Progeny (The Children of the White Lions)

by Kaelin, R. T.

  “We must find you a teacher to help you master your father’s sword.”

  As far as Nikalys was concerned, Aryn Atticus was his father in blood only. He did not bother correcting the hillman, thought, simply saying, “That would certainly be helpful.”

  Broedi climbed the sand pile and moved to stand over the dead farmer. Crouching beside the body, he gently closed the man’s eyelids.

  “We must bury him. For his daughters’ sake.”

  Nikalys agreed wholeheartedly. Staring down at the two dead brigands in the home, he asked, “And them?”

  “We bury them, too. Face down.”

  Nikalys gave a silent, firm nod of approval. Within the Oaken Duchies, burying a person face down indicated that Maeana should not give the soul another chance to walk the world again. Nikalys did not know the reasoning behind the tradition, only that it was used for the worst of the worst, the unredeemable.

  Staring out to where Kenders stood with the two sisters, he let out a long sigh.

  “And what do we do with them?”

  “I do not know.”

  “They can’t stay here,” advised Nikalys. “These bandits might have friends.”

  “That much I know, uori,” said the hillman. Standing tall, he exited the home, patting Nikalys on the back as he passed. “Check on the first man you attacked. If he is alive, secure him and bring him to the back. And stuff a rag in his mouth. I do not want him shouting when he wakes up.” He peered out to the three girls. “They have been through enough.”

  Nikalys turned and strode across the clearing, aiming for the man who had chased the toddler from the house. With trepidation trickling through him, he bent over and placed a hand on the man’s filthy neck, searching for the throb of a heartbeat. Feeling a steady thumping, Nikalys let out a small, relieved sigh. He had only killed one man today.

  Looking up, he spotted Smoke nearby, calmly munching on grass. As he shuffled over to the horse, he glanced up the hill and saw Goshen and Hal standing atop the slope, also eating. He pulled a length of rope and the salted rockeye wrapping from Smoke’s saddlebags and returned to the unconscious man. Kneeling beside the bandit, Nikalys looked up to see Broedi carrying two bodies, one on each shoulder, around to the back of the house.

  Binding the man’s wrists, he hoped Broedi had some idea what they were going to do with the bandit after the man awoke.

  When he was sure the man was secure, he stuffed the salty fish rag in the bandit’s mouth and stood, picking the man up. He hefted the brigand over one shoulder and moved past Jak. Staring down at his softly snoring brother, Nikalys smiled and murmured, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

  Nikalys stopped at one of the dead men, bent over, and lifted the bandit onto his other shoulder. As he headed toward the rear of the house, Broedi rounded the corner and came to an immediate standstill. He stared at Nikalys, a curious expression on his face.

  Nikalys slowed his gait.

  “What?”

  Broedi smiled his typical, slight grin.

  “While I can carry two men without problem, uori, I am surprised you can.”

  Without thought, Nikalys had lifted the second man with ease. There was no way he should be able to carry two full-grown men. Let alone without feeling even a bit of strain. His eyebrows drew together.

  “Me too…”

  “Horum’s gift grows in you each day,” said Broedi, moving to pick up two more corpses. “Come, I saw shovels in the back. We should begin digging.”

  Together, they walked to the rear of the house where Broedi grabbed two shovels and headed down the slope that led to the river. Broedi dropped the dead men he carried next to the others already there. Nikalys did the same with the men he held, setting the one who was still alive to the side. As Broedi started to dig, Nikalys moved around to the front of the house and picked up the last dead bandit, bringing him around to where Broedi had the beginnings of a hole.

  “Where should we bury the father?” asked Nikalys. “He deserves better than being buried with his murders.”

  Pausing his digging for a moment, Broedi scanned the area.

  “Perhaps ask the eldest what her wishes are.”

  Asking a daughter where she would like them to bury her father was not a conversation Nikalys wished to have. Nevertheless, he nodded and turned, walking up the rise and to the front of the house.

  As he rounded the corner, he was surprised to see Kenders sitting on the ground beside Jak, the little girl curled up in her lap. Even at this distance, Nikalys could see that his sister was crying.

