Progeny (The Children of the White Lions)

by Kaelin, R. T.

  A night of rest was the furthest thing from Cero’s mind. He had been standing here for some time now, but he had yet to see any sign of Latius. He was beginning to worry that the man had sneaked away before Cero began his wait.

  After the two Trackers had separated, Cero spent a long time sitting on the outskirts of camp, thinking about what he wanted to do. He never even unpacked his tent. Soldiers stared at him oddly as he sat alone on the slope, head in hands. The tomble repeatedly glanced in his direction, frowning. Cero ignored them all.

  When he had come to the bridge, he still had not known what his plans were, so he staked his horse on the eastern side of the southern bank, out of sight of the soldiers’ camp. If he did leave, he did not want the Sentinels to see him, although he was not sure how he would get across the bridge without the horse’s hooves making a racket.

  Perhaps it would not matter if he left. Sergeant Trell had said he could leave if he wanted. The tomble mage certainly would be happy to see him go. Cero would be equally glad to be away from Nundle. The tomble’s words, shouted at him when he sat beneath the diseased tree, had unnerved him, pulling back the cloth from a secret Cero had kept hidden for years.

  As a boy, Cero lived a good and simple life in a small village in the Northlands. His father was a successful blacksmith serving the area, and Cero would spend countless afternoons in the smithy, watching his father work. He was the only boy in the family, and at age eleven, his father took him as his official apprentice, licensed through the local guild in Tymnasis.

  No longer just a son visiting his father in the workshop, Cero suddenly had duties and responsibilities. He tried hard, doing whatever his father asked, and enjoyed the work without complaint. For reasons he could not name at the time, he found himself drawn to the glowing fire of the forge and the sparks kicked up by grinding wheel as metal grated against stone. At times, he was derelict in his duties, standing motionless in the middle of the smoky shop, staring at the forge’s glow or wheel’s sparks. Taking his interest to mean that he was eager to work with the tools of the trade, his father asked Cero if he would like to work the grinding wheel.

  It had proven to be a disastrous mistake.

  His father had shown him how to press the edge of the metal to grind away the rough spots of the sickle they were making but Cero was unable to concentrate on the lesson, infinitely more interested in the sparks dancing from the metal. Frustrated by Cero’s inattention, his father berated his young son, stern yet fair. Cero’s temper flared in response and, somehow, he willed the grinding-wheel sparks together, forming one giant bolt that lashed out at his father.

  His father flew back, crashed into a table, and collapsed to the ground, smoke curling up from the charred wound in the center of his chest. For the rest of the afternoon, Cero sat next to his father’s dead body, crying, not understanding what had happened.

  Two Trackers had come the next day and took him away. He never saw his mother or sisters again.

  The Constables transported him to an isolated stone building just east of Ravensport in the Long Coast Duchy and threw him into a dark, dank cell. For countless nights and days, he lied in the cell, crying, listening to the waves crashing on the rocky breakers outside his tiny window.

  Time passed. Cero grew used to his prison. Days and nights ran together. Most memories of those first few years were blurry and indistinct. It was not until later he learned why that was so.

  One day, a man dressed as a Gray Cloak had visited him. He asked Cero questions about what he had done, how much he knew about magic, and how he felt about it. Cero apparently answered the man’s questions satisfactorily as the Gray Cloak ordered him removed from his cell. The Gray Cloak took Cero and began training him to be a Tracker, helping hone his natural sensitivity to recognize when others were using magic.

  The Institute of Constables had dozens of imprisoned mages, all sufficiently subdued with relaxing herbs as Cero himself had been. On demand, they would perform small feats of magic, and Cero and the other Trackers in training would watch and learn what the forbidden craft felt and looked like. Cero learned to sense whenever a mage used fire, sparks, air, or attempted to bend a person’s will. In addition, he and the other Trackers were taught the ways of the woods and wilderness, molding them to become the perfect hunters for a very specific prey.

  By the time Cero was assigned to the office in Smithshill, he had come to accept everything the Constables had told him. Magic was wrong. Mages were dangerous criminals. The Constables performed a great public service and were necessary to keep order in the duchies.

