Chapter 71: Victory
As Kenders rushed down the slope, Nikalys took one last look down the hill, seeing if he was needed anywhere. The Sudashians, however, were clearly on the run, the Shadow Manes and Red Sentinels riding them down from behind using arrows, magic, and sword.
The battle was more or less over.
Nikalys shook his head and closed his eyes. Somehow, they had won, a miracle considering how poorly things had been going.
The Sudashians had been overrunning the Sentinels when Nikalys spotted Jak and Zecus leading the twenty Sentinels across the hill, thundering toward on the demon-man. Nikalys had wanted to help his brother, but if he left the soldiers to fight the Sudashians alone, they would have died.
He cut down as many of the beasts as he could while stealing quick glances down the hill to watch his brother. When Jak and his men reached the demon-man, Urazûd skewered Hunsfin with his massive sword, lifting the man from his saddle and tossing him aside like a sack of flour. Hunsfin’s sacrifice allowed Zecus to stab the demon’s neck, and Jak and the remaining men surrounded the spawn.
The piercing cry of a hawk pulled Nikalys’ attention to the sky as a colossal, golden-brown bird of prey swooped down to the field. As the hawk dove, it shifted to Broedi’s hillman form briefly before morphing into the hill lynx and landing softly on the hillside. Broedi joined the fight, leaping onto the back of an oligurt, clamping his jaws on the monster’s neck. A moment later, a water creature appeared in the midst of the remaining Desert Fire mages and began thrashing the oligurts.
Dozens of men and women—many with weapons, some without—rode forth from the northern woods and charged straight into the flank of the oligurts and razorfiends. In a matter of moments, the battle had turned from impending, hopeless defeat to resounding victory. Jak’s mad charge was impossibly successful. He and Zecus not only managed to kill Urazûd, but they survived, as well, although many of the other Sentinels did not.
When the demon-man fell, the remaining oligurts and razorfiends fled.
With the enemy in full retreat, Nikalys had stood on the hillside, sword at the ready but without an opponent to fight. He was starting down the slope, looking for Jhaell when a raw, knife-like scream cut the air. Recognizing the all-too-familiar voice, he spun around and found the saeljul standing over his sister.
A blink of an eye later, Nikalys was behind him.
Now, it was over.
Nikalys stared at the lifeless body of Jhaell. The deviant responsible for his parents’ death and Yellow Mud’s destruction was dead at last. One of the ijul’s long arms was splayed out, pointing downhill, the other one bent at an odd angle. Leaves and muck muddied his once-lustrous, white-blonde hair. His tunic was soaked red with blood, absurdly matching the bright crimson cord that lay next to the ijul. Peering downhill, Nikalys noted Kenders’ braid unraveling as she rushed about.
Looking back to Jhaell, he sighed and shook his head. It was hard to equate the harmless lump of flesh with the merciless monster that had destroyed Yellow Mud.
Nikalys lifted his sword and stared at it. Its metal gleamed and glowed as bright as the first time he had set eyes on it, not speck of grim or gore on it. He wished he could say the same for the rest him. The byproducts of death coated his arms, chest, and—by the foul taste in his mouth—his face.
Sighing, he slipped the sword into its scabbard and dropped to the ground, not caring that he was sitting in mud. For a time, he simply sat there, entirely unsure of what to do with himself, alternating between staring at Jhaell’s corpse and the dead Sudashians littering the hill.
He wondered how many of them were by his hand. At the height of the battle, he had been keeping count but had stopped when he realized he was marking bodies, not crates of olives being delivered to the river warehouse. These were living, breathing creatures and he was slaughtering them. At that point, an icy numbness filled him and, so far, it had yet to go away. He had ended dozens of lives today.
Hearing soft footsteps approached from behind, his right hand drifted toward his sword’s hilt.
“Nikalys?”
Relaxing, he looked over his shoulder. Sabine stood a few paces away, cradling Helene in her arms. He locked eyes with the young woman. The grime of travel coated her, yet her beauty was such that it shone through.
A worried expression rested on her face as she asked, “Are you alright?”
Nikalys held her gaze a moment before turning to stare back downhill. “Go away, please.” He did not want to talk. Not now.
A few moments passed before she moved. He frowned when he realized she was drawing closer rather than walking away. Sabine placed Helene on the ground and kneeled beside him.
Without looking back, he said tersely, “Truly, Sabine. Just leave—”
He stopped as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and laid her head on his back, her soft hair brushing his neck. Helene moved around to his front, crawled into his lap, and curled up into a little ball. Neither sister said a word.
He wanted to scream at them both to go away. If he could clear this hill of everyone and be here alone right at this moment, he would do so. He longed for solitude.
Yet, he did not yell. He did not shout. Instead, he slowly draped his arms around Helene, rested his chin on her soft, black hair, and stared at a dead oak leaf on the ground, studying the little lines fanning out from the stem and through the yellowing foliage.
At some point, while sitting there, he began to cry. The numbness he felt revealed itself for what it truly was: a roiling, swirling mixture of relief, anguish, despair, and a multitude of other emotions he could not name nor understand. Sabine silently stroked his head as tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped on Helene’s head. The little girl did not seem to mind. Rather, she reached out with her tiny fingers, took his blood-covered hand, and held it, clutching tight.
The trio remained that way for a long time. No one approached them. No one asked for anything. Amidst the sea of post-battle chaos, Nikalys and the Moiléne sisters were a tiny island of calm.
When the tears stopped coming, Nikalys drew in a deep breath, reached his free hand over to Sabine, and gently patted her leg.
“Thank you.”
Sabine’s only response was to squeeze him tighter.
Helene tilted her head back and stared up at him with her big, brown eyes. She gave him a tiny, fragile smile and muttered, “We’re safe.” Nikalys tried to smile back, but failed. After a moment, she dropped her gaze and whispered, “For now.”
Nikalys stared at the dead bodies on the hill and sighed. He suspected Helene was right.
Chapter 72: Hope
17th of the Turn of Thonda
Nikalys stood alone on the hill, staring at the thick, black clouds of acrid smoke rising from the burning pile of corpses, billowing into the night to choke the stars from the sky. A constant, popping staccato exploded from the fire as razorfiends’ quills burst open due to the blaze’s heat. An awful mixture of roasting meat, charred filth, and death filled the air. The soft easterly breeze carried most of the stench from the ridge top, but it could not take it all.
A continuous succession of Shadow Manes moved past him, carrying Sudashian corpses to the inferno, tossing them into the pile, and then heading back down the hill to collect more. Too heavy for men to carry, dead oligurts were draped over horses’ backs and brought to the fire. Razorfiends, their blades too sharp to risk anyone picking them up, were maneuvered onto makeshift stretchers with sticks and then dragged to the blaze.
Most every person who passed Nikalys during their grim task stole a glance or two at him. At first, the staring had bothered him. Every one of their expectant gazes felt like another yoke dropped around his neck. Having so many look upon him with hope, awe, and respect was unnerving.
Until recently, his days were filled with chores in Yellow Mud’s groves and vineyards or afternoon swims in Lake Hawthorne. Life had been good. It had been simple. It had made sense.
&n
bsp; These Manes knew nothing of that life, of that Nikalys. When they stared at him, they saw the Progeny of the White Lions. He was the son of Aryn Atticus and Eliza Kap, here to lead the fight against the god of Chaos and the Cabal, a hero whose return they had been anxiously awaiting for fifteen years.
As he stood there, staring into the pyre without truly seeing it, he battled himself, trying to reconcile who he was: the middle child of farmers or the eldest son of two legendary heroes. It had taken time, a long time, but he eventually concluded he was not one or the other. He was both and always would be.
At once, his nerves settled. The Shadow Manes’ gazes still bothered him, but less so.
Two turns ago, the sight and smell of a bonfire of burning bodies would have made him sick to his stomach. Tonight, he felt nothing. The cold, empty numbness had engulfed him once again. It was easier to feel nothing.
