Leaning forward, Kenders asked, “Who told you that, Helene?”
“No one.”
Reaching over to pat her back, Nikalys asked, “Then what makes you think someone is following us?”
Helene’s gaze returned to the center of the table. For a long moment, she sat in silence, looking tiny in her large, wooden chair. Finally, she muttered, “I don’t know.” The evasive note in her voice prompted Sabine to press her.
“Truly, Helene. You can tell us.”
Helene gave a feeble shrug of her shoulders.
“I don’t want to.”
Jak tried next.
“Why don’t you—”
Helene’s head snapped up.
“I don’t want to!”
Kenders felt a flicker of orange crackling. He head snapped up as three Strands of Fire popped into existence. The torches along the back wall flared suddenly, sizzling. Zecus and Jak turned their heads at the sudden sound.
Eyes widening, Kenders stood from her chair, nearly knocking it over.
“It’s all right, Helene.”
Sweeping around Sabine’s chair, she dropped to a knee beside the girl and wrapped her arms around the toddler.
“You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want to…”
Helene flung her arms around Kenders and squeezed tight. The orange crackling winked from existence like a candle’s flickering flame extinguished by a sudden draft.
As she consoled the little girl, everyone at the table stared at her curiously. Looking to Nikalys, she mouthed the word, “Magic.”
Nikalys stared at her, confused for a moment before his eyes widened. He glanced at the back of Helene’s head, frowned, and then nodded. Looking around the table, he said, “Let’s talk about something else, yes?”
Marking the cue, Jak said, “You know, Helene, I saw a baker on the way here and was sure I smelled sweet cakes. Perhaps Broedi will let us stop and get one when we leave.”
Helene pulled her head from Kenders’ embrace and looked at Jak.
“What’s a sweet cake?”
Jak’s eyes widened in mock astonishment.
“What’s a sweet cake? Oh, my, Helene. You are in for a treat.”
As Jak explained the concept, successfully brightening the little girl’s mood, Manique returned with the food and wine. They all picked at the meal and sipped the weak wine. Throughout, Sabine’s worried gaze never left her sister.
Kenders, on the other hand, never stopped watching the door, fervently praying that when it opened, Broedi would be on the other side and not Constables.
Chapter 60: Betrayal
9th of the Turn of Thonda
Roasting in the midday sun, Jhaell stood in the midst of a confused land.
Flat plains of grass lay to the east, waving in the breeze, while the thinning edges of an oak and ash forest stood to the north. Hulking foothills rose on the western horizon, signifying the beginnings of the dry, rolling lands of dead grass and struggling bulboa trees. Yet if one trekked south for a day, the edges of the soupy mush that gave the Marshlands its name would hazard any traveler.
However, all Jhaell saw for the moment was the dirt road beneath his feet. His golden-white hair hung in his face, swaying in the easterly breeze. A soft, nearly silent curse slipped from his lips.
“Zilrya eilamengil.”
There had been no sign of the Progeny. None at all. He had not sensed even a flicker of a rogue Strand on his journey west. None of his contacts had seen or heard anything.
He did not know what to do.
Yesterday afternoon he received a message on the parchment whose mate resided with Alpert in Smithshill. However, after reading the first sentence, he grimaced, realizing the author was not the regent, but rather Raela, the incarnation of the god of Deception. Jhaell immediately shredded the parchment, severing any connection he had with Smithshill, and spent the rest of the day on his horse wondering what Tandyr must think.
Later in the evening, he received another note from Raela, this one using the parchment of his contact north of Fernsford. Raela’s second message was effusive in its description of what would happen should he not tell her what he was doing. Again, he tore up the parchment without responding.
Once in his tent last night, he ported to every location he knew of in the southern duchies, seeking some mention of those he sought. There had been nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a rumor of a rumor.
He had returned to his tent before dawn and had sat, staring at the canvas wall, trying to figure out what to do next. For two hundred fifty years, he had done everything Tandyr had asked while dreaming of holding Syra in his arms again. One impetuous act had ruined everything.
