A dozen paces beyond where Broedi stood, a cloud of vapor curled and twisted, allowing Zecus a fortuitous glimpse through a break in the fog. At the furthest edge of his vision, he saw a quick blur of motion, moving left to right.
His heart stopped.
The fog thickened again and the gap was gone.
His heart started again, pounding twice as fast a moment ago.
Zecus whispered, “Broedi!”
The White Lion looked at him and Zecus pointed into the fog, indicating that he saw something. The giant man hurried toward him, reaching Zecus in four long and impossibly silent strides. Standing on Simiah’s right side, Broedi spoke, his voice hushed yet urgent.
“What did you see?”
Zecus hesitated.
“What was it?” demanded Broedi. His voice and eyes were insistent.
“A bullockboar,” murmured Zecus. He had only captured a glimpse—a pink, brown, and black streak dashing through the trees—but he was certain it had been the terrible, part-wolf, bear, and boar creature oligurts used as mounts. “And it was carrying an oligurt.”
Broedi peered at him, his eyes calm yet intense, and whispered, “You are sure?” He did not sound surprised
“I am.”
A soft crack of a stick drifted through the forest.
As one, Zecus and Broedi twisted their heads to their left, seeking the source. Zecus scanned the forest floor for any movement, but the mist drifting through the tree trunks played havoc with his vision. Every curl and wisp of haze looked like a bullockboar now.
Zecus suddenly noticed just how quiet the woods were. The birds that had been singing all morning had gone silent. Worry wrapped its fingers around him and squeezed tight as he realized the rest of the company was gone. The other soldiers had continued their march. He and Broedi were all alone.
Zecus drew his longsword—trying to be a quiet as he could—all the while looking to Broedi for guidance. The White Lion continuously sniffed the air while cocking his head in different directions. After a few agonizingly long and quiet moments, Broedi raised a hand and held up two fingers, pointing to the north first, then to the west. Gesturing with both hands, he indicated that whatever was out there was coming together, toward them.
A thick lump lodged itself in Zecus’ throat as the hillman crept away from Simiah, slinking into a clearing spotted with waist-high bushes. Broedi bent his knees, lowering himself into a crouch.
Knowing he would be wholly ineffective fighting in saddle, Zecus removed his right foot from the leather loop—which he now knew was called a stirrup—lifted his leg over the back of the horse, and lowered it to the ground. He half-expected Broedi to order him to stop, but the White Lion remained silent and alert.
A soft, nervous nicker slipped from Simiah.
Zecus froze—halfway dismounted—and patted his horse’s neck, trying to sooth him. The horse ignored his comforts and loosed a single, short snort of fear. Zecus’ worry deepened threefold. If the typically stalwart Simiah was bothered, whatever was coming was bad.
He began to remove his left foot from the other stirrup when a low growling rumbled through the mist behind him. Simiah spooked, sidestepping away from Zecus. His foot snagged in the stirrup and his left leg went with the horse, forcing him to hop along the ground twice on his right until he was able to free his foot. Off balance, he dropped his sword and fell into a mixture of fallen leaves, pine needles, and soft dirt. As he tumbled, a second growl shot across the glade, nearer to Broedi than him. Simiah whinnied, the cry sharp and loud. Zecus prayed the soldiers heard that.
Rolling over, he spotted a gray oligurt running toward him—on foot, without a bullockboar—nearly a hundred paces away.
The gray-skinned monster was just as he remembered from the camp in Midiah, bald and hideous with its yellowed tusks jutting up from its lower jaw. It carried a large, spiked club in its right hand as it ran toward him, thudding through the forest. Taking a quick glance to his left, through the prancing legs of Simiah, Zecus spotted another oligurt already on top of Broedi. The hillman was struggling with the beast, fighting hand-to-hand. Zecus wondered why the White Lion did not turn into the bear or lynx.
Spotting his sword a few paces away, partially covered with dried leaves and pine needles, he scrambled on hands and knees and grabbed the hilt along with a handful of needles. Despite a dozen sharp, pricks of pain stabbing his palm, he squeezed tight. He was not letting go of his sword again.
