying, “Taking a life never gets easier, uori. And that is a good thing. Should it ever become something you do without thought or conscience—” his gaze shifted to the corpses of the four mutilated men “—then you are no better than them.”

  Nodding, Nikalys glanced down at his brother and found Jak’s eyes shut. Panic rushed through him

  “Broedi?”

  “He is fine. Only sleeping,” rumbled the hillman as he rose from the ground. He patted Nikalys on the shoulder. “Come, we must clean this mess.” He moved off toward the ruined home.

  Nikalys eyed Jak, ensuring that his brother was indeed merely asleep. The pain was gone from Jak’s face, replaced with a peaceful expression. His chest rose and fell at a slow, relaxed pace. Looking down to Jak’s stomach, Nikalys found new skin covering the arrow wound, pink and clean of blood. By no means was it fully healed, but the injury was weeks beyond where it should be.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, Nikalys looked up and noticed Kenders and the woman were walking back toward the house now, side-by-side, the pretty, black-haired woman holding her sister in her arms. They were still a good distance off, but the little girl’s sobs were still audible.

  Nikalys looked over at the dead bandits and frowned. The little girl should not see any of this. In all honestly, he would have preferred if he did not need to see any of it as well.

  Catching Kenders’ eye, he motioned for them to stay where they were. She stared at him with plain curiosity, so he pointed to the clearing, then the little girl in her sister’s arms, and shook his head. Kenders nodded and reached out to stop the woman. Once he was sure they were not coming back right away, Nikalys turned toward the house.

  Broedi was standing by the pile of sand that had once been the front wall, staring into the ruined cottage. As Nikalys approached from behind, the hillman flipped the man on the sand over with his boot. The bandit toppled over to his back to reveal the arrow sticking from his eye.

  Glancing back to Nikalys, Broedi rumbled, “I did not realize you were so accurate with a bow.”

  “That wasn’t me,” said Nikalys, stopping beside Broedi. He pointed to the man slumped against the wall. “That was
.”

  Broedi glanced at the man Nikalys indicated and then back at the arrow-pierced man at their feet.

  “If not you?”

  “The woman,” replied Nikalys. “She shot him as he charged me. Nearly took my ear off.”

  Broedi raised an eyebrow, turned, and stared across to where Kenders and the two sisters stood.

  “Impressive. It would seem you owe her thanks as much as she owes you.”

  He studied the raven-haired girl from afar and muttered, “I suppose I do.” Pulling his attention from the woman, he gestured around at the ruined home. “That was a neat trick you did with the roof. And the wall.”

  “That was not me.”

  Nikalys turned his head to stare at the hillman, his eyes full of doubt.

  “Kenders did this?”

  Staring at the sand pile, Broedi nodded once.

  “She did.”

  Nikalys had yet to see her do anything so grand with magic since the first night with the lightning.

  “Did you teach her how?”

  “Yes and no. Mostly no. While the Weave of Air she used was a variation of something we have worked on, she used many more Strands today. Many, many more.” He bent over, scooped up a handful of sand, and, letting it fall through his fingers, rumbled, “But this?” He shook his head. “I cannot touch Strands of Stone, uori. Her gift allowed her to do this.” Tossing the remainder of the sand to the ground, he peered at Nikalys. “Speaking of the Celystiela’s gifts, I saw—rather did not see—the way you moved. You looked like Aryn. Do you know how you did it?”

  “Not at all. I don’t know what I was doing. Or thinking, running down here like I did.” He paused, glanced at Broedi, and added, “To be honest, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Instinct is sometimes more valuable than days of thoughtful deliberation. Sometimes.”

  Nikalys frowned, reached behind his right ear, and gingerly touched the large welt quickly forming there.

  “Well, my instincts got me a nasty bump on the back of my head.”

  A thoughtful expression came over Broedi’s face, accompanied by a quiet sigh.