The Southern Arms’ sergeant had finally come to his tent mid-morning and asked if they were going to march today or not. Even though he believed it pointless, Jhaell had said yes. They had traveled west for a few hours before stopping where they were now.
“Sir?”
The bubble of introspection around him burst. Jhaell turned to glare at the man who had spoken.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Rowe murmured, “We have been standing here for a while now. My men are getting nervous. I don’t think the Reed Men take too kindly to us being here, sir.”
Jhaell turned his head, switching his gaze to where a second set of soldiers and horse stood in the road, waiting in tense silence. Over sixty men stared back, dressed in dark green uniforms trimmed in white.
Jhaell realized he must have been standing here for some time. Half the men had dismounted and were standing beside their horses. The other half were still in their saddles, their posture stiff and uneasy. All wore anxious expressions on their faces.
Curious, Jhaell asked, “Why the discomfort?”
“Unless prior permission is granted by a nobleman, soldiers of one duchy are not allowed to enter another.”
Frowning, Jhaell muttered, “Why not?”
“A provision from centuries ago, sir,” said the sergeant, glancing back to the Reed Men. He was clearly on edge. “When dukes did not trust one another.”
Eyeing the green and white clad soldiers, Jhaell asked, “Are you saying they have every right to attack you?”
“Under the strictest interpretation of law, yes. But they most likely will not, sir. No blood has been shed between—”
A piercing shriek rang out over the plains, floating on the air for a heartbeat before cutting off quickly. The sergeant’s head whipped around. Reed Men and Southern Arms alike swiveled in their saddles or spun on their heels, staring in all directions, searching for the source of the cry. Jhaell joined them, scanning the prairie as a tiny ember of hope flared in his chest.
The unearthly screech came again, piercing the air.
Sweet, wondrous relief burned hot in Jhaell. Fixing the direction of the eerie scream, he turned to the southeast and waited. A smile spread over his mouth.
The eerie screech was getting closer, advancing upon their position at a tremendous speed. Jhaell peered down a small grassy slope filled with brush, searching for the Soulwraith. Birds hiding in the tall grass fled, leaping into the air and flapping their wings furiously as they headed northeast, away from the shrieking.
Sergeant Rowe muttered, “Gods, what is that?”
So grateful that a Soulwraith was returning, Jhaell had forgotten the soldier was standing beside him. Truthfully, he had forgotten about all of the soldiers.
Looking over his shoulder, he found Reed Men and Southern Arms alike pointing and talking, clearly alarmed by the unnatural shrieks. Horses absent a rider were trying to run away, their eyes rolled back and white with terror. Those still mounted fought their steeds, trying to calm them.
“Beelvra.”
His situation was tenuous. In short order, the Soulwraith would be here and standing before him, waiting for instructions, at which point, these soldiers would name him mage. Jhaell frowned. As he had done with the acolytes in Yellow Mud,
he had left himself but one choice.
Staring at Sergeant Rowe, he knitted a quick Weave of Air and ripped the breath from the man’s lungs. The soldier’s eyes bulged as he grabbed his throat with both hands and collapsed to his knees, choking in sweet silence. The other soldiers were too involved with the wraith’s shrieking to notice what was happening to the sergeant.
Jhaell began to eliminate the men as quickly as he could. Soldiers watched as their fellows fell from saddles and collapsed to the ground. Horses free of riders ran northwest, galloping through the grass and away from the screeching sounds of the Soulwraith.
Soon, men began to call out the obvious.
“He’s a mage!”
Some reached for their weapons and shouted to attack. Others cried out that they should flee. Jhaell could not let either happen.
Forgoing his attempt to suffocate them all, Jhaell strung together a single, massive Weave and directed it at as many of the men he could manage. The Weave yanked dozens of soldiers from their horses, drawing them together as if a giant rope had encircled them and pulled taut. Men flew from their saddles, screaming out as they slammed together. The weapons that some had drawn inadvertently pierced others.