A pair of men hefted an oligurt off a horse and tossed it into the burning pile. As they moved away, on their way to retrieve another, Nikalys eyed the new corpse. For a moment, the flames did not touch the oligurt, seemingly pausing as if unsure whether or not they were supposed to char the beast’s flesh. Curls of white smoke seeped from crevices between the newest body and the others already burnt beyond recognition. The fire toasted the edges of the oligurt’s hide tunic for a moment before fully committing to their purpose.
Nikalys wondered if this particular beast had perished at his hand. He stared at a long, fleshy wound across the beast’s chest, straining to recall if he had inflicted it.
A deep voice rumbled behind him, saying, “You did what had to be done, Nikalys.”
Nikalys blinked, startled. He had not heard anyone approach him. Turning to look over his shoulder, he found Broedi standing a few paces behind him, staring at the bonfire as well. With quiet wonder, he muttered, “You called me by my name.”
The hillman’s gaze shifted to Nikalys’ face. “Yes, I did.” As Broedi studied him, a small frown spread over the White Lion’s face. The hillman let out a quiet sigh, stepped forward to stand between Nikalys and the fire, and clasped his hands behind his back. “When aki-mahet reach their fifteenth year, they lose their given name and are called ‘uora’ or ‘uori’ by the tribe until they prove themself worthy of their name. Dozens of people are alive tonight because of you, Nikalys. Your fathers—both of them, I believe—would be proud of you.”
Not knowing how to respond, Nikalys simply stared up at the hillman, watching the bonfire’s light dance around the edge of Broedi’s hair and face. When the silence between the pair stretched long, the hillman nodded as genuine concern spread over his normally stoic face. “Aryn was very quiet after battle as well. He would stand alone for hours. ‘Thinking,’ he said.”
Nikalys dipped his chin, dropping his gaze to the muddy ground, unsure what Broedi wanted him to do with that bit of information.
Broedi rumbled softly, “Remember his advice to you.”
Nikalys stared up at the hillman. “Pardon?”
“His letter. Remember his words to you.”
Nikalys had read the letter countless times since that first night by the campfire. By now, the scrawled words were burned into memory. Reciting it to himself in his mind, he stopped when he realized to what Broedi must be referring. In a quiet, reserved tone, he said, “‘Do what you must, when you must. Move on as best you can, as soon as you can.’”
“It is good advice,” replied Broedi.
Nikalys glanced past the White Lion to the glowing pyre. “He said it took him a long time to realize that.”
“Decades, I am afraid.”
Without looking away from the fire, Nikalys asked, “How long have I been standing here?”
“Longer than I had hoped.”
Nikalys nodded slowly. Aryn was right. Standing here, dwelling on his actions was not helping anything or anyone. Pulling his eyes from the blaze, he stared up at Broedi. “Let’s go.”
A slight smile graced the hillman’s face. “Come with me, please.” Turning south, he began to stride from the burning bodies.
Nikalys followed, asking, “Where are we going?”
Lifting a hand, Broedi pointed toward the southern hillside and the grove of trees in which Jak and his men had hidden. “There.”
A roaring campfire burned amongst the oaks where Nikalys’ family and friends had set up for the night. “Good.” He needed to be with them more than with his thoughts.
As the pair walked across the hillside, the people they passed would stare at him and, for the first time, he met their gazes without reservation. Most gave a silent nod of greeting, but some offered a quiet “hello” or even a “good evening, Progeny.” He smiled and politely nodded back, trying not to cringe when someone addressed him with the title.
Halfway to the grove, they came across a section of ground with at least a dozen freshly dug, still-empty graves. Dozens of Sentinels were hollowing out more, using whatever they could to shove the muddy earth aside while trying to find places in the soil where solid rock was not inches below the surface. Nikalys spotted Cero and Wil on their knees, using their bare hands to dig. Wil looked ten years older than he had this morning.
The bodies of soldiers were lined up nearby, on their backs with arms folded over their chests, waiting to be placed into the unfinished graves. Nikalys might not have known many of them well, but he recognized every face and knew most of their names. Two, however, stood out. When he reached the bodies, he stopped and stared down at the pair of men.
Corporal Holb had suffered a crushing blow to the back of the head from an oligurt’s club during the charge into the bullockboars. His face was untouched, and if it were not for the sunken, bloody skull Nikalys had seen earlier, he would swear that the man was sleeping.
