Progeny (The Children of the White Lions)

by Kaelin, R. T.

  Nundle reached into his pocket, pulled out the folded parchment, and, leaning over, placed it in Nathan’s outstretched hand. Nodding his thanks, the sergeant turned to his men.

  “This is the message that brought our little friend to us. Please, try to restrain yourself as I read it.”

  The soldiers stared at each other, clearly uneasy, as Nathan unfolded the parchment and began to read. Despite his request, he had to pause a few times as the men reacted. When he revealed that Preceptor Myrr had been responsible for the destruction of Yellow Mud, many of the soldiers cursed, turning visibly angry.

  Once Nathan was able to calm them, he resumed reading. As he neared the final lines aloud, Nundle braced himself. He doubted this would go over well.

  “‘I have sent word to our friend in Smithshill to be vigilant for the man who apparently escaped. Fix this.’” Nathan paused, looked up to his men, and said solemnly, “It is signed, ‘Everett.’”

  A moment of stunned silence passed before shouts of disbelief pierced the air.

  “No!”

  “Never!”

  “It’s a lie!”

  While many cried out, some soldiers sat silent, nodding slowly, seemingly unsurprised.

  One of the Sentinels shouted, “Perhaps it’s from someone else named Everett!”

  Another called, “Oh, come on, Bedwin! Truly?”

  Bedwin stared at Nathan and asked, “What do you think, Sergeant?” Most of the soldiers turned to eye Nathan as well, waiting for his assessment. Despite everything, these longlegs still looked to him for guidance.

  Letting out a heavy sigh, Nathan said, “I believe that this missive is in fact from the duke. Need I mention what is muttered in dark corners about Duke Everett’s ascension to the Sovereign’s Chair?”

  During Nundle’s first night with the Sentinels, Nathan had shared with the tomble the rumors that swirled around Duke Everett. The duke’s father, the well-respected and well-liked Gill Redlord, had died two years ago during a hunting excursion with his son, having fallen from his horse. There were questions as to how accidental the tumble had been.

  Another soldier called out, “Who’s the friend in Smithshill?”

  Without hesitation, Nathan answered, “For my coin, I believe it to be the same man who put Fenidar—or Jhaell as he is truly named—at the head of our column.”

  Wil asked, “Are you suggesting the regent is involved, Sergeant?”

  “I am not suggesting it,” said Nathan. “I am saying it. Regent Alpert and Duke Everett are entangled in all of this.”

  Some of the longlegs grumbled, visibly uncomfortable.

  Nundle pressed his lips together. Admittedly, he knew little about the social order of the Oaken Duchies, but he suspected that accusing a duchy’s sovereign of conspiring with the Cabal was a common, happy occurrence.

  Raising his voice over the increased muttering, Nathan called, “So! This is where we are!” The murmuring quieted. “I will not order you to disobey the regent. I refuse to put you in that position. What I am going to do is something that has never happened in the history of the Sentinels.” He paused, running his gaze over the soldiers. “I am going to let you make the decision yourself.”

  While Nundle glanced over at the sergeant, surprised, the nearly fifty soldiers stared at him, their faces expressionless.

  His voice unwavering, Nathan continued, saying, “You have two choices. The first, come with me, and, when we find these ‘outlaws’ and the farmers I believe they rescued, stand with me as we try to learn their piece.”

  The men remained silent while waiting for the other option. Nundle thought it a good sign they had not immediately shouted Nathan down.

  “Your second choice is that you may arrest me for treason and resume carrying out your original orders. I promise to submit quietly and not interfere with your task.”

  The men sat in their saddles, clearly stunned.

  Nundle had suspected that Nathan would talk to the Sentinels, somehow explain things to them before approaching the Progeny. What Nathan was doing now would have never crossed Nundle’s mind as a possibility. Never.

  Shifting his gaze to the Tracker, Nathan said, “And Cero, should the men choose to arrest me, you are welcome to take Nundle to the Constables. I will not stop you.”

  Nundle turned to gape at Nathan.

  “Pardon?!”

  Nathan ignored him, his gaze reserved for his men alone.