He captured a fair number of the soldiers in this manner, but at least a dozen men of both groups were able to escape. He watched them ride west down the road, helpless to do anything about it.
“Beelvra!”
Rumors were going to spread. Although, if the shade was returning, it might not matter. Turning his back on the screaming soldiers, he rotated to face the onrushing Soulwraith.
Staring southeast, Jhaell spotted a tall, lithe form absent of color rushing through the grass. To Jhaell’s eye, it looked like a living construct of Void Strands, meshed together to form an almost-man figure hastening toward him, three times as fast as the swiftest horse. Soldiers stopped screaming that he was a mage and began to shout in terror as they spotted the wraith.
When the creature reached him, it stopped with an unnatural suddenness. One moment, the wraith had been tearing across the land. The next, it was standing motionless before him.
Jhaell stared, in awe of his creation. This was only the second Soulwraith he had ever seen, but was the first he had ever crafted.
He circled the creature, wholly fascinated, marveling at its complexities and contradictions. It looked to be made of moonless-night black smoke, yet solid at the same time. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but the surrounding blades of grass that were curling up and turning black informed him that he should not. Strange, silver eyes shone brightly, the only recognizable features on the black face of the shade. Truly, it was remarkable.
Returning to stand before the Soulwraith, he stared up into the wraith’s silver-orbed eyes and asked, “Who were you?”
A mournful voice screeched from the figure, echoing as if shouted from a deep cavern.
“I wasss Latiusss!”
Frowning, Jhaell asked, “So they went east, then?”
“Nooo!” howled the voice. “Sssooouth!”
A stab of uncertainty struck Jhaell. He had sent Latius east. Cero had gone south.
“How did you find them, then?”
The wraith’s tortured voice screeched, “Theeey found uss!”
The elation Jhaell had felt when he had first seen the Soulwraith evaporated.
“Tell me what you were sent to find.”
With a voice that rose and fell, alternating between shrieks and screams, the Soulwraith cried out, “Theee Progeny live! Theee Whiiite Lionn that isss theee Championn of Thonda guiiides them! Theey arrre headed through theee Blackbarrrk Foresst to Storrrm Islannnd.”
Jhaell took a step back, his eyes going round, his mouth falling open.
No one had seen or heard from any of the White Lions in hundreds of years. If Thonda’s champion was involved, it meant that things were even worse than he had thought. If Raela or Tandyr learned of the White Lion’s involvement, Jhaell would never even get a chance to beg for mercy. He would be dead on the spot.
Jhaell needed to end this on his own. Quickly.
He questioned the Soulwraith, drawing forth even more disturbing details. The Progeny were two in number—brother and sister—growing in power and learning how to use their abilities. When the wraith revealed that soldiers of Smithshill had joined with the Progeny, rather than capture them, Jhaell let loose a string of curses in ijulan and Argot both.
“Why would they do that?!”
“Theee tombllle isss rresponssible.”
Jhaell’s stomach soured in an instant He peered at the Soulwraith with rising dread.
“And what is the tomble’s name?”
The shade replied in a twisted, eerie tone, wheezing, “Nnunndlle.”
Gripping his hands into tight fists, Jhaell let forth a powerful shout of anger that rolled across the land.
He dropped his gaze to the road and stared at the ground. The number of coincidences necessary for something like this to happen was infinite. After a few moments, he shook his head.
“No matter.
The important thing was that he knew where they were headed. Glaring at the wraith, he asked, “When did you die?”
The Soulwraith replied mournfully, “Threeee nightsss ago.”
“Beelvra zilrya hol!”
He had no time to waste.
Reaching for Void and Air, he quickly completed the Weave for a port, and with the sound of shredding parchment, the world was torn in two. Dual curtains of reality fluttered in the air before him. He moved the group of screaming men hanging in the air through the hole. Urazûd’s oligurts would appreciate the gift of fresh meat.
