“He’s certainly becoming comfortable with himself, isn’t he?”
“He reminds me more of his father every day,” rumbled Broedi, a slight smile on his face.
The sound of horses’ hooves drew Nathan’s attention behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he found Blainwood, Hunsfin, and Cero riding forward. Nathan nodded to the trio as they rode past, giving the Tracker an extra-long look and a nod. Cero smiled in return.
The man had made a remarkable recovery after that peculiar night on the bridge and had been a different person since, proving himself a worthy addition to their group. His scouting skills rivaled those of Blainwood.
Even Nundle had accepted the man’s obvious transformation. Once a safe distance from Fernsford, Nundle had reached out to Cero, offering to teach the man some magic, but the former Constable had politely rebuffed the tomble, stating he was happy to lend his services as a Tracker but had no desire to use magic himself.
Once the scouts were past Nikalys, they broke into a canter to put some distance between them and the main group. Hearing another horse approaching from behind, Nathan glanced over to find Jak sliding into the vacant space in the trail. After getting his first clear look at the forest, a low whistle—much like Nathan’s own from only moments ago—slipped from the young man.
“Bless the gods.”
The repeat performance set Nundle and Broedi to chuckling.
Jak looked over at the pair, his eyebrows drawn together, and asked, “What?”
Nundle and Broedi’s only response was to smile wider and began to move down the road.
Shifting his gaze to Nathan, Jak asked again, “What?”
“Don’t worry about it, son,” said Nathan with a grin. He nodded his head, indicating the slope. “Let’s get going before your brother rides off for Storm Island all by himself.”
Jak eyed Nathan a moment longer before shrugging his shoulders. He kicked his horse and trotted down the dirt road, giving Broedi and Nundle an odd stare as he passed them, on his way to catch up to Nikalys.
Turning to the group behind him, Nathan found his men patiently waiting, along with Kenders, Sabine, and little Helene perched before her sister on their new horse. He signaled that they were ready to begin again, and the company of blue-and-gold-clad Sentinels moved down the hill.
As they neared the forest, Nathan allowed himself a moment of relief. He was glad to reach the cover of the trees. The past five days had been anxious ones.
Once they had left Fernsford, fully restocked, they had all kept a close eye on the northern horizon, but no one more so than Broedi. When Nathan would awake at night—a frequent occurrence since Yellow Mud—he usually found the hillman staring north, smoking his pipe. Sometimes, Nathan would join him and they would both stand there, silent, waiting. Jhaell was coming. Of that, he—and apparently Broedi—had no doubt.
Soon, the Blackbark Forest fully engulfed their group. The air, already comfortable, cooled considerably once they were free of direct sunlight and marching the canopy’s shade. Tonight’s campfires would no longer be just for cooking eveningmeal. By Nathan’s accounting, the calendar was reaching the middle of the Turn of Thonda, which, according to Broedi, was the beginning of harvest in the region. Back home in Smithshill, the season would not come for a few more weeks. Nathan was surprised at how different terrain and climate could be between two places that looked so close on a map.
Chuckling to himself, he mumbled, “It’s a big world…”
“Pardon?”
Nathan looked over to find Jak beside him. The young man had taken to riding with him off and on during the day and Nathan welcomed the company. The boy was polite, pleasant, had a quick wit about him, and displayed an inquisitive mind, often pressing Nathan about Sentinel tactics and training. In addition, he was showing some early skill with the blade. Both he and Zecus practiced diligently, although Jak was making quicker progress than the Borderlander.
Eyeing Jak, Nathan said, “I was just thinking about how much larger the world seems once you leave home.” He paused, reconsidering his choice of words. “I suppose it’s not home any longer, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” muttered Jak. He gave a sad shake of his head. “Home is gone.”
Something in Jak’s eye and tone told Nathan that riding in silence for a while would be a good thing. Turning his gaze from Jak, he scanned the trees around them.