  Wil was the first to speak, his voice full of disbelief as he asked, “Are you asking us to vote?”

  “I am.”

  Clearly dubious, Blainwood asked, “Like…for village council?”

  “Exactly,” replied the sergeant. “I have terms, though. Simple ones. Whichever choice gets the most votes wins. Those who voted the other way must abide by the decision. With or without me at the head, we proceed as a unit. Can you all agree on that?”

  The soldiers looked at one another and, after a few moments, they were nodding their heads.

  “How is this going to work?” asked Wil.

  Nathan looked to the Tracker.

  “Cero? Come here, please.”

  Cero’s suspicious gaze remained fixed on Nathan as he moved through the lines to face the sergeant.

  As the Tracker halted his horse before them, Nathan said, “Behind me stand two trees that Greya and Lamoth have conspired to place before us,” he said, invoking the names of the goddesses responsible for fate and nature. “Does everyone have their flint and steel?”

  Each soldier reached to wherever he stored his small, oiled leather pouch that contained a flint and steel striker, char cloth, shredded fibers, and oak bark tinder used for basic spark-based fire-starting.

  “Good,” said Nathan. “Cero and Nundle will each sit behind one of the trees, blindfolded.”

  Peering at Nathan, Nundle asked, “We will?”

  “Yes, Nundle. You will.” Turning to Cero, he said, “As will you, Cero. You both have an interest in seeing how this plays out, do you not?”

  Cero nodded. “I will go along with this for now.”

  Nathan looked back to Nundle. “And you?”

  Nundle stared at the sergeant, a large frown on his face. This gamble by Nathan was either a brilliant tactical move or a terrible, foolhardy mistake. Nundle could not tell which. Nathan might be willing to submit to arrest, but he most definitely was not. He supposed that should he come out on the losing end, he could always use the Strands to free himself. Putting his faith in Nathan, he nodded once.

  “I, as well.”

  Facing the soldiers, Nathan called, “One at a time, you will walk behind each tree and drop your pouch into the helmet of the person you side with. Cero, to arrest me and pursue the outlaws. Nundle, to speak with the lawbreakers and see if there is more to this tale. I will not vote. Nundle and Cero are not soldiers, they get no vote—even though we can assume their votes would surely cancel one another out. As I sent three men to carry a message to Corporal Holb, that leaves forty-seven of you. The side with at least twenty-four votes wins. I will not reveal the final count—only the ultimate decision. Is everything acceptable?”

  The men nodded slowly. They were clearly nervous.

  Glancing between Nundle and Cero, Nathan said, “After each vote, you will take out your pouch and place it in a bag. This way, no one will know another’s choice.” He studied his men. “You can vote your conscience without fear of repercussion. Are there any questions?”

  The soldiers remained quiet. A few shook their heads.

  Nathan dismounted his horse and handed the reins to the nearest soldier.

  “Eadding, Blainwood. Your helmets, please.”

  After the two soldiers unhooked the headpieces from their saddles and handed them to the sergeant, Nathan looked at Cero and Nundle.

  “Let’s get to it.”

  After Nundle and Cero dismounted, the trio walked in silence to the two trees. Nearly fifty paces of open grassland separated the healthy and di
seased oaks. Cero went left, toward the sickly tree while Nundle headed for the vibrant, strong oak. Both sat down with his back to his respective tree trunk.

  Nundle watched Nathan bend down to tie a length of cloth around Cero’s eyes. The sergeant placed one of the Sentinels’ silver, domed helmets on the ground in front of the Tracker and gave him a leather bag for the flint and steel pouches. Neither longleg said a word.

  Nathan walked to Nundle, kneeled down, and handed him a helmet and a bag.

  “Sorry to put you through this, Nundle.”

  “I would have appreciated you discussing this with me in advance.”

  “If I had, you would have tried to talk me out of it, I think.”

  “Perhaps I would have, perhaps not. Mostly likely, I would have. Regardless, I would have liked the opportunity to at least think this through.” Cocking an eye, he asked, “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

  “More than you know, Nundle. A man should choose his own fate. Especially when it comes to something like this. I cannot—I will not choose it for them.”

