“What could you gather about the graves?”
Grimacing as if he had swallowed something rotten, Wil said, “Hunsfin wanted to dig them both up, but Blainwood and I refused. He left the single grave alone, but said he had a feeling about the larger one, so he found a shovel, and dug into one side, just deep enough to find that whoever was buried there was facedown.”
“Were they now?” asked Nathan. “That’s surprising?”
“Why?” asked Nundle, glancing between Nathan and Wil. “What does that mean?”
“That they were lawbreakers,” answered Nathan. “Murderers or the like.” Looking back to Wil, he asked, “How many bodies were in the grave?”
“We figured six or seven,” said Wil. “Hunsfin actually laid atop the mud to count how many of him would fit in the grave.”
“And how big was the house?”
“Large enough to hold three or four people. We found three sleeping pallets, so I would say three.”
Quickly developing a theory as to what happened, Nathan asked, “And you said there was a single grave in the field nearby, true?”
“Yes,” replied Wil. “Although why it was in the same field they grow crops is odd.”
“Different customs for different people, Wil,” said Nathan. “Could Blainwood tell how many horses had been there? I’m guessing…upwards of ten?”
Wil paused for a moment before answering, “He said nine or ten.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
“Think it through, Wil. One of two things happened. Either the people we are following attacked the farm, killed seven or eight people—at a house that holds three—buried one in a field and the rest together like criminals, or…”
He trailed off, wanting Wil to come up with the likely alternative on his own. It would make the footman’s story more convincing when he shared it with the rest of the men, which was something Nathan was counting on him doing.
His eyes opening a little wider, Wil said, “Or, they stopped an attack, killed the brigands, and buried them face down. Perhaps the lone grave belonged to whomever the bandits attacked, probably a farmer.”
“Exactly,” praised Nathan. “Excellent job.”
Wil began to nod his head slowly, saying, “Well, that would certainly explain everything else we found.”
Nathan’s eyebrows drew together.
“Everything else?”
“Yes. Away from the house, we found the remnants of a campfire, not much more than a day old. And the trail that led east, along the river with at least four, perhaps five horses.”
A disappointed frown spread over Nathan’s face.
“You did not mention any of that.”
Wil’s face fell.
“I didn’t, did I?”
Nathan rewarded his men with praise when they performed well, but remained firm with them when they did not. With a hard edge to his voice, he said, “Your reports need work, Footman Eadding.”
Sitting straight in his saddle, Wil said, “Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“You had plenty of time to think through what you needed to say on your ride back.”
Pressing his lips together, Wil said, “Yes, Sergeant. I certainly did.” The young man was upset, but Nathan could tell it was with himself and not his sergeant.
Luckily, what Wil had left out did not jeopardize the scenario Nathan envisioned. However, it did change what happened after the attack at the farm. Those whom they were following had ridden away with two more horses—and probably people—than when they had arrived.
“I assume that Hunsfin and Blainwood followed the trail east, then?”
Nodding, Wil, said, “They did. We camped last night at the farmhouse, but once the clouds cleared and there was enough moonlight, Hunsfin and Blainwood left to follow the trail and I started my ride back here.”
“It’s dangerous to ride at night, Wil.”
“I went slow until morning.”
Nathan did not have too much room to chastise the young man. Since meeting Nundle, he had kept his men marching past twilight every day, stopping only when all the stars were out. He did not like doing it, but he was hoping to close the distance on their prey.
“How far to the first campsite?” asked Nathan.
“Not much more than a mile.”
“Good. Now fall back into the column.”
The young footman nodded and pulled his reins back, halting his horse to wait for the body of Sentinels to catch up to him while Nathan and Nundle rode ahead.
Nathan remained silent for a time, lost in his thoughts. A glance at Nundle revealed the tomble slouched in his saddle, his eyes forward without looking at anything in particular. There was an introspective air about him.
Twisting to the side, pretending to stretch his back, Nathan chanced a look back at the company behind him. A handful of men were riding near Wil’s horse, listening to the footman speak. Nathan smiled.
“I had a high opinion of you before we met, Sergeant, but you continue to impress.”
Swinging back around in his saddle, Nathan glanced at Nundle. The tomble was still staring southward.
“Pardon?”
“At first, I didn’t understand why you were leading him on that way, but now?” Nundle paused, turned, and gave Nathan a sly grin. “In no time at all, the story about how these ‘outlaws’ helped save the innocent farmers from dastardly bandits will make its way through the ranks. I would not be surprised if, by this time tomorrow, there had been thirty murderers in the grave they found. All stopped by those we follow.” He lifted a single eyebrow. “I’d bet a gold round—or ducat, if you prefer—that the word ‘heroes’ will have been whispered a dozen times by nightfall.”
Nathan returned Nundle’s slight smile with one of his own.
“I keep forgetting you’re much older than you appear.” He had been shocked when Nundle said he was over seventy years old. Even baby-faced Wil Eadding looked older than Nundle. “Thankfully, young Wil did not catch on to what I was doing. Wisdom comes with time, does it not?”