It was clear how Blackbark Forest had earned its name. There were a handful of different types of trees, but the most prominent by far were the towering behemoths that climbed high overhead. Their trunks were as wide as Nathan’s horse was long and wrapped with a dark brown, almost black bark. Ridged and rough, it was the only feature of the trees for the first seventy feet before branches jutted out. The boughs spread wide and far, mingling with its neighbors, the long, green pine needles coating the branches choking off sunlight.
The trail they were following had widened considerably once in the forest, allowing the company to spread out. Some of the men even rode off the road as there was nothing to hinder them other than the occasional lost sapling or fallen log. For the time being, he and Jak were alone.
After keeping quiet for what he deemed an appropriate amount of time, Nathan eyed the young man and decided to broach a subject he had been avoiding for over a week. With a careful, measured, and neutral tone, he said, “You know, Jak, the day after we first met on the Southern Road, my men and I marched west.”
Jak’s face grew taut but he did not look over. He knew where this was going.
“Did you, now?”
“We did,” replied Nathan. “And, eventually, we came across Yellow Mud.” He waited for Jak to say something, but the young man remained silent, his eyes forward. “I cannot imagine what it was like for you, Jak. To go through what happened there. Or for your sister and brother to see it afterward.” The trio might not be true siblings, but as they continued to treat and name each other as such, Nathan would do the same.
When Jak still did not respond, Nathan sighed and pressed on. “You know, eighty of these men—” he motioned to the soldiers spread out behind them ”—stood with me that day, in Yellow Mud’s ruins.”
The young man finally looked over, a surprised expression on his face. Perhaps he had never considered that before.
“Greya was cruel to us that day, Jak, forcing us to see what we did.”
The bloated corpses strewn about the muddy ruins still haunted Nathan’s dreams. More than a few times since Yellow Mud, he had awakened in a cold sweat. Even now, the gruesome visage filled his mind’s eye. Forcing his attention back to the living, green forest around him, he looked to Jak and found the young man staring at him.
With narrowed eyes, Jak asked, “Why are you bringing this up now?”
“Well,” sighed Nathan. “While I cannot possibly understand what you went through, I want you to know I carry the tragedy with me. I vowed that day to see justice done, and I intend to keep my oath.”
Several moments passed before Jak responded.
“I’ll bet you thought I had something to do with it, didn’t you?”
“I won’t lie. It crossed my mind.”
“I would have suspected me, too. It’s why I left so quickly that night after meeting you. I needed to put road between you and me. I knew if you learned what happened, you’d hunt me down.”
“You know I tried, don’t you?”
The tiniest of smiles cracked Jak’s face.
“And you failed.”
“A good thing, I’d say.”
Another long pause dragged out between them. Sensing that Jak was not finished talking, Nathan waited while listening to the birds. Jak proved him right, nodding in the direction of Nikalys and Kenders.
“I’m nothing like them, you know.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Jak shrugged.
“I’m…ordinary.”
Nathan laughed, drawing a sharp eye from Jak. Holding the young ma
n’s gaze, Nathan said, “Of all the words that describe you, ‘ordinary’ is not one of them. Despite everything that’s happened, through all of this madness, you have stayed by their side, there for them to lean on. Just like an eldest brother should. Hells, Jak. Were I to ever have a son, I’d pray he would grow up to be just like you.”
Jak dropped his head, clearly embarrassed by what Nathan was saying, and muttered, “Sweet words, Sergeant. Sweet words…”
“No. Those are true words.” Leaning closer to Jak, Nathan said, “You may not have a prophecy written about you, or any sort of powers from the gods, but you are essential to this endeavor. The fate of the world might rely on Nikalys and Kenders, but your brother and sister rely on you. Don’t ever forget that.”
Jak looked up, stared at him for a long moment, and then turned away to peer into the forest, leaving Nathan to wonder—again—if he might get a response. After a few heartbeats, he faced forward and listened to the rustling murmur of horses kicking up leaves and pine needles. Snippets of quiet conversations amongst the group floated on the air.
After a time, Jak cleared his throat and spoke, his voice thick.
“Sergeant?”