  Nundle regarded his friend for a moment before sighing and taking off his wide-brimmed hat.

  “Blindfold me, then.”

  The sergeant took a piece of rough burlap and wrapped it around Nundle’s head and eyes, tying it off in the back. When he was done, he patted Nundle’s shoulder and said, “Ketus be with you.”

  “I think you could use the luck more than I.”

  A smile entered Nathan’s voice as he replied, “Oh, I think not.”

  Nundle listened to the sergeant’s boots scrape against the ground as he moved between the two trees, leaving Nundle to wonder what he had meant by his last statement. Looking around him, Nundle tested the cloth’s effectiveness at blocking his sight. He realized if he strained, he could still make out basic shapes through the blindfold, but no details. He had reached up to scratch his nose—the burlap itched quite a bit—when Cero called out to him.

  “Once this nonsense is over, mage, I intend to place you under arrest!”

  Facing the direction of Cero’s voice, Nundle called, “I’m not even a citizen of the duchies! I fail to see how your misguided laws apply to me.”

  “Any magic in the duchies is forbidden!”

  “Tell, me something, Cero! How old were you when you first discovered you could do magic?”

  Silence, filled only by the whisper of prairie grass and oak leaves teased by a gentle wind. When Cero finally responded, his tone was short and terse.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Oh, come now,” retorted Nundle. “It’s how you track, isn’t it? You feel magic when it’s used! What kind can you touch, I wonder? Will? Soul? Fire? Life?”

  “Quiet!” shouted Cero, his tone was hot and defensive. “You are the lawbreaker! Nothing you can say will change that!”

  Nathan interrupted their conversation, shouting, “Both of you be quiet! I’m sending the first soldier now!”

  Nundle bit his tongue and waited, nervous with anticipation.

  He heard a faint rustling in Cero’s direction, followed by a clink as a soldier dropped his pouch into Cero’s helmet. Nundle could clearly envision the satisfied smirk on the Tracker’s face. The soldier moved past Nundle—pausing briefly as though to give the illusion he was dropping his pouch into Nundle’s helm—continued around the tree, and back toward the Sentinels. Nundle was disappointed by the start, but rationalized it was but one vote.

  The next soldier approached Nundle first. After rounding the tree, the longleg stopped for a moment and then moved to Cero. Nundle’s heart sank as a rock dropped in a pond when he heard a second clink for Cero.

  The next three longlegs also chose Cero’s side, each muffled clink dashing Nundle’s hopes even further. Finally, the sixth soldier dropped his pouch into Nundle’s helmet. After the longleg passed, Nundle reached in to the metal helm, removed the pouch, and placed it in the leather satchel next to him.

  The soldiers passed quicker now, one arriving almost immediately after the previous had left.

  It did not take long before Nundle stopped worrying about the outcome of the vote. While the first five sided with Cero, the next forty-two soldiers all dropped their pouch into Nundle’s helm. Once the majority was secured, Nundle sat back, relaxed, and marveled at what was happening.

  Once the forty-seventh and final soldier left, Nathan called out, “Cero! Nundle! Hold while I come to tally!”

  Moments later, Nundle heard the steady stride of boots in the grass. As the footsteps drew near, Nundle reached up and pulled the blindfold off his head. Nathan approached and dropped to a knee, a slight smile on his face.

  “Forty-one or forty-two?”

  With open surprise, Nundle answered, “Forty-two. But…how did you…” He trailed off, eyes narrowing. “You knew how they were going to vote?”

  Nathan’s smile turned sly. “Not all of them. Hunsfin is a tough man to read at times.” He picked up the bag with the pouches of flint and steel and gave Nundle a hand up.

  As Nundle brushed bits of grass and dirt off his clothes, he asked, “If you knew how this would turn out, why did you do it?”

  “Because whatever happens from this point forward, their choice led them to it. They have a stake in things now. Infinitely more so than had I ordered them to follow my lead.”

  With that, he turned and began to walk toward where Cero sat.

  Nundle stared at Nathan’s back a moment, thinking over the soldier’s words, before following. As he passed between the two trees, he looked over at the soldiers waiting patiently beside their horses. Hurrying to catch up, Nundle and Nathan reached Cero at the same time. The Tracker sat, slumped over, the burlap strip still tied around his eyes.

