“Bless the gods…”
Gawking at the sight below, he shook his head in disbelief. The Borderlands had nothing like this. Much like ijuli, ‘rivers’ existed only in the stories told by playmen. During his time in Demetus and journeys through the western Marshlands, he had seen plenty of water—more than ever before—but it was all dank and stagnant.
After a moment, he noticed two men standing at the bridge’s edge, staring up at him. The pair wore matching uniforms, reminding Zecus of the Dust Men of the Borderlands, only the colors of the clothes below were blue and gold, not white and brown.
He studied the men, thinking. Perhaps the soldiers could help him. They would certainly be able to tell him where he was. Then again, asking such questions as “where am I?” might lead down paths he did not want to travel.
Spinning his horse around, Zecus rode back around the bend. As soon as the soldiers were out of sight, he veered off the road and into the thick grass and tall trees, making his way west. After a while, he aimed south a bit, intending to make his way to the river yet ensuring he would be far enough west to remain out of sight of the soldiers.
By the time he made it to the riverbank, Mu’s orb had dipped below the horizon, the sky a layered mix of pinks and oranges. Slipping off his horse, he collapsed to the river’s shore and gulped from the river, drinking as much as he could. The water was not clear—in fact, it was rather gritty—but it soothed his parched throat. His stolen horse came and drank beside him, finishing long before he did.
Once his thirst was slaked, he scooped water and splashed it in his face, rubbing his hands over his head for the first time since the oligurt had struck him during the ambush. A giant lump stuck out from his forehead, incredibly tender to the touch and scabbed over with dried blood and bits of grass. Scratches and scrapes covered his face.
It suddenly occurred to him why the two strangers in the road had gaped at him. He thought what he must have looked like to them and laughed aloud. It was a good thing he had chosen not to speak to the soldiers. He could imagine the questions they would have had for him.
Zecus inspected his clothes and found them covered with dirt, grime, and his blood. He stripped off everything and stepped into the water to clean himself, gingerly washing the open wounds on his temple and face, wincing each time he touched the bruised knot. Then he cleaned his clothes as best he could, rubbing out most of the dirt but giving up on the blood stains.
When he was done, he put on just his underclothes and boots, mounted his horse, and hung his shirt and breeches on his stolen staff to dry. By now, the sun had disappeared below the western horizon and the sky had turned to deep reds and dark purples. Tall cliffs of clouds lined the southern horizon with distant, jagged flashes of lightning dancing between sky and ground.
Zecus shook his head in wonderment.
“Giant trees, rivers, and rain?”
This was a blessed land.
He decided to continue heading west, staying along the river for no other reason than the clean water it provided. Perhaps he would come across a village or town where he could bargain for food. Realizing he had nothing to trade, he frowned. He might have to beg.
Off in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Chapter 45: Trail
Sutri’s Leisure Day
Nathan stared over the glistening plain and almost smiled. Beads of water from last evening’s rain clung to the grass, sparkling in the morning sun. The vista almost made him forget where he was and what he was doing: riding uninvited through the Southlands with a tomble mage by his side, tracking people supposedly destined to thwart the evil gods of the Cabal.
He shook his head and sighed. It was all a bit overwhelming.
He rode lead with Nundle at his side and his fifty Red Sentinels fanned out behind them. After his discussion with Nundle by the oak, the pair had decided to continue searching for the Progeny by heading south, hoping they were going in the right direction. Yesterday, when they came across a path of recently trampled grass, Nathan had sent three scouts ahead to follow the path with instructions for one to return should they find something important. The rest of the Sentinels had been following the path since.
Nathan looked to his right, glancing at the tomble that had both solved some mysteries yet foisted new ones upon him. Nundle was riding his small chestnut horse, a bittersweet smile fixed on his face as he gazed at the glittering, sun-soaked plain.
“You look melancholy, little one.”
Nundle glanced over, arched an eyebrow, and said, “I’m not permitted to call you by your name in front of your soldiers, but you can call me ‘little one?’” His tone was one of gentle teasing.
With a quiet chuckle, Nathan said, “I do apologize, Nundle.”
Nundle bowed his head graciously.
“And I accept, of course.”
“Nevertheless, you are a touch somber this morning, are you not?”
Nodding, Nundle waved an arm, gesturing toward the grassy plains. “This reminds me of home. Granted, there is no place in the Boroughs where grass grows this high—if there were, we’d lose one another in it—but the way the sun shines on it...” He trailed off, the wistful smile returning. “It looks a bit like the winter wheat fields outside of Deepwell.”
“How long have you been away from home?”
Looking over, Nundle asked, “What day is it?”
“Sutri’s Leisure Day,” answered Nathan. As he had been keeping a record of their trip, he knew the exact day without doubt.
“Let’s see, then,” sighed Nundle, his face twisting up in thought. “It’s been five years, three turns, and…twelve days.”
Nathan’s eyes narrowed. He had expected an estimation of time, not an exact count.
Noting his confusion, Nundle smiled and explained, “I left home the day after my sixty-seventh yearday. Rather easy for me to remember.”
“Ah,” murmured Nathan, nodding his understanding. “Did you leave family behind?”