Looking over, Nathan found Jak staring at him. The young man’s eyes were glistening.
“Yes?”
“Broedi said you and your men buried all of the bodies you found.”
Nathan said softly, “We did.”
With an almost imperceptible nod, Jak muttered, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, son.”
Jak turned away again. This time, the silence between the pair lasted until it was time to make camp.
Chapter 62: Oligurts
15th of the Turn of Thonda
While the soldiers were finishing the teardown of last night’s camp, extinguishing fires and burying any bit of waste in the soft, loamy soil, Zecus was already in Simiah’s saddle and waiting for the order to begin moving. He had been ready for some time now, having been up since before dawn. Or whatever passed for dawn in this strange place.
Here, the sun did not peek over the eastern horizon in the morning. The overlapping, never-ending screen of tree trunks saw to that. Rather, the gloom-enshrouded woods slowly shifted from pitch-black night to dimly lit day, suggesting that light was sneaking through somewhere, somehow, even if Zecus could not see sunrays. A thick blanket of mist filled the forest floor at night and remained for a time after daybreak, meandering about the tree trunks and brush, obscuring anything beyond a couple dozen paces.
As he waited, he stared around him, still captivated by the grandness of this place. Three days ago, when they had first entered the forest, Zecus had ridden with his mouth agape long enough that a few soldiers had good-naturedly mocked his wide-eyed expression. The lush grasslands and the trees he had seen to that point were wondrous to him, but the towering monstrosities surrounding him now were alien. That first night, when no one was looking, he had moved to one of the trees and patted the rough bark to ensure it was real.
Travel through the untamed forest had been slow since they had left the road, but Broedi seemed pleased with the progress they were making. When the open road had turned due east, the White Lion had instead taken then group southeast, through the cover of the forest.
Spotting a dark shape moving through the cool morning haze, Zecus watched the hulking yet somehow lithe form of the hillman emerge from the mist and approach. As was proper, Zecus did not offer a greeting. The soul with higher honor should speak first.
Broedi stopped before Simiah and lifted his hand to the horse’s nostrils. Simiah ran his nose along the hillman’s palm and let out a warm puff of air, gently nuzzling Broedi’s hand. Looking up to Zecus, Broedi nodded and rumbled softly, “A pleasurable morning to you, uori.”
Giving a small bow from Simiah’s saddle, Zecus said, “And to you.” Broedi’s knowledge of Borderlands’ customs was extensive, and Zecus was grateful that the hillman went out of his way to use it. It made the strangeness of the surroundings slightly easier to endure.
“Did you sleep well last evening?” asked Broedi.
Shaking his head, Zecus said, “I did not.” When Broedi raised an eyebrow, he added a short explanation. “Bad dreams.”
Sleep had arrived late last evening and teased him throughout the night, coming and going as it pleased. Strange, fitful dreams about being back in the Sudashians’ camp had plagued him. He had awakened this morning with the remembered scent of the oligurts’ rankness in his nose.
“I am sorry to hear that,” rumbled the hillman. Scratching Simiah’s white stripe, he looked up and asked, “Would you like some company, uori? I am traveling with the rearguard today.”
Zecus was surprised. He had been riding with the rearguard since the incident at Fernsford Bridge whereas Broedi had been leading their expedition since entering the forest. Those at the back of the column were expected to keep an alert eye and a quiet tongue as they traveled, something that Zecus welcomed. While the Sentinels were friendly and welcoming, he still felt out of place in their presence. The silence and solitude of the rearguard was nice.
“Of course,” said Zecus. “I would be honored to journey with you.” Rejecting such a request was impossible to do.
“Good,” rumbled Broedi, patting Simiah’s neck.
Curious, Zecus asked, “If you are walking with the rearguard, may I ask who is to choose our path today?”
“I gave instructions to Cero. He will be able to keep us on the correct path.”
Whatever strangeness had surrounded the Tracker—Zecus was still not sure he understood what a Soulwraith was—was gone now. Cero was an accepted member of the group, one whom Zecus found to be an agreeable sort.