  Stopping a few paces away, Nathan said, “You can take off the blindfold yourself, Cero.”

  The Tracker reached up, yanked the brown cloth off, and glared up at the sergeant.

  “This charade does not absolve you of your crime, Sergeant Trell. This vote has no standing in duchy law!”

  “I wonder,” mused Nathan. “Would you have said the same thing if you had won?”

  Cero remained silent but continued to glower.

  Nathan squatted down, looked the Tracker in the eye, and said, “This is my offer, Cero. You and the five men who voted with you can leave. Now. Ride away to the regent or Fenidar—or whatever the blasted ijul’s name is—and tell them you haven’t the slightest idea where the people you were sent to find are. Other than ‘in the eastern Southlands.’ I doubt they’ll be happy.”

  Cero’s face twisted with frustration. He did not seem to like that option much.

  “Or,” began Nathan, “You can come along quietly and see for yourself what is truly going on. If you still feel the need to run and report after we catch up with these ‘outlaws,’ I will let you—and anyone else who wants to—ride away, untouched. You have my word.”

  Eyeing the sergeant, Nundle said, “Are you sure that’s a wise idea? I mean—”

  Nathan held a hand, interrupting him.

  “I’m sure, Nundle.”

  The Tracker and the soldier eyed each other for a number of heartbeats. Eventually, Cero said through gritted teeth, “I will come.”

  “A wise choice,” muttered Nathan, rising from his crouch. “Now, we will go over and tell the men the results. You will both agree the vote was fair and never mention the total. Never. Is that clear?”

  When both Cero and Nundle nodded their agreement, Nathan took Cero’s bag of flint and steel, emptied it into Nundle’s nearly full bag, and said, “Let’s go hand these out and get moving.”

  Cero stood and began walking back to the soldiers, leaving Nundle and Nathan behind.

  As Nundle watched the Tracker scurry away, he murmured, “Are you sure about this? He is trouble. The preceptor did something to him.”

  “I know,” said Nathan. He slung the bag over his shoulder and began to walk away from the tr
ee, back to the soldiers. Nundle followed. After a few steps, the sergeant looked over. “Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘Fools surround themselves with friends, wise men surround themselves with enemies?’”

  “No,” said Nundle. “Doesn’t seem to make much sense.”

  “If Cero is here, then he’s not causing problems elsewhere.”

  “I see. Well, have you ever heard the saying, ‘Be wary of the tame snake; he bites when you least expect?’”

  “No, I have not.” A pensive frown crossed his Nathan’s face. “I see your point, though.” Looking down to Nundle, he asked, “Is that a bit of Boroughs’ wisdom?”

  Wearing a slight smile, Nundle shook his head.

  “Actually, I just made it up.”

  Even though the pair chuckled over the jest, Nundle could not shake the feeling that keeping Cero around was a bad idea.

  Chapter 49: Ruins

  Kenders sat astride Smoke, shaking her head in awe as she peered at the ancient fort. She could not fathom why something this massive stood isolated in the middle of the plains. All of Yellow Mud would have fit inside, twice over.

  The ruins were still a quarter-mile away, but Broedi had called for their halt here. Nobody had spoken a word since stopping. Nikalys finally broke the quiet, echoing her own thoughts.

  “Why in the Nine Hells would someone build this monstrous thing here?”

  Broedi rumbled, “Ages ago, small city-states covered much of what is now the duchies. When L’antico Impero arrived on the eastern shores, they marched west, warring as they went, building forts to ensure their dominance of areas once they were conquered.” He nodded at the towering walls. “This is one of them.”

  Kenders asked, “How long ago was this built?”

  “I am not sure, uora. Before the birth of the Oaken Kingdom and that was eight centuries ago.”

  Kenders shook her head in quiet wonderment. Last year seemed a long time ago to her. Eight hundred years was an impossible span of time to consider.

  Jak asked, “Are you sure we can’t just go take a closer look now?”

  “We wait,” rumbled the hillman. “It will be safer in the morning.”