He tried to ask questions, but was repeatedly shushed. The men traveled in complete silence, keeping careful watch on the hilltops. Zecus found himself staring up the rises, unable to see a thing in the dark, but staring nonetheless.
Just before dawn, a windstorm arrived, thrashing the group with sand and straw. The men, including Zecus, had all drawn their scarves over their faces, forced to ride blind.
An insistent gurgling from his stomach reminded Zecus that he had not eaten today. Reaching into the leather pouch hanging from his belt, he searched for the strip of canvas in which he had wrapped the remainder of last night’s eveningmeal, charred boa lizard tail.
Just as his fingers grazed the rough cloth, a strange, screeching shriek swirled amongst the wind’s howl.
Zecus sat straight in his saddle, gripping his knees tight as his horse danced sideways a couple of steps. The screech reminded him of a child’s terrified squeal, a possibility Zecus dismissed in an instant as it made no sense. The whipping wind twisted sounds, making them seem like things they were not.
He pulled his scarf from his face to peek out—the dust stung his eyes—but could not see anything beyond a dozen paces. His horse began moving forward again, prancing more than walking, apparently anxious to stay with the other horses of the double column.
Zecus was wondering if he had imagined the sound when another wailing cry, similar to the first, