by R. T. Kaelin
His shout prompted the fiend to stop its advance and stare back in Tiliah’s direction. Rhohn immediately halted his retreat.
“Hey! Razorfiend! This way!”
The creature immediately spun around and sneered, “Sizzit clizick!” It crouched low to the ground, its hateful gaze locked on Rhohn’s face. With a shrill, chittering shriek, the fiend sprung into the air, shining in the last of the sun, the ominous gray rainstorm wall behind it.
Rhohn dropped to the ground, rolled to his right, and scurried to his knees just as the fiend landed, stabbing its arm-blades into the rain-softened ground. Rhohn thrust his sword forward quickly and managed to slip the point into the yielding, quill-less flesh just below the fiend’s rear.
With an ear-clawing shriek of pain, the razorfiend scooted forward, sliding off the sword, and twisting around, its right arm and quills extended. The fiend’s blades whistled through the air, cutting through the grass like a new scythe. Rhohn threw himself backward to avoid the wicked swipe, but felt a sharp pain along his right shoulder as the fiend’s blade caught him. Wincing in pain, he fell to the ground, losing his sword in the process.
Flipping over, he found the fiend already lording over him, emerald and black quills pointed at his chest, ready to plunge into him. Rhohn frantically, blindly ran his hand along the ground, seeking his blade. He was still searching when the fiend halted suddenly and began to turn around to its right just as Tiliah—her face a visage of rage—popped up behind it, a four-foot branch of bulboa tree in her hands, swinging toward the fiend’s head.
“Ahh!”
The wood, as thick as a healthy man’s forearm, crashed into the fiend’s ear and cheek. A hollow crack and burst of dust filled the air as the woodeater-ridden branch snapped in two, half twirling through the air while the other half remained clasped in Tiliah’s hands. The fiend staggered a step from the blow, but did not fall down. The fury on Tiliah’s face melted instantly into wide-eyed shock.
Rhohn’s hand brushed his sword. Finding the hilt, he grabbed it and, taking advantage of the distraction, hopped up to thrust again at the creature’s softer flesh. His blade again met its mark, but was as ineffective as it was the first time, eliciting only another sharp, shrill shriek and a vicious, spinning counter-attack.
Anticipating the response, Rhohn was already moving backward as the fiend’s quills sliced through the air. Its back to her again, Tiliah sprinted forward and unleashed a well-aimed kick, right against the fiend’s rear, knocking the creature off balance and thrusting it toward Rhohn.
Stepping to the side and dropping to a knee, Rhohn jammed the tip of his blade into the soft dirt and held the hilt high to trip up the stumbling fiend. As the razorfiend fell to the ground, Rhohn was already rising to his feet. Clasping the hilt of his sword with both hands, he screamed and drove the blade down with all the force he could muster, aiming for the bare spot just above the fiend’s waist.
The sword point sunk into the creature’s back, bounced off something hard inside, and continued on. Rhohn could feel it emerge from the fiend’s stomach and impale itself into the Borderlands’ earth, stopping a few inches into the ground. A bone-grating shriek burst from the creature. The fiend lashed out with its right arm, forcing Rhohn to jump straight up and over the swipe. Upon landing, he leapt backwards, leaving his blade in place. Blood bubbled from the wound, seeping out around the sword and sullying the emerald quills along its lower back.
Wanting to get closer to retrieve his sword, Rhohn started and stopped three times, but the flailing fiend was too dangerous to get near.
“Just leave it!” called Tiliah.
Glancing at her for only a moment, Rhohn said, “Why?”
She pointed at the fiend.
“It’s stuck.”
Rhohn looked back to the razorfiend and realized Tiliah was right. He had embedded his sword in the earth so deep that the razorfiend was pinned to the ground like a slaughtered goat against a bleeding rack. The creature attempted to push itself up twice, but stopped both times as the motion only made the wound worse as it slid along the blade. Collapsing to the ground, it futilely tried to reach around and grab the blade.
Rhohn lifted his gaze, searching the grass and wondering if more were near.
“Is it alone?” asked Tiliah. A glance to the young woman revealed her scanning the prairie as well.
“I don’t know,” muttered Rhohn. “I’m guessing so. I don’t think the others would sit around and listen to this.” The razorfiend’s shrieks, hisses, and clicks rang across the plains. “Even so, we should leave. Now.”
Tiliah nodded quickly.
“I agree.”
Their horse stood a quarter mile away, its head hung low to the ground. Guessing the broken bulboa branch had slowed the mare’s frenzied escape, Rhohn said a short prayer of thanks to Ketus for the one blessing of luck. Glancing back to the razorfiend as it thrashed about, spitting and screaming, he frowned.
“I can’t leave my sword.”
Tiliah came to stand beside him, her gaze never leaving the fiend, and said, “I don’t think you’ll have to. I think it’s dying.”
As the pair watched, the razorofiend’s chittering shrieks grew softer with each passing moment. Its flailing slowed until it was nothing more than random muscle twitches and then stopped completely, the quills along its arms going limp. The soft rustling of the grass in the wind returned, turning the Borderlands’ prairie peaceful once again. It was as if the attack had never occurred, an aberration to the plain’s tranquility.
When the razorfiend had not moved for a half-dozen heartbeats, Rhohn approached, extended a tentative foot, and gently kicked at the creature’s hand. There was no response. Stepping closer, he grabbed his sword’s hilt, and tugged upward. It took him four strong pulls to free the blade from the earth and fiend. He immediately stepped back and stared at the dead body.
Tiliah muttered, “What was it doing out here?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Rhohn answered, “I do not know.” He paused a moment before adding, “Nor do I much care. It is dead and we are alive.”
Tiliah was quiet for a moment before asking, “Your shoulder?”
Rhohn glanced down, pulled aside the slice in his shirt, and found nothing more than a deep scratch.
“Perhaps Ketus felt he owed me after the arrow,” said Rhohn. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“You are the healer,” answered Rhohn. “You tell me.”
She made to move toward him, but he pulled away, nodded in the direction of their horse, and said, “Come. We should be on our way quickly. You can attend to the cut once we are moving.” He began to move back to the tree in order to retrieve the bag of dried meat.
Tiliah lingered a moment longer, staring at the razorfiend corpse before following.
“Mud Man?”
Without looking back, Rhohn said, “Yes?”
“Do you think there will be more as we go?”
Rhohn found the burlap sack. Some of the meat had fallen out, along with the nobleman’s pouch. As he scooped everything back into the sack, he asked, “You prefer honesty, do you not?”
She stopped behind him and spoke in a firm tone, saying, “I do.”
Nodding once, he said, “Then, yes. Whether or not it’s those, oligurts, or mongrels…” He stood and turned to face her. “I expect more. At some point, we will be near their advance lines. Perhaps we are close now.”
Tiliah pressed her lips together. The skin around her eyes twitched. Without a hint of fear, she muttered, “Well, then let’s hurry and get past those blasted lines. I don’t want to fight any more of those things.”
With that, she strode past him, through the grass and toward the horse. Rhohn stared after her, wiping his blade on a handful of grass. After only a few quick swipes, he sheathed it and followed Tiliah, promising himself that he would clean his blade properly later.
Chapter 16: Empire
Upon leaving Tinfidd
le, Nundle and the White Lions meandered through a series of wheat fields, then bean, before descending a gentle slope and ducking behind a small, rocky ridge. Nundle scanned the wild vegetation around him, sparse and spindly, and concluded that the immediate terrain must be too rocky for cultivation. Slate-gray, striated boulders vastly outnumbered the oak trees. After the lush landscape of the tomble village, such a quick return to a rocky, spottily forested landscape was jarring.
Nundle glanced at the sky and frowned. Mu’s orb hovered just above the western horizon, coloring the clouds in the sky a soft red that reminded him of the light burgundy cherries that grew near Alewold. Dusk was quickly approaching. He wondered how much longer they were going to walk before stopping for the evening. Up to this point in his journey with Broedi, camp was already made by this time of day.
Nundle minded his footing as he ambled along, leading his horse behind him. When it had been just Broedi and he, the horse had been necessary. Now that Tobias was with them, that was no longer the case. The White Lion tomble had insisted on traveling on foot, limping along with the aid of his walking stick. Nundle had thrice offered the use of his horse, but Tobias had ignored him every time. In fact, neither he nor Broedi had said a word since leaving Tinfiddle.
Letting out a small sigh, he stared at Tobias’ back. He still could not believe what he was seeing.
A tomble White Lion.
The shock and excitement of the discovery still tickled inside.
A perpetually silent Broedi led their group along the path, moving at an absurdly slow pace. For weeks, the hillman had insisted they move quickly, intent upon reaching their destination as soon as possible, yet now he seemed content to crawl as a snail. Eyeing Tobias’ bent leg, Nundle frowned. At this rate, they might reach the Celestial Empire sometime next Harvest.
The sun had dropped to the treetops when Tobias peered over his shoulder, locked eyes with Nundle, and abruptly asked, “Getting tired, yet?”
Nundle’s heart started to pound. The White Lion, the tomble White Lion, was directly addressing him.
“Me? What? No…no! I’m quite full of energy, sir. I can go as long as you can—longer, I would think, considering your leg.”
As Tobias raised a crooked eyebrow at the comment, Nundle’s eyes widened.
“Oh, Gods! No! What I meant to say is that I’m not getting tired at all moving this slowly.”
Tobias’ eyebrow lifted higher, prompting Nundle to protest louder.
“Not that I mind going slow! Because I don’t! I certainly understand your need to go slow. Because of your leg and all.”
Tobias stopped in the middle of the path and half-turned to face him, his brow furrowing, staring at Nundle as one would at a three-headed sheep.
Nundle dropped his head, his gaze fixing on a random stone in the dirt path. After a few uncomfortable moments, he heard Tobias speak.
“Gods, Broedi. Where did you find him?”
Faint amusement colored his words, giving Nundle hope that he had not taken the unintentional insults too seriously.
“Actually, he found me.”
“Did he now?” muttered the tomble in surprise.
Broedi stopped in the path, turned to face the pair, and said, “Only a few turns ago, in fact.” Staring intently at Tobias, he added, “He tracked me down shortly after I found the Progeny.”
Tobias halted, leaned on his walking stick, and peered up at the hillman.
“You say that as though it’s important.”
“It is,” rumbled the hillman.
“Ah,” muttered Tobias. “I see.” He paused a moment. “No, I don’t. What in the Nine Hells is ‘the progeny’?”
Stunned, Nundle blurted out, “They’re the Progeny!”
Tobias glanced over his shoulder and said, “Shouting will not help me understand what you are talking about!”
Nundle shut his mouth quickly. Tobias was right. He looked to Broedi and found the hillman with a slight frown on his face.
Broedi rumbled, “I was afraid of this.” He stared past Nundle, up the road that lead back toward Tinfiddle. “Can we expect to be left alone for a time?”
With an angry huff, Tobias replied, “After your stunt? Absolutely. You could have marched into town with a dozen heralds carrying the blasted white lion banner and have been less conspicuous.”
Broedi raised an eyebrow.
“You are exaggerating.”
“Did you truly have to crash through the front door?” demanded Tobias. “That was a nice door. I just painted it last turn.”
Broedi moved to the left side of the road, sat on one of the gray granite boulders, and asked, “Had I knocked politely, you would have opened a port to go elsewhere, yes?”
Tobias shrugged.
“Most likely.”
“Then you have your answer,” replied Broedi, lifting his pack over his head and dropping it to the ground. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared at Tobias. The White Lion tomble held Broedi’s gaze.
Nundle stood in the middle of the wide path, a dozen paces behind Tobias, unsure what to do. His horse took advantage of the pause in travel to wander to the side of the road and begin nibbling on a patch of grass.
After a few long moments of quiet, Nundle asked uneasily, “So, ah, are we stopping here?”
Without taking his eyes from Tobias, Broedi rumbled, “For now, yes.”
Nundle nodded and began scanning the forest floor on both sides of the path, offering, “Well, then I’ll gather some wood for a fire, perhaps see if there is creek—”
Interrupting him, Broedi rumbled firmly, yet quietly, “Remain here, please.”