He hopped up, spun to face the oligurt, assumed the proper defensive position. As the beast thundered toward on him, it struck him just how unprepared he was for this. Two weeks ago, he had never held a sword. Now he was about to battle a giant, snarling oligurt carrying what looked like the trunk of a small tree. His slow, measured-pace lessons with Sergeant Trell had never covered this.
When the monster was a dozen paces away, it lifted its club high into the air and roared. Zecus raised his sword, thinking he would block the blow, but realized in an instant that the oligurt’s strength would drive through his parry as easily as if it Zecus were holding a fistful of Borderlands’ grass. Abandoning his attempt to block the assault, Zecus instead decided to attack.
As the massive monster began to bring the massive club downward, Zecus dashed forward and to his left—the creature’s right. He felt and heard the club whoosh past his back and thud into the ground where he had just been standing. Continuing past the off-balance oligurt, he lashed out with his sword, slashing wildly as he ran past the monster. The blade sliced deep into the oligurt’s meaty thigh and struck something solid within. Caught off-guard by the resistance of flesh and bone, the hilt flew from his hand as his momentum carried him past the oligurt. Trapped pine needles fell to the ground.
Suddenly weaponless, Zecus stumbled forward a few steps before whirling around to face his foe. The enormous oligurt let out a loud, bellowing roar of pain and reached for the sword that protruded from its upper thigh. The beast ripped the blade from its leg and glared at Zecus. Oily, black blood ran down its leg. The beast roared again—more in anger than in pain it seemed—and tossed Zecus’ sword blade away. The bloody blade soared through the air, spinning, and landed far away in the forest’s undergrowth.
Zecus reached down to retrieve the new boot-knife he had purchased in Fernsford. He had been an accomplished knife-thrower in Drysa, but the blades he had found at the Fernsford market were longer and thicker than those to which he was used. He had practiced a bit with the weapon in the evenings, but most of his time was spent on the sword now lying fifty paces away.
He held the unfamiliar dagger in his hand, squeezing the leather cord handle tightly, waiting for the oligurt to make a move. With a sneer and a growl, the beast began limping toward him. With a quick, underhand flick of his wrist, Zecus tossed the knife at the beast. The strange weight and shape of the dagger disrupted his throw, and he watched helplessly as the handle struck the oligurt in the chest and bounced off.
The bald oligurt slowed its approach, sneering and growling as it lurched closer. With Zecus defenseless, it seemed content to take its time.
Zecus scanned the ground around him for a stick or branch—anything that he could use as an improvised weapon. There was nothing but small stones, dead leaves, and pine needles. Looking across the clearing, he found Broedi—still as a hillman—atop the other oligurt, pinning the monster to the ground, pressing the giant club down on the creature’s neck.
Zecus stared back to his attacker. He was on his own.
The oligurt wore a terrible, sneering smile. At least Zecus assumed it was a smile, but the yellow fang-tusks jutting up from the lower jaw twisted it into a painful looking scowl.
“You lose, fleshling.”
Not wanting to die today, Zecus bent to the ground, grabbed a large stone, and heaved it at the oligurt. The stone smacked into the creature’s flat nose with a sickening thud and dropped to the ground. The oligurt growled in pain but continued its steady approach. Zecus thought he might
have broken the oligurt’s nose, but there was no way to tell. It was the same misshapen hunk of flesh as it was a moment ago.
As he bent over to retrieve another rock, a soft whisper of air whistled past him, followed a moment later by a bellow of pain from the oligurt. Glancing up, he spotted a crow-feathered arrow embedded in the monster’s right shoulder. Clearly enraged, the oligurt threw back its head and clasped its left hand to where the shaft pierced its chest.
Another arrow whipped past Zecus and ripped through the back of the oligurt’s hand, pinning it to the beast’s chest. The monster roared again, dropped its club to the forest floor with a thud, and tried to grab the new arrow. While Zecus wondered from where the arrows were coming, he did waste time finding out. They were in the oligurt. That was good enough for him. Eyeing the oversized club lying the leaves and needles, he scurried forward, towards the oligurt’s weapon.