A soft, fleeting whistle floated through the fog and trees, the signal for the group to begin moving. Soldiers fell into a loosely grouped column and began to ride, heading southeast for yet another day. At least Zecus hoped they were moving southeast. It was a mystery to him how anyone could mark directions without seeing the sun.
Zecus and Broedi began to move with the rearguard, marching through the thick, early morning mist. It was difficult to see much more than a couple dozen paces in any direction, meaning the chances were high that someone might inadvertently become separated from the group. He made sure to keep the same three soldiers in sight at all times as they moved through the forest, weaving around the massive tree trunks.
As they passed a particularly giant specimen of the black-barked trees, he looked to Broedi and asked, “Great lion, what are—?”
Cutting him off, Broedi said, “Uori, I have asked you several times to stop calling me that. Please. Broedi will suffice.”
Zecus shook his head, protesting, “I cannot do that. People of high honor in the Borderlands are never called by their name. It is disrespectful.”
“I am aware of that. Yet for aki-mahet, the way to honor someone is to use his or her full name. Different customs for different people.”
Zecus frowned, trying to reconcile the conflicting mores. Thinking it might be better to honor the White Lion in his fashion, he asked, “What is your full name?”
Broedi looked over and, wearing a slight smile, said, “Broedikurja Kynsipitka.”
Zecus tried to wrap his mind and tongue around the unfamiliar sounds and syllables, but after a few incorrect attempts, he said with some amusement, “I see why people call you Broedi.”
“And I would be honored if you would call me that as well. Titles make me uncomfortable. Some of the Lions enjoyed such notoriety, but I was not one of them.”
“I will do as you ask,” said Zecus. “However, should we meet another from the Borderlands, do not be surprised if I begin calling you ‘great lion’ again.”
“Understood,” rumbled the hillman, a slight smile on his face. “Now, what were you going to say?”
After taking a moment to recall his question, Zecus said, “These giant trees. What are they called? I will need a name for them when
I return home and tell my brother and sisters of this place. Not that they will believe me.”
Broedi eyed him for a few heartbeats, seemingly on the verge of asking something, but then turned his stare upward at the towering pines. “The people here call them ebonwoods. I have heard others names in the past, but ebonwoods seems most fitting. It a remarkable tree, to be honest. The timber, when treated with a certain resin, hardens to rival tempered steel. Locals carry weapons made of such.”
Yesterday, Zecus had seen a man carrying an odd-looking sword in one of the occasional settlements they came across. The homesteads were tiny, no more than a few families living together in homes of stacked logs.
“Why wooden swords?” asked Zecus.
“Iron is rare in the Southlands, expensive enough that only nobility can afford to purchase iron goods. Truth be told, most metals are scarce here.”
Over the next couple of miles, the White Lion shared a wealth of information about the area with Zecus: details about the wildlife and flora, a brief lesson on the history of nearby baronies, the geography of the region. Soon, Zecus suspected he knew more about the Southlands than anyone in their group besides Broedi.
The hillman was in the middle of explaining the medicinal properties of a particular purplish-green vine that grew up the sides of some of the ebonwoods, when he stopped talking in mid-sentence.
Zecus continued for another half-dozen horse-lengths before realizing the hillman was no longer beside him. Pulling on the reins, he halted Simiah and swiveled in his saddle. Broedi stood still as a statue, his nostrils flaring, his eyes shifting back-and-forth, wide and alert.
Laying the reins against Simiah’s neck, Zecus turned his horse around to face the hillman. Keeping his voice low, he murmured, “What is it?”
Broedi lifted his right hand, the request for silence was clear. He tilted his head one way, then the other. He was obviously listening for something.
Zecus scanned the mist and the trees, wondering what had alarmed the White Lion. The fog had lessened some since earlier, but in patches. Some stretches of the forest were clear, while others were still thick and opaque with gray mist. Ebonwood trunks rose from the haze like thick, black fingers clawing up from a blanket of smoke.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 68