  He scanned the area for the older sister, but did not see her. Curious, he glanced back to Kenders and she jutted her chin in the direction of the house. Nikalys turned, looked into the ruined home, and saw the young woman sitting beside the dead farmer. Nikalys heart dropped into his stomach.

  Taking a deep breath, he slowly strode toward the sand pile and stopped just beyond the former threshold, beside the flat-paneled door on the ground. Keeping his voice quiet and respectful, he murmured, “Pardon me?”

  The woman glanced up at him. Tiny trails of tears lined her face, yet her expression was not one of grief. In fact, if not for the wetness on her cheeks, Nikalys would not have known she was upset. Her icy stoicism made Broedi look jovial.

  She eyed him for half a heartbeat and then went back to staring at her father without every saying a word.

  Sighing, Nikalys stepped over the fallen door and moved to an overturned chair. Righting it, he sat down and waited. Neither one of them said a word for a long time.

  The faint sounds of Broedi’s shovel entering earth and the muffled sobs from the clearing outside mixed with breeze swishing through vegetable fields and prairie grass. As long as she did not yell at him to go away, Nikalys would sit here quietly, lending a bit of life to this house of death.

  Eventually, the woman broke the quiet, her voice quiet and subdued yet with an edge to it.

  “Father told them they could have our entire harvest if they would just leave. But they…wouldn’t…”

  She trailed off, biting her lip. Nikalys stared at her profile and remained silent.

  Shaking her head slowly, she said, “They cut his throat without a second thought. Right in front of Helene.” Her voice caught. “She watched him die.” Her head snapped up and she glared at Nikalys. “She’s only four!” She looked and sounded like she wanted to kill the men all over again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  He wanted to help her somehow, to offer some consolation, but he knew nothing could counter the anguish she was feeling. After all, Yellow Mud had happened less than three weeks ago. Words were powerless against the hurt she must be feeling.

  She stared back to her father, shaking her head. With a venomous twist in her tone, she muttered, “I’m glad they’re all dead.”

  “All but one,” corrected Nikalys quietly. “He’s tied up out back.”

  The woman’s gaze shot to him.

  “One’s alive?”

  Nikalys could only nod in response. The sudden mix of fire and ice in the woman’s eyes startled him.

  The woman jumped to her feet and hurried past him, clambering over the sand pile and rushing around the corner of the house. Suddenly uneasy, Nikalys quickly stood and followed her.

  When he reached the rear of the cottage, she was already two dozen paces ahead of him, heading down the hill, striding with purpose, almost running. Broedi had stopped digging and was watching the woman approach, silent. She ignored the hillman entirely, staring instead at the men on the ground. Stopping in front of the bound and gagged man, she reached down and drew a beltknife from the body next to him.

  Nikalys’ eyes went wide as he began to rush down the slope.

  “Wait!”

  Without a moment’s pause, the young woman slit the unconscious man’s throat, drawing the blade across the bandit’s neck in one, swift—and very deep—stroke. Blood gushed and bubbled from his wound.

&
nbsp; Nikalys skidded to a halt and stared.

  The woman dropped the knife and stood over the man, watching the life drain from the brigand. He died without ever waking up.

  Hurrying farther down the slope, Nikalys glared at Broedi and demanded, “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  Broedi looked over at him, his expression calm and serene.

  “The man helped kill her father. He deserved death.”

  “He was defenseless!” exclaimed Nikalys. “Tied up! Hells, he was unconscious!”

  With a slight tilt of his head, Broedi asked, “Would such a man have shown you the mercy you are willing to confer upon him?”

  Nikalys glared at the hillman, wanting to argue but unable to do so. Logically, Broedi was right. These men would have not given a second thought to killing him or anyone else. Yet it still felt wrong.

  The woman turned, looked at Broedi, and said, “I was rude and ungrateful to you earlier. Thank you for saving my sister and me.” She peered over at Nikalys. “Both of you.”

  Nikalys stared in wonderment at the woman. She had just murdered a helpless man and—two breaths later—she was apologizing for being impolite.