Preoccupied by the arrows, the oligurt paid no attention to Zecus as he ran up. Bending over, he tried to retrieve the spiked club but was unable to lift it with a single hand. It was much too heavy.
A third whistling sound, followed by a wet, squishy thunk, announced the arrival of another arrow. The oligurt screamed again, its deep, fury-filled cry swelling through the forest. The anxious shouts of soldiers drifted through the mist in reply. They were not close.
Using two hands, Zecus lifted the spiked club, grunting with the effort it required. He dropped the weapon as much as he swung it, but managed to slam it square atop the oligurt’s bare foot with a satisfying, solid crunch. He felt bones crack.
The oligurt roared louder as the metal hooks at the club’s end dug into its flesh. Black blood splattered into Zecus’ face, smelling of metal and sour milk.
Broedi shouted, “No, uora! No Strands!”
Sneaking a quick look behind him, Zecus found Kenders there, astride her horse, watching the battle with wide, anxious eyes. Sabine was beside her, sending yet another arrow in his direction. The shaft flew over his head, tearing into the oligurt’s cheek, turning the flesh into shredded meat. The monster’s black eyes swelled wide as it gave another gurgling roar.
Baffled as to how the beast was still upright, Zecus hefted the spiked club again and whirled around, driving the full force of his spin into the side of the oligurt’s right knee. Something gave way in the monster’s leg as it collapsed in a heap, crashing to the leaves and pine needles.
Without hesitation, Zecus raised the club, intending to smash the oligurt’s skull open. Loosing a vengeful scream, he brought the weapon down with all his might. Inexplicably, his blow stopped halfway. Surprised, he looked up to find Broedi holding the club’s midpoint.
Through ragged breaths, the hillman ordered, “Not yet.”
Zecus stared back down at the flattened grayskin, his heart pounding. With each beat, a lusting pulse to take this monster’s life thumped through his palms, urging him to crush the oligurt.
Looking back to the White Lion, Zecus demanded, “Why not?” These beasts were responsible for the destruction of his homeland.
“Because she cannot tell us what we need to know if she is dead!”
Zecus glared at the oligurt, only mildly surprised to learn he had been battling a female.
The monster stared up at him, sneering, “Kill me fleshling!” Black blood covered her tusks.
Shaking his head, Zecus muttered, “No.” He let the club slip from his hands. The great lion was right.
Broedi grabbed the massive club and tossed it into a nearby bush with ease.
“Thank you.”
Zecus took a few steps back and plopped down on the ground like a mushy sack of turn-old potatoes. The entire ordeal had been brief, but he felt exhausted. His beating heart began to slow. Some.
The sound of horses’ nervous nickering caused him to look up to find the two young women riding nearer. Kenders was openly gaping at the oligurt on the ground.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Nobody answered her. There was no point. The answer was clear.
A sharp contrast to Kenders’ shock, Sabine was a visage of calm. With cool, unemotional eyes, she stared at other oligurt, the one with whom Broedi had struggled. The gray beast was on its back with its arms splayed to its sides.
“Dead?”
“Yes,” rumbled Broedi. The hillman hovered over the living oligurt, his gaze alternating between the beast and the forest.
Sabine nodded once, muttering, “Good.”
Zecus turned his eyes upward to peer at the young woman. With a tiny sliver of awe slipping into his voice, he said, “I have never seen a finer shot with the bow. Thank you.”
Her gaze never left the bleeding oligurt as she replied in a steady, composed tone. “You are welcome.” She pulled another arrow from the quiver hanging from her saddle and held it at the ready. “I had a lot of spare time growing up.” This was not modesty. Rather, she was acting as if she done nothing more than bring him a mug of water when he had said he was thirsty.
Kenders, her eyes wider than even a moment ago, asked, “Zecus? Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?” The concern on her face and in her voice warmed his heart.
He gave her a kind smile, shook his head, and said, “No, beautiful one, I am fine.” As Kenders’ cheeks bloomed pink, he instantly regretted his words. They had been much too brazen.