Scoffing at the suggestion, Nundle said, “My father used to say, ‘If age is all it takes to be sage, why are there so many old fools?’”
Nathan’s grin widened. “True. Very true.” After sparing a glance back at the soldiers, he looked back to the tomble, lowered his voice, and asked, “Think you can tell me what about the burn marks interested you? And the sand at the house?”
“Do you mind if I wait until we reach the campsite first? I want to be sure before I say anything.” He glanced over. “Oh, and when we get there, keep the men back.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“I doubt it. I merely wish to speak in private.”
Nathan nodded, turned to his detachment, and ordered a quick trot. He wanted to get to this campsite as quickly as possible.
Soon, an area of trampled grass broke the constant blanket of green ahead of them. Halting the men, he ordered them to hold back while he and Nundle inspected the camp. As he dismounted, he noted Cero off to the side, away from the rest of the men, staring at him with a strange intensity.
Nundle had already slid off his small horse was walking toward the campsite. Nathan followed, leaving his horse with Nundle’s. As he approached the campsite, he found the tomble strolling about the edges, stopping to inspect patches of charred ground spread about haphazardly. It looked as if a drunken, blind man with a lit torch had stumbled all over the camp, constantly falling down.
When Nundle dropped to his hands and knees and pressed his face near the ground to sniff one of the charred areas, Nathan’s curiosity got the best of him.
“Nundle?”
“Hmm?”
“I take it these patches mean something to you?”
“They do.” Nundle hopped up and brushed himself off. “You remember what I’ve shared with you about magic—how it is a weaving of one or more types of Strands?”
Nodding, Nathan muttered, “And?”
“Well, during my time
at the Academy of Veduin, when I was trying my hand with Fire—and failing miserably at it—the first thing my preceptor did was have us attempt simple exercises. She wanted those of us attuned with Fire to have the utmost control possible. Fire Strands are….volatile. They bounce all over the place, dancing, flickering. At least that’s what the other acolytes said. I never felt even the smallest flash of orange. I was so disappointed! You see, I had found a book a while back on how to combine Will, Soul, and Fire to make these wondrous creatures called ‘fibríaals.’ Soul and Will I can do, but Fire? No matter what—”
“Nundle?” said Nathan, cutting the tomble off. When it came to magical topics, his new friend had a tendency to ramble. Nodding at the burnt grass, he said, “What are these?”
“Yes, well, even for those who could touch Fire, learning to control the Strands was a struggle. For the first few weeks, there would be…accidents when a Weave would go awry. The acolytes’ courtyard was covered with charred, black marks.” He looked around the trampled grass. “Similar to these.”
Nathan looked about the days-old camp, his eyes narrowing.
“You’re saying we’re following someone who is just learning how to control their abilities?”
Lines split Nundle’s brow, his eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips together. “Nathan, if this—” he gestured around him “—was the only thing we knew about them, I would have said that we are dealing with novices. Untrained mages, even.”
“If they’re only learning, how did they defeat the bandits at the farm so easily? We’re following three people here, and they stopped seven or eight marauders?”
“I was thinking the same thing, but then your young scout spoke about the missing wall and sand pile. Remember what he said? The sand was identical in color to the remaining walls! The grains uniform in size!”
“I remember, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t understand the significance.”
“The sand used to be the missing wall, Nathan. Pulverized into dust! How?”
Again, Nathan had no logical answer. Of course, with magic, logic no longer applied. “You said there was a type of Strand…earth or stone, right? Could some of those have been used to do it?” He felt uncomfortable even suggesting the possibility. Not thinking of magic as a tool of criminals was going to take some getting used to.
Nodding enthusiastically, Nundle said, “Exactly. Strands of Stone. Ah, but now here’s the problem with that. To rip apart a single wall, leaving the other three untouched, all without uprooting the earth itself takes a great deal of power and skill. Only a master of Stone could do something like that.”
Nathan frowned, imagining what would happen if an army had a mage like that. Stone fortresses would be useless. The tactical advantage could be tremendous. The idea excited him until he thought about being on the other side of such a maneuver.
Staring at the tomble, he asked, “So, then. Are they beginners, novices, or masters?”
Nundle peered up at him, his expression blank. With a shrug of his shoulders, he said, “I don’t know.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Nathan dropped his head, stared at his boots, and sighed, “Wondrous. Yet another unknown.”
Nathan did not like making decisions based on unknowns and assumptions. It often led to undesired results. Lifting his head, he peered at the little tomble.
“Is there anything you think you will gain from visiting the farm?”
Nundle considered the question before replying, “If you trust your scout’s report, no. Why? What are you thinking?”
“That we don’t waste any more time than is necessary,” said Nathan as he turned to walk back to his mount.
His horse looked up at him as he approached, staring at him while chewing a mouthful of grass. Placing a boot in the stirrup, he swung his other leg over, and settled in the saddle. Shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, he looked to the southeast, away from the trail that headed almost due south.
Nundle scampered over to his own small chestnut horse and started to pull himself up in the saddle. Nathan had stopped asking if he needed help after the first time had earned him a scathing look and a terse “No, thank you.”