  “You are welcome,” rumbled Broedi, inclining his head. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  The beautiful young woman nodded once, moved to the free shovel, and picked it up. “If you will excuse me, I would like to go bury my father.” Glaring at them both, she added firmly, “A task I wish to do alone.” She immediately turned and walked up the slope, heading toward one of the vegetable fields. Marching to the center of a plot of purplish-red longpeppers, she began to dig.

  Nikalys was still staring up the hill at her when the sounds of digging resumed behind him. He turned and looked at Broedi, already standing in a shallow depression. The hillman dug fast.

  “Does what she did not bother you?”

  Without pausing, Broedi said, “Some lives are not worth mourning, uori.” Tossing a shovelful of dirt aside, he glanced at Nikalys. “There is another shovel by the house.”

  In no mood to help Broedi, Nikalys shook his head in disgust and muttered, “Dig the blasted hole yourself.”

  Spinning around, he climbed the slope and strode toward the front of the house, walking past the woman in the field without glancing at her. In a daze, he wandered back to where Kenders sat with Jak, holding the toddler. He collapsed to the grass and stared at nothing.

  “What’s wrong, Nik?”

  With disbelief filling his voice, he said, “She just walked up to the man, took a knife and—” He stopped, realizing that the little girl was staring at him with big, brown eyes, listening to every word he said. She was a miniature version of her older sister but with shorter hair. Shaking his head, he mumbled, “No matter.”

  The girl kept staring at him. After a few moments, she spoke, her voice tiny.

  “Did you stop the bad men? They hurt my Papa.”

  Kenders started a little and looked down at the girl. Eyeing Nikalys, Kenders murmured, “That’s the first thing she’s said since we found her. Sabine tried to get her to talk, but Helene just sat here, crying. She finally stopped, but…” She trailed off and gave Helene a small squeeze.

  As Nikalys stared at Helene, a potent, swirling mixture of sorrow and sympathy filled him. What he and Kenders had been through had been difficult, but to be four years old and watch your father have his throat slit was unthinkable.

  He summoned as comforting a smile as he could and said softly, “Yes, Helene. We stopped the bad men. They won’t hurt anyone ever again. I promise.”

  Helene remained still for a few heartbeats, appearing as if she were considering his words. Then, she climbed from Kenders’ lap, scurried across the grass, and climbed into his, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her head underneath his chin. In a petite, sad voice, she mumbled, “Thank you.”

  Unsure how else to respond, he enveloped the little girl in his arms.

  “You’re welcome, Helene.”

  He looked over to his sister and found her wiping away tears with the back of her hands. Feeling wetness rolling down his own cheek, he squeezed the little girl in his arms, wanting nothing more than to shield her from any more hurt the world would throw at her.

  Chapter 42: Sisters

  Kenders eyed the cookpot hanging over the fire while considering a third helping of soup. It was surprisingly good, despite its odd combination of ingredients.

  Earlier, when Sabine had been tossing in sliced longpeppers, chopped bits of a red fleshy fruit, and chunks of a white tuber, Kenders had stared on, wary at what eveningmeal was becoming yet happy they would not be eating rockeye tonight. After expressing her relief regarding the variation from the salted fish, Sabine had asked if she could have some.

  Nikalys had handed the dried strips over, frowning as Sabine tossed a few into the pot with the vegetables. Amazingly, when they tried the soup, it was delicious, the saltiness of the fish mixed well with the odd vegetables. Even Nikalys had admitted so.

  Deciding she had already eaten too much, Kenders set her bowl down and stared west. The sun hovered above the horizon to the west, half-hidden by heavy, voluminous clouds that looked as if they held rain. Mu’s orb shone bright, lining the dark gray clouds with a bright orange-tinted silver thread. The stiff breeze blowing over the grasslands carried the hint of wet metal in the air, confirming Kenders suspicions that rain was coming.

  The campsite was quiet, as it had been for some time now.