Turning to the Soulwraith, he said, “You next.”
With a pleading cry, the creature howled, “Relleeeasse meee!”
“No,” muttered Jhaell. “Go through the port.” The wraith might come in useful.
The Soulwraith let out one last mournful screech before taking two long strides and leaping through the port. Praying that Urazûd was prepared, Jhaell followed, feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks.
Chapter 61: Forest
12th of the Turn of Thonda
Nathan peered down the gently sloping hill and let out a low whistle of wonder.
“Bless the gods.”
A mile ahead, the northern edge of the Blackbark Forest awaited them. Trees that were two to three times taller than any Nathan had seen in all his years in the Great Lakes Duchy stretched east to west, horizon to horizon. A mottled green and mossy brown canopy topped the massive forest like a thick, heavy blanket. The narrow road upon which his horse—and the others’—stood twisted down the hill, leading into the woods below. Truthfully, it no longer qualified as a road. At this point, it was more of a large trail.
Nathan, Nikalys, Nundle, and Corporal Holb sat on their horses while Broedi stood beside them. The dirt way allowed only the five of them to stand side-by-side. Dense shrubs and thickets of brambles lining the path prevented anyone from stepping off the road.
Nikalys—sitting on Nathan’s right—muttered, “It makes the forest by Lake Hawthorne look like…like…” He trailed off, seemingly searching for an analogy. After an extended pause that prompted his companions, one after another, to look over at him expectantly, he finally continued, “Hells. I don’t know. Those trees are big.”
Nathan smiled at the boy’s honesty and turned his attention back to the scene below.
Standing on Nikalys’ other side, Broedi rumbled, “The trees in the forests of the Primal Provinces are even taller, uori.”
“I’m not sure I can imagine such a thing.”
“Perhaps not, but I assure you they exist,” replied the hillman. “Some with great cities built among their branches.”
Nikalys, Nathan, and Corporal Holb all leaned forward, saddle leather creaking, to gawk at Broedi.
Nathan let slip a disbelieving, “Truly?”
Nodding, Broedi rumbled, “I would not lie.”
“Yes, uori. Built and populated by the buhanik.”
“The who?”
“Buhanik,” repeated Broedi, looking over. “You might know them as ‘thorn.’”
“Hold a moment,” said Corporal Holb. “Thorn are real?”
“As real as you and I.”
Nathan said, “Surely you are mocking us.”
“I do not mock, Sergeant.”
On the far side of Broedi, a light chortling drifted from Nundle
“I told you it’s a big world, Nathan.”
The three men sat in their saddles, staring at one another, unsure if they should believe the hillman’s claim. Sighing, Nathan added thorn to his list of myths that were anything but.
After a few quiet moments filled only with Nundle’s light laughter, Corporal Holb looked to Nathan and asked, “Scouts?”
Nathan glanced to his left and nodded. “Three men. They are to stay within shouting distance.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Corporal Holb pulled on his horse’s reins, directing his horse to retreat a few paces until he there was enough room to turn around and head back to where the company of soldiers waited. Nathan’s gaze lingered on Corporal Holb for a moment. He looked odd with the beginnings of a beard. All of the men did.
As the soldier trotted away, Nathan faced forward.
“I wish he would stop calling me that.”
Nundle peered around Broedi and said, “You’ll always be their Master Sergeant.”
“I have no more rank than you do, Nundle.”
With his gaze still fixed on the Blackbark Forest, Nikalys said, “If you would like, I can name you a Master Sergeant in the new army of the White Lions.” Wearing an amused expression, he turned to give the sergeant an appraising look. “You know what your problem is, Sergeant? You doubt your place in the world. You lack confidence. Perhaps you should work on that?” With that, he dug his heels into the sides of his horse and began to ride down the hill, toward the forest.
After a moment, Nathan turned to look at Broedi and Nundle.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 67