Nathan looked over his shoulder and called, “Eadding!”
The young footman directed his horse forward, coming to stand alongside Nathan.
“Sergeant?”
“You said their path headed away from the farm and along the river, correct?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“And the river appeared to head southeast?”
“Yes, Sergeant. More east than south, though.”
Picking a single tree fortuitously placed among the grassy plains on the distant southeastern horizon, Nathan pointed and said, “We head that way. Wil, take a few men and ride ahead. Stay in view, though.”
The young footman nodded and moved back to the company of men, calling out a few names. Wil and three others began to trot ahead, over the plains and toward the lone tree, the sound of hooves thudding on the rain-softened ground filling the air.
By now, Nundle had made it up on his horse, breathing hard from the struggle.
“We’re going to leave the trail?”
“Yes, Nundle, we are.”
A moment passed. Nundle frowned.
“Is that wise?”
With a dry smile, Nathan replied, “I don’t know.” Turning so he was facing Nundle, he said, “I might not have read many books about distant lands, but I have studied maps and guides of our neighbors. The river ahead of us is the Erona. It is a very wide, very deep river. They will not be able to forge it.”
“You forget they may have other means at their disposal, Nathan.”
The sergeant knew exactly about what Nundle was talking. Magic.
Nathan pressed his lips together and said firmly, “I have not forgotten. I’m merely hoping that after what they had to do at the farm, they’re going to try to remain quiet and unobtrusive.”
Nundle said softly, “It’s a gamble.”
“It is,” admitted Nathan. “But it’s a small one compared to what you have proposed we do should we catch them.”
Nundle lifted an eyebrow and conceded, “That’s true.” Staring closely at Nathan, he asked, “Have you thought any more about my suggestion?”
“I have.”
“And?”
A few moments passed before Nathan replied, “I believe I am coming around.”
With a satisfied nod of his head, Nundle said, “Good.” The tomble turned his head to watch the retreating backs of the men riding across the prairie. “How are you going to tell your men?”
Nathan sighed and muttered, “Still working that out, Nundle.” Before Nundle could press him further, he looked behind him and called, “Quick march, trot!” The alternating periods of trotting with walking cover more ground while keeping the horses relatively fresh.
Within moments, the Red Sentinels were thundering across the plains of the Southlands.
Chapter 46: East
Mu’s Leisure Day
A turn ago, Jak found the idea of riding a horse unsettling. Now, however, despite the persistent soreness, the rhythmic shifting of Hal’s stride was relaxing, lulling him into a lazy, restful daze. He might have even fallen asleep in the saddle were it not for his uncomfortably damp clothes.
The weather was changing. A rainstorm had moved through a few days ago, bringing with it a fresh, cool breeze that had remained constant ever since. Another short squall blew through this morning, dropping fat, chilled raindrops that soaked the entire group to the skin. Everyone was still drying out.
Jak rode at the rear of their unusual procession, peering ahead at the horses and people ahead of him. When they had taken two of the bandit’s horses with them when leaving the Moiléne farm and turned the other five loose. The plan had been for Sabine and Helene to each have their own horse, but Helene most often rode with someone and, given the choice, she always chose Nikalys. The little girl had attached he
rself to him.
All day, every day, Helene sat in his lap, pestering him with question after question. At the moment, she was focused on the Isaacs’ life in Yellow Mud. Her innocent inquiries were unintentionally clever, and the arbitrary manner in which she asked them managed to keep most everyone smiling.
Why do grapes grow on vines but olives grow on trees?
Why do you need a barn to store your wagons in when Papa just left his outside?
What is an ash tree and why is it called an ash tree? Did somebody burn it?
Nikalys bore the unending barrage with more grace and patience than Jak would have guessed he had, responding to each question as best as he was able. When he did not have the answer—or the question itself was unanswerable—he would make one up. Earlier, Helene had asked why a hoe was called a hoe. Nikalys, with a straight face, explained that whenever you struck the ground with it, you must yell “Hoe!” else the tool would not bite into the earth. Helene seemed dubious at first, but Nikalys insisted it was true. With a giggle and a shrug, the little girl seemed to accept it as fact.
Jak marveled at the little girl’s resilience. Perhaps she was still too young to understand fully what had happened at the farm. Truthfully, Jak was not entirely sure he understood everything about that day. He remembered very little after being shot by the arrow.
Three days ago, he awoke the morning following the attack, greeted by a pounding headache and a very sore stomach. Jak peered down and—to his amazement—all he saw was a bright red scar where the shaft had pierced his gut.
With a groan, he sat up and found the stunning, raven-haired woman from the farmhouse resting in the grass a few paces away, staring at him with cool yet curious eyes. Kenders introduced her as Sabine and Jak stumbled over himself while trying to offer a proper greeting. He started and stopped three times, before finally murmuring a simple, “I’m Jak.”
While Broedi saddled the horses and prepared to leave, Nikalys and Kenders shared everything that had happened while Jak had slept. He was stunned to discover that both Helene and Sabine—the Moiléne sisters—were also mages.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 47