  Now, as he stood, slouching on the Fernsford Bridge, Cero shook his head in disgust, scoffing at everything he had swallowed.

  “Lies…all of it…”

  Mages could be great heroes. These young people proved it. They were destined to stop a true evil from hurting the world. Right then, at that very moment, Cero decided that he needed to help them, no matter the consequences.

  A deep scowl spread over his face.

  “And that means that Latius can’t leave…”

  The strongest surge of chilled darkness yet rushed through him.

  He tried to fight it, but instead found himself slowly climbing the bridge’s waist-high wall. If he jumped into the water below, his struggle would be over. He could just be free of everything and stop worrying about any of this. The part of him that felt ‘real’ warred with the coldness, struggling for self-preservation against the compulsion, but it was overmatched.

  Soon, he was standing atop the wall, illuminated by the bright light of the two moons. The nighttime’s warm breeze blew past him, tousling his black locks. He could feel the edge of the limestone wall through his boots as his toes slipped over the edge. The water rushing below called to him, beckoning him to jump.

  An explosion of clear-headed resolve suddenly burst inside and beat down the darkness.

  He scooted back from the edge and slid off the wall, collapsing onto the cobbled path of the bridge. He gripped the wall hard, digging his nails into the stone, fighting against the overwhelming urge to toss himself into the river.

  “No, no, no…”

  He shut his eyes, blocking out everything, and took a few deep, ragged breaths. After a few moments, the sensation passed. He pressed his forehead on the cool stone wall. He felt like weeping.

  “It’s getting worse.”

  Perhaps the White Lion could help him. Or the girl, Kenders. Or even Nundle, despite how rude Cero had been to him. First, though, he had to address the issue of Latius. If Cero was going to help the Progeny, the first thing he had to do was stop Latius.

  Cero lifted his head and turned to walk to the southern end of the bridge, planning to head into camp to find Latius. He stopped after taking a single step.

  Several paces away, Latius stood alone, staring at him with a grim smile that shined bright in the white and blue moonlight. His gray Constables’ cloak lay draped over his shoulders, brushing the limestone as the breeze played with the cloth.

  The pair stared at one another quietly for a few moments before Latius spoke.

  “You, too, then?”

  Pretending nothing was amiss, Cero asked, “What do you mean?”

  Visibly irritated, Latius shook his head.

  “You know what I mean, Cero. The urges? A longing to end it all?”

  Cero glared at his partner, but said nothing. Latius tilted his head, studying Cero with sharp, critical eyes.

  “I’m not afraid to admit it. Why are you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cero suspected he did not sound very convincing.

  “It’s like a cold, icy fire burning inside of you isn’t it?”

  Cero shook his head slowly.

  “Truly, I don’t know—”

  “End the show, Cero!” hissed Latius, his face twisting into a sneer. “It started the moment you found them, didn’t it?”

  Cero stared at the other Tracker but kept silent, afra
id another surge would accompany an acknowledgement.

  Latius took a single, measured step closer.

  “The only thing that eases it for me is the thought to return to Fenidar and share what I’ve found.”

  A rush of irritation burst inside Cero.

  “Hells, Latius! That’s not even his blasted name! Why do you still believe him!? He’s lied about so much!” He shook his head. “Besides, how could you report to him? We don’t even know where he is.”

  A humorless chuckle burst from Latius.

  “Don’t we?”

  Cero’s eyes narrowed. “It’s been almost two weeks since we’ve seen him. How could we possibly know…where…?” He trailed off and turned his head to stare northwest. The saeljul was in that direction. Far away, but in that direction. Something was calling to Cero, begging him to return.

  “Ah…so you do feel it, then?” The words seeped from Latius like oozing mud slipping from under boot heels while walking the streets of Fallsbottom. “Whatever that is, Cero, I plan on following it. I need the urges to stop.” Latius took another step closer. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve resisted returning this long. I can’t take a single day of it. You, on the other hand…it’s been, what? Four days?”