An angry, pain-filled roar from the oligurt ripped his attention away from the women. Seeing the monster attempting to crawl away through leaves and underbrush, Zecus wondered where she thought she was going. She had a sliced-open thigh, crushed knee and foot, and three arrows sticking out of her chest. The fourth shaft that had struck her cheek was gone, but had left a nasty looking gash.
Unhurriedly, Broedi moved to Kenders’ horse, removed a length of rope tied to the saddle, and returned to the oligurt to begin securing her legs. Once bound, Broedi ripped out the arrow pinning the oligurt’s hand to her chest, prompting another roar of pain, and tied her wrists. The grayskin resisted, but stopped when Broedi drove his elbow across her jaw, grazing the arrow wound. The blow surprised Zecus. It was quite unlike the gentle giant.
As the echoing shouts of men drifted through the forest, getting ever closer, Zecus eyed Broedi and asked, “Why did you not become the great bear or cat? They could not have matched you.”
Glaring at the bound oligurt, Broedi rumbled, “These are advance scouts, sent to search for us.” He lifted his gaze to stare at the misty forest. “Which means our pursuers do not know exactly where we are. Any use of the Strands would have been a beacon to the right kind of mage.”
“Scouts?” repeated Zecus. “Then there are more coming?”
“I would assume many more, uori.”
Zecus exchanged a worried look with the two young women. Sabine nocked her arrow and lifted her bow a few inches, readying it.
“Do not worry, uora. I doubt their larger force is close. It is not their way.” The hillman stared down at the oligurt. “What concerns me at the moment is that they typically scout in threes. We have but two.”
The oligurt on the ground glared at Broedi with hate in her black eyes.
Scanning the forest, Zecus asked, “Where’s the third?”
Frowning, Broedi said, “I expect riding back with details on our whereabouts.”
“Riding to whom?” asked Kenders.
“Is that a question that needs to be asked, uora?”
Kenders sighed, muttering, “I suppose not…”
Broedi stared back down at the oligurt and demanded, “Who is your Ohraeg?” The last word carried the guttural twist of the oligurt language.
The grayskin turned her eyes away, ignoring him.
“How did you get here?” pressed Broedi.
The oligurt glared at him, sneered, and spat. Black, bloody spittle shot from her mouth and splattered on the dirt. Zecus winced. The action looked painful considering the open wound in the side of her cheek.
Kenders said doubtfully, “I
don’t think he’s going to answer you.”
“Yes, she will,” rumbled Broedi.
“She?” said Kenders, eyebrows arched.
“Yes, uora,” answered Broedi, looking past the pair of young women as soldiers began to emerge from the forest mist. “This is a she-gurt.”
Zecus twisted around to scan the ranks of the Sentinels, looking for Kenders’ brothers, Sergeant Trell, or the tomble. Not seeing any of them, he prayed there had not been another attack somewhere else.
When the soldiers saw the oligurts, they pulled up short and stared. Zecus knew that this was the first time any of the men had seen one, which meant that besides Broedi, he was the most experienced of the group when it came to oligurts. It was not a comforting thought.
Broedi crouched beside the oligurt and stared at her. For a long time, the White Lion simply stared at the sneering creature, saying nothing at all.
Zecus noted that the wound on the oligurt’s thigh was oozing copious amounts of black blood. A pool had already gathered on the needles and leaves underneath her leg. If Broedi wished to learn anything, he would have to hurry.
Finally, with a short, disgusted growl, the oligurt dropped her eyes. Broedi spoke an instant later.
“Falld ograg imshadok gol vrong illuth ruaukk?”
To an inexperienced ear, it might sound as though the hillman were clearing his throat in the form of a question. However, Zecus’ short time in the Sudashian camp helped him recognize the grunting as the oligurt language. He was quite impressed that the White Lion could speak the tongue.
The oligurt looked at Broedi, turned her head, and spit more blood out along with a low, spiteful word. “Thargh!”
Broedi lashed out with his huge right hand, grabbed the oligurt’s chin, and directed the beast’s gaze to his face.
“Imshadok gol vrong illuth ruaukk? Uelag garok Ohraeg Urazûd? Uelag garok Jhaell Myrr?”
The oligurt’s eyes widened at the mention of the demon’s name, yet she remained silent.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 69