“You could say that,” said Nundle with a quiet chuckle. “Three older brothers: Mather, Coblin, Filmar. And two younger sisters: Jolsi and Rillo. My mother, father, twelve aunts and uncles, fifty-seven first-cousins, and only the gods know how many seconds and thirds.”
Nathan smiled wide.
“With a family that big, do you think they’ve noticed you’re gone?”
“Without a doubt. I sort of made a deal about things when I left.” He shook his head, frowning. “That last evening was truly unpleasant, telling my family I was leaving, but not telling them why or where.”
“Why couldn’t you tell them?”
“They didn’t—still don’t, I hope—know what I am. You see, in the Boroughs, mages are not outlaws like here, but we are looked down upon. Shunned by ‘proper’ society.” His frown grew into a full scowl. “Something I am guilty of doing myself. Before I discovered the Strands and learned I was a mage, too.” His voice dropped to just above a whisper. “It’s not a time of my life I am particularly proud of. I hurt people I cared about.”
Hoping to raise tomble’s spirits, Nathan said, “You know, you could always visit the tomble villages in the Foothills Duchy. Perhaps it will feel a bit like home.”
Looking up at the sergeant, Nundle asked, “What do you know about those?”
“Very little, truthfully. Legend says that the tombles who fought in the Demonic War founded them.”
Nundle’s eyes opened wide.
“Say that again?”
Confused, Nathan nonetheless repeated himself, saying, “Legend says that the tombles who fought in the Demonic War founded them.”
Nundle remained quiet for a moment, an astonished look on his face, before saying, “That’s what I thought you said.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “You’re saying tombles, actual tombles fought in the Demonic War?”
“Why is that so shocking?”
“For a number of reasons. First, no mention of them was ever made in any of the histories I rea
d.”
“Books often leave details out,” noted Nathan. “They’re but one person’s view of events.”
“True, but even if that were the case here, tombles do not war. Ever.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I just said. Tombles do not war. We never have.”
It was Nathan’s turn to be surprised.
“Never?”
“Never. Aggression of any sort is dealt with severely in the Boroughs. Going to war is simply not done.”
“Are your neighbors equally as peaceful?”
“Yes. The ijuli in Jularrn have always had a good relationship with the Five Boroughs. And Cartu—well, if you know anything about Cartu, you know they are too busy with themselves to bother much with us.”
“Let us say I know nothing about Cartu.”
Nundle looked over at Nathan.
“Truly?”
“Truly. I know the Great Lakes very well and a bit about the surrounding duchies, but that is all.”
Nundle stared at him for a long moment before asking, “Have you never been curious about Terrene? It’s a big world, you know.”
“I am as curious as anyone, I suppose. But my duty leaves little time for me to satisfy it.”
“Well, then, Sergeant. As we have nothing but time while we ride, would you like me to share a bit of what I have learned?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Nathan said, “Why not? It will fill the day.”
Over the rest of the morning, Nathan’s understanding of the world expanded. Quickly.
Nundle began with Cartu, telling him how over eight hundred years ago, a mountain exploded in fire and ash on the western coast of Mantioch, wiping out most of the region. The countryside remained desolate for a century before a myriad of races—men, saeljul, tijul, erijul, dirgmour, atarkas, and even divina—settled the deserted lands. They formed a new nation—the Commonwealth of Cartu—that, today, rivaled the Oaken Duchies in size. Its system of rule was much different from the duchies, with common people making decisions by consensus. Yet with so many different races and cultures, achieving agreement on anything was nigh impossible.
Interrupting the tomble, Nathan asked, “So do you have ruling lords or ladies in the Five Boroughs?”
“While there are some tombles who think themselves so worthy, no, there is no nobility. We have a much different way of governing.”
“How so?”
Nundle peered up at the taller man, squinting against sun and pulling down his wide-brimmed cloth hat to shade his eyes.
“May I speak freely? I do not wish to offend you with my opinions on your country.”
“If I have not proven that I can be open-minded, I am not sure what else I can do.”
Nundle smiled and offered a nod of concession.
“Quite true.”
Nathan had accepted everything the tomble had told him, despite some of Nundle’s outlandish claims. The same instinctual sense that had made Nathan uneasy the moment he had met the saeljul—be his name Fenidar or Jhaell—told him Nundle was an honest soul telling the truth. In fact, his immediate trust of Nundle ran so deep that the morning following their long talk by the oak tree, he ordered three men to ride as fast as they could to catch Corporal Holb with a distinct change in orders.
Sighing, Nundle said, “Well, to be honest, I find the idea of lords and ladies absurd. Nobles ruling simply because they are nobles? It’s…silly.” He shook his head, scoffing, “It takes no skill to be born to the right parents.”
Nathan’s opinion of Nundle continued to increase.
“Nundle, your observation does not offend me in the least. In fact, I happen to believe the same. Although, I would not give voice to such an opinion in most company. Some nobles might not be fit to rule, but rule they do. And questioning their authority is…unwise.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” said Nundle.
After a moment passed—filled only by the quiet rustles of the unending grass and the murmured conversations of the men behind them—Nathan looked back to the tomble and asked, “So how is ruling done in your home, then?”