Nundle peered back to the hillman.
“But it will be dark, soon. We should—”
“Here, Nundle” insisted Broedi.
Tobias said, “He wants you around should I decide to run again.”
Nundle glanced to Broedi, looking for confirmation. The hillman nodded.
“Correct.”
“Oh,” muttered Nundle. “Understood, then.” He went quiet and stood at the ready, waiting for any flicker of black or white.
Tobias remained stationary in the middle of the path, leaning on his walking stick. After a few more quiet moments had passed, he said, “Let’s go, Broedi. Out with it. Why is our task not yet complete? And explain these Progeny to me. Quickly, please.”
“I will tell you everything,” rumbled the hillman. “And after I am done, I will ask you to do something for me.” He paused a moment before adding confidently, “And you will do it.”
A short, haughty laugh burst from Tobias.
“Hah! Will I?”
Broedi regarded Tobias with a steady gaze.
“Most likely.”
Tobias took a number of quick, lurching movements toward Broedi, leaning on his walking stick with each hurried step.
“If you think you can get me to just nod and go along with whatever scheme you—”
Nundle was bracing himself for what seemed to be a certain tongue-lashing when Tobias suddenly cut off and halted his advance on Broedi. For a brief moment, Nundle thought the tomble was so irritated that he did not know what to say. After a few heartbeats of silence passed, he realized that was not the case. Curious, he glanced toward Broedi. The hillman was leaning forward, a slight frown on his face. Sitting tall, he raised a hand and waved for Nundle to come closer.
“Nelnora’s gift is upon him,” replied Broedi. “We might as well get comfortable.”
Tugging the reins of his horse, Nundle hurried forward. He moved around to Tobias’ front and stared at the White Lion’s face. Tobias’ eyelids drooped halfway shut and his mouth hung slack.
“He looks dead.”
“In one sense, he is,” rumbled Broedi. “His soul is elsewhere at the moment.”
Nundle continued to stare at Tobias. He almost reached out to shut Tobias’ mouth before the tomble started to drool.
“How long will it last?”
Broedi
shrugged.
“I do not know. At times, he would fade away for mere moments. Others, he would be gone for an entire morning or afternoon.” He frowned and shook his head. “The timing of this vision is rather inopportune, however.”
Nundle eyed Tobias and asked, “How does he not fall over?”
“That is a question which none of us ever could answer,” rumbled the hillman. “Although, if he remains like that for a time, he will be quite stiff when he returns.”
Pushing himself off the rock, Broedi moved to where Tobias stood. He bent down, gently removed the tomble’s pack and walking stick, handing both to Nundle. Bending over, the hillman lifted Tobias in his arms, moved to the side of the path, and carefully placed the tomble in a sitting position against the trunk of an ash tree. Once he had seen to Tobias’s comfort, Broedi stood tall, but remained hovering over the little tomble.
Still standing in the road, Nundle asked softly, “You count him a true friend, don’t you?”
“I do,” replied the hillman. “I wish I had not needed to cut short his life in Tinfiddle, but…” He trailed off, allowing a heavy silence to grip the little pathway in the woods.
After a few moments, Nundle said, “I didn’t mean to offend him earlier—about his leg.”
Broedi returned to the rock, sat, and retrieved his pack from the ground. Reaching inside the leather satchel, he pulled out his long, bone pipe and pouch of smoking-leaf. Glancing up, he said, “Do not worry. I know Tobias well. Words alone do not hurt him. The trials of his past have granted him skin of stone.”
“What sort of trials?”
Broedi held Nundle’s inquisitive gaze a moment before dropping it to his pipe.
“Is not my tale to tell.”
Nundle recognized the tone in Broedi’s voice and the look in his eyes. No amount of prodding would get more from him. Frowning, he eyed Tobias, wondering exactly what Broedi meant. He stood there for a time, trying to make sense of everything, alternating staring at Tobias, Broedi, and the dusk sky. Glancing at Tobias’ crooked leg, he muttered, “I have a question.”
“Then ask it.”