  Noticing that Latius was all alone on the bridge, Cero asked, “Where’s your horse? Are you planning to walk there?”

  “I made the mistake of setting up camp with the soldiers.” He tapped his head with his left hand. “I was not thinking straight, you see.” As he dropped his left arm, Cero marked his right was hidden behind his back. “And once I set the tent, well, I couldn’t just pack all of my gear right in front of them. Much too suspicious. They’re keeping a close eye on me, Cero.” He was only dozen paces away now. “You, however, had the foresight to never make camp.” A strange, unsettling smile spread over his face. “Where’s your horse, Cero?”

  Cero’s gaze kept flicking back to Latius’ hidden right arm.

  “What’s behind your back, Latius?”

  Latius began to chuckle mirthlessly again. Through the ghoulish laugh, he muttered, “I’m going to do you a favor tonight. You might want to thank me.”

  The cold, dark urge returned and, for a moment, Cero was tempted to ask Latius to slice his neck or bash in his skull. Cero growled and slapped the side of his head as if he were physically trying to smack the thought out. Latius’ maniacal laughter grew louder.

  Successfully shoving the sensation away, Cero stared at Latius. It seemed obvious the man’s intentions were not good. Unfortunately, Cero had no weapon with which to defend himself. His beltknife was still stowed away in his saddlebags on his horse. Wondering if he should call for help, his gaze shot to the soldier’s camp; they were too far away to reach him in time.

  Noting his furtive glance, Latius jeered, “Think your new friends will help you?” Moonlight and madness danced in his eyes. “You’re a disgrace to the Constables, Cero. I used to look up to you, but now I see how weak you are.”

  Cero held his hands up and began to back away.

  “Latius. Hold and think what you’re doing. This isn’t you.”

  “Keep your twisted tongue to yourself, mage-lover!” With a growling sneer, Latius lunged toward Cero, pulling his hand from behind his back to reveal a long beltknife that flashed in the moonlight. “I will not succumb to your lies!”

  He charged, holding the blade low at his side, preparing to thrust it into Cero’s gut. As he stabbed, Cero leaped backwards, barely avoiding the knife’s tip. Pulling the blade back from the near miss, Latius drew the weapon upwards and to his left, slashing at Cero’s face. Again, Cero hopped out of the way, but he heard the breathy whistle of the blade as it cut the air before his nose. He scrambled backward as Latius came at him again, the long dagger held low and in the same position as the first attack.

  Cero tensed, gambling that the man would repeat his assault. Combat training for Trackers was rudimentary. Latius and Cero most likely knew the same few basic attacks.

  Latius stabbed again, missed, and raised the blade for a sweeping cut to the face. Before he could unleash the attack, Cero ducked low and charged Latius, barreling into the other Tracker.

  Cero felt the man’s knife slice across his back, catching on his shoulder blade and sinking deep into his flesh. A searing pain shot though him as he tackled Latius to the ground, driving his left shoulder into the man’s stomach. Latius fell to the bridge with the full weight of Cero landing on top of him. A grunt of pain and whoosh of air exploded from Latius’ lips. As they collapsed in a heap, Cero heard the beltknife rattling on the stones of the bridge.

  Cero pushed himself up and began to scramble away, looking around for the knife. The open wound across his right shoulder blade burned. A hot wetness flowed freely down his back. For a moment, the urge to lie there and bleed to death filled his soul.

  With a primal, furious scream, he shoved the thought from his head and scanned the bridge for the knife. The blade lay only a few feet away, wet with his blood. He clambered toward it on hands and knees, the handle of which was almost in reach when he felt Latius clamp down on his right ankle and pull him back. Lashing out with his left foot, Cero drove his boot heel into Latius’ face. Something cracked and his fellow Tracker screamed, releasing the hold on Cero’s ankle.

  Lying on his stomach, Cero crawled the final few paces to reach the knife. With a shout of triumph, he grasped the dagger’s hilt with his right hand.