  She sighed and looked across the fire to Nikalys. Helene was sitting in his lap again. It seemed that the little girl had already formed an attachment to him. To Nikalys’ credit, he had handled the situation wonderfully. He had not complained once.

  Beyond some mundane chatter about stew, there had been little conversation since making camp several dozen paces away from the house. Kenders did not know what to say, and apparently neither did Nikalys. Jak was softly snoring still, blissfully unaware of what was going on, and Sabine seemed about as talkative a person as Broedi.

  Shortly after that first time Helene climbed into Nikalys’ lap, Kenders had gone to retrieve their horses and tied them to the wagon, next to the dead bandits’ seven horses. Seeing Sabine digging the vegetable field, Kenders approached and asked if she would like help. In a manner that was neither polite nor particularly rude, Sabine declined the offer, never ceasing her digging.

  Leaving the woman alone, Kenders moved down to where Broedi labored and again offered her help. He declined as well, instead asking her to look through the dead men’s belongings and see if there was anything of use.

  She made a small pile of coin purses, knives, swords, and arrow quivers before tucking them in her riding dress and carrying them up the slope. As she moved past Sabine, she saw that the young woman was nearly done with digging her father’s grave. After dumping the collected items on the back of the wagon—it seemed as good as place as any—she moved over to Nikalys, gently pried Helene from his arms, and, with a silent nod, indicated that he should help carry the father’s body to the field. Nikalys frowned, but stood nonetheless, and went to retrieve the girls’ father.

  Kenders had done whatever she could to occupy Helene’s mind with anything other than the day’s events. She learned that the girl’s favorite flower was something called a ‘purple dancer’ and her favorite song was Happy Times at the Fair. Kenders had asked Helene to teach it to her and was just getting the melody when Nikalys rounded the house’s corner and waved her over. She stood and looked toward Helene with a questioning expression. Nikalys nodded and waved again.

  She carried Helene to the field where she found a sweaty, stoic Sabine standing next to a hole and mound of fresh earth. Their father was inside, arms folded over his chest. Sabine took Helene from Kenders with a quiet word of thanks and moved to stand next to the grave.

  Nikalys and Kenders left the sisters alone and returned to where Jak slept. Broedi finished burying the bandits and came to sit with them. No one spo
ke a word.

  After a time, Sabine and Helene exited the field and moved to the house. Helene sat on the pile of sand while Sabine began to gather things from their home, seemingly intent on leaving with her sister at once. Broedi insisted the pair stay, pointing out there might be more bandits in the region. She agreed to stay the night—reluctantly—and then surprised them all by offering to make soup.

  Kenders sighed and turned her attention to Broedi. The hillman was sitting a half-dozen paces from the fire, smoking his pipe and staring into the fire. Occasionally, he would look up and either glance at Sabine or stare over his shoulder, up the hill, and to the north.

  Done eating and having no one with who to talk, Kenders was alone with her thoughts. She shifted her gaze to the ruined farmhouse and frowned, trying to make sense of what she had done earlier with the Strands.

  The Weave of Air had been intentional, although the strength of it was not. The second Weave had been a complete accident. She remembered staring at the wall, wishing it were gone so they could see the bandits inside. Suddenly, a fully complete Weave of brown Strands popped into existence and settled around the wall. A wave of exhaustion washed over her, almost knocking her from Smoke’s saddle.

  It bothered her that she had reached for the Strands without a moment’s hesitation. While it seemed natural at the time, her open embrace of magic made her uncomfortable in retrospect. With each day that passed, fate seemed to be nudging her further along a path that she was not sure she wanted to tread.

  She sighed and reached up to run her fingers through her hair. Life had been simpler before she knew she could touch the Strands.

  “Did you know I like sweetberries?”

  Startled from her reverie, Kenders turned to look at Helene. The little girl was staring up at Nikalys from his lap.

  Nikalys glanced down, his eyes remaining unfocused for a moment before locking on to Helene’s face. It seemed as if he had been elsewhere, too.

  “Pardon?”

  “I like sweetberries,” said Helene. “Do you?”

  A small, amused grin spread over Nikalys’ face.