To the corporal’s right lay Hunsfin. Without the scout’s sacrifice and those of ten other men in that charge, Jak would be dead. Staring at the dead man, Nikalys murmured, “Thank you for my brother.”
If Broedi heard his quiet whisper—and he probably did—he showed no sign. The hillman stayed by his side, offering his mere presence as comfort.
Looking up, Nikalys spotted Sergeant Trell walking among the graves and dead soldiers. The sergeant glanced up, saw Broedi and Nikalys, and strode over to them, pushing aside the haunted expression on his face. Halting before the pair, Sergeant Trell examined Nikalys closely. The concern in his eyes was clear.
“How are you doing, son?”
Nikalys stared at the man in quiet awe. The sergeant was burying dozens of his men and here he was, inquiring as to Nikalys’ wellbeing. After a stunned moment, he managed to reply in a quiet, restrained tone. “I’ll be fine.”
Sergeant Trell shot Broedi a quick, questioning look. After a slight nod from the White Lion, the soldier glanced back to Nikalys and nodded.
“Good to hear.”
He accepted Nikalys’ answer, whether or not he believed it was another matter. Nikalys wondered what the sergeant’s instinct was telling him right now.
Glancing at the line of bodies, Nikalys murmured, “Do you have a final number, then?”
Sergeant Trell failed to hold back the sorrow in his face or voice as he answered. “Thirty-nine.”
Nikalys’ gaze drifted to the sky, coming to rest on White Moon. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Thirty-nine Sentinels dead.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” rumbled Broedi. “They were good men.”
With pride in his voice, the sergeant said, “Yes. They were.”
Nikalys dropped his head and stared back to the dead soldiers. “So many…”
Sergeant Trell looked to the oak grove where the other campfire burned. “It would have been more if not for Nundle and your sister. At least twenty men owe them their lives.”
Nikalys supposed that was some solace.
“Is there anything I can do to help, Sergeant? I could dig graves?”
Holding up a hand of protest, Sergeant Trell said, “No, thank you. I appreciate the offe
r, but I think the men want to do it themselves.” He looked at soldiers who were digging, a sad scowl spreading over his face. “It helps them, I think.”
Nikalys nodded. “I understand.”
Reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, Sergeant Trell said, “Go. Be with your brother and sister.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
A weary smile touched the corners of the soldier’s mouth. “Truly, son, you are going to have to stop calling me that.”
Giving the man a tired grin of his own, Nikalys asked, “What would you like your new rank to be, then? Lieutenant? Captain?”
“Don’t start with that nonsense.” His tone was jovial but definitely muted by the day’s events. Giving Nikalys a gentle shove, he said, “Go on, now. Get out of here.”
Nikalys made sure to walk past where the injured were resting to check on their recovery. Most of those on the ground were Sentinels, although a few Shadow Manes lay among them, having been hurt while chasing down the fleeing Sudashians. Many were sleeping, healing quicker than was natural due to the magical aid given them.
Both Broedi and Nikalys stopped to talk with those who were awake, thanking them for their bravery and offering condolences for the loss of their friends and fellow soldiers. It was a difficult experience for Nikalys, but he did what he could to keep the grief he felt from reaching his face.
As they left the final soldier, Broedi murmured, “You did well. They will remember you care the next time they fight for you.”
Nikalys let out a long, low sigh. “The next time, huh?”
Broedi eyed him, but said nothing.
Nikalys knew there would be more battles, more injured, and more deaths. And it sickened him.
The pair finally reached the small grove where his family and friends waited. The brush that had covered the areas between the tree trunks now lay in a large pile off to one side. A huge fire roared at the camp’s center, fueled by logs and branches from the nearby mound.
As he approached, Nikalys judged the fire unnecessarily large. The evening was chilly, but not cool enough that it warranted such a sizeable blaze. The bright, warm light that illuminated the grove was welcome, though, and effective in chasing away the gloom of night. As he stepped closer, the pungent wood smoke from this fire filled his nostrils, masking the odor of the roasting oligurts and razorfiends. His opinion changed in an instant. This fire was wholly necessary.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 77