  As he flipped over, his eyes went round as he found Latius leaping toward him. In a panic, Cero held the dagger upright with two hands. Latius landed on him, the blade sinking deep into the Tracker’s chest, bouncing off bone as it slipped into his body. The pommel nut dug into Cero’s stomach.

  Latius’ eyes opened impossibly wide as a small gasp of air rushed from his lips. Cero smelled onions on Latius’ breath. A moment later, wet, thick blood poured over Cero’s hands and chest. Not knowing what else to do, he hung on tight to the handle.

  Latius coughed, splattering blood onto Cero’s face. For some reason, that bothered Cero more than the fact that he had just plunged a dagger into another man’s body. Cero shoved hard, pushing Latius off and to his left. He slid back a few feet, gaping at what he had done.

  “Gods…”

  Latius lay in the middle of the bridge with legs outstretched, coughing up plumes of dark blood. The man’s own beltknife was buried to the hilt in his chest, the somehow-bloodless white stone at the end of the handle shone bright in the moonlight.

  Head falling to the side, Latius stared at Cero. The man’s expression was even more grotesque now, a twisted, evil visage swirling with pain and anguish. He stared at Cero with mad, maniacal eyes and whispered through blood-frothed lips, “Thank you.”

  As life slowly drained from the Latius’ eyes, Cero wondered if he had been used. The man had admitted to the same urges as Cero. Perhaps Latius had simply wanted Cero to do what he could not do himself.

  Suddenly, Latius’ expression shifted. His eyes spread wide open, locking on Cero’s face. In a voice filled with pure terror, he whispered, “Oh, gods, I’m so sorry, Cero. I’m so…I didn’t mean…to…” His lips stopped moving, his face went slack, and the last flicker of life winked out of Latius’ eyes. His head fell slack.

  Cero stared at the dead man, wondering how he was going to explain this to the Sergeant and the others. His gaze shifted to the beltknife sticking from Latius’ chest.

  The darkness swelled inside of him.

  Cero started to scoot toward Latius’ body, intending to retrieve the knife and plunge it into his own chest, when an unearthly, bloodcurdling screech filled the night. Cero’s eyes shot open wide as he realized the shriek was emanating from the corpse. Scrambling backwards, Cero smacked into the bridge’s wall and cried out in pain as the collision sent a jolt of burning pain along his wounded back.

  The nightmarish sound grew louder by the moment, until the piercing howl grated against his soul as much as it was diggi
ng into his ears and scraping the inside of his head. He clasped his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block the sound. With rounded eyes, he watched an opaque, black smoke rise from the wound in the center of Latius’ chest. Curling up into the air—slowly at first but increasingly faster—the murky mist gathered rather than dissipate, clumping together above Latius’ body.

  The screeching was unbearable. Cero thought his head was going to burst. He shut his eyes, praying to all the gods for the sound to stop.

  Sensing the colors gold and white, his eyes popped open.

  Magic.

  This had something to do with magic.

  He watched the smoke coalesce into the vague shape of a tall, thin man, only with too-skinny legs and arms.

  After a few more excruciating moments, the screeching ceased and the black mist stopped streaming from Latius’ body.

  The dark figure hovered above the body and reached for the sky, stretching its unnatural limbs. Cero dropped his hands from his ears and stared, wide-eyed. The entire creature was nothing more than shifting smoke yet solid enough that it blocked out the stars in the sky, a black silhouette against a night sky, soaking in moonlight, devouring it.

  The pitch-black shape swiveled its head in all directions as though it were searching for something. Little wisps of nothingness flared around its edges as it moved. At one point, its gaze turned toward him, and Cero gasped. Its face was devoid of features other than two, softly glowing silver eyes devoid of irises or pupils.

  Suddenly, the creature’s head turned sharply to the northwest. With two loping steps, it leapt over the side of the bridge.

  Cero tried to stand, but he was too weak. The cut on his back was deep and he had lost—was losing—a lot of blood. Still, he managed to twist around, pull himself up, and look to the river below, expecting to see waves in the water’s surface where the thing from Latius had plummeted into the river.