“Well, in Deepwell, we had a council chosen by the tombles who live there. I served on it for two years, actually. It was dreadful.”
Smiling, Nathan said, “Villages and towns do the same here.”
“Ah, but in the Boroughs, you see, we use councils for everything. Towns, villages, cities, principals. Even the country.”
“The Five Boroughs is run by council?”
“It is.”
“Chosen by whom?”
“Every tomble over the age of fifteen.”
“What happens if people choose poorly?”
“Then we are ruled by poor leaders,” conceded Nundle. “But at least it is our own fault and not because fate saw gave some noble a lout of a son or daughter. Admittedly, it happens more often than one would hope—poor leaders elected, that is. And many are in it just for power and prestige. I almost feel sorry for them.”
Nathan sat in his saddle, thinking through what Nundle had explained and comparing it against the system with which he was familiar. After a few moments, he stared back down to the tomble.
“Honestly, your system does not sound better than ours. Just different.”
A wry smile spread over Nundle’s face and the tomble turned to look at him.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
Spotting a flicker of movement far ahead on the southern horizon, Nathan instinctively leaned forward to get a better look. All he could see was a tiny dark dot moving through the grass.
“It’s one of the scouts,” said Nundle.
Nathan glanced over to find the tomble also staring south.
“How can you tell?”
“We—tombles—have better eyes than longlegs—ah, men. I was quite surprised when I discovered the fact while I was in the—uh, when I was traveling and met other men.”
Nathan would have bet good coin Nundle had caught himself before mentioning his time in the Arcane Republic. Nathan had asked the tomble not to mention magic anywhere near the soldiers. He had yet to share the truth with his men.
As the scout drew closer, Nathan recognized him as Wil Eadding, a young footman with short, light-brown hair and a face that had yet to see a single whisker. He was a natural with the sword—by far the best in the company—but his other skills were lacking, which was why Nathan had sent him with Hunsfin and Blainwood, the two best scouts Nathan had. He had hoped Wil would learn something.
When the Wil arrived, he wheeled his reddish-brown horse around and fell in beside Nathan. The horse was breathing hard, spit flying past the bit clenched in the back of its jaw.
Looking over, Nathan said, “Morning, Wil. Does your horse need water?” He might need to say something to Wil not riding his mount so hard.
“No, Sergeant. I found some rainwater in a hole not too far back.” He reached down and patted his Hawthorne Red on the neck. “He should be fine.”
“Then report. What did you find?”
The footman glanced past the sergeant to eye Nundle.
Nathan assured the young man, saying, “It’s fine, son. Speak freely.”
For the most part, the men had taken a liking to the tomble. He was sure they had a long list of questions as to who Nundle was and why he had so readily accepted the tomble into their ranks, but they held their tongues as good soldiers were trained to do.
“Of course, Sergeant.” Facing forward, Wil nodded toward the south and said, “Not far from here are the remains of a camp. Hunsfin, Blainwood, and I searched the area yesterday, but we didn’t find much besides a burnt-out campfire, some burnt grass, and the signs of three horses.”
“Three, you say?” asked Nathan. The Trackers had found the tracks of three horses by the cliff south of Smithshill. It most likely was a coincidence, but he hoped it was not.
“Yes, Sergeant. Three.”
Nundle leaned forward and asked, “The burnt gra
ss? Describe it for me.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Wil said, “Not much to describe. There were patches of burnt grass all over. Mostly near the remains of the campfire, though.”
Nundle turned away and stared south, a pensive expression on etched on his face. Nathan could see the information meant something to him.
“Nundle?”
Giving Wil a quick glance, Nundle said, “Not now.” His reluctance to speak in front of the soldier was clear.
Nathan frowned, guessing that whatever the tomble was thinking had to do with magic. And that meant it would have to wait. Sighing, he looked back to Wil.
“So. Burnt grass. Well, as it rained all of yesterday, the burning had to have occurred sometime before two evenings ago.”
Wil nodded along in agreement. “That’s what Blainwood said.”
“I hope that is not the only reason you came back, Wil. If it’s not too far ahead, we would have come across it on our own.”
Arching his eyebrows, Wil said, “Oh, no, Sergeant, there’s more. Much more. Less than half a day’s ride from the camp, the trail leads to a small farm on a river where—” the young man paused and rubbed his hand over his face, grimacing “—well, where something happened.” He went quiet, his gaze remaining fixed on the southern horizon.
After a few moments, Nathan prompted, “I will need more than ‘something happened,’ Wil. Start from the beginning and be clear with the details, please.”
Looking over, the footman nodded.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Wil then recounted everything the three scouts had found: signs of a bloody battle in front of a ruined house missing a wall and its roof, a large pile of sand where the wall had been, and two fresh graves. A small one in a field of longpeppers and a much larger one further down the hill.
Nundle asked a few, very specific questions about the sand: what it looked like, the color of it, if the grains were all the same size or varied with chucks of rock. Guessing it all had something to do with magic, Nathan waited until the tomble was done and then asked Wil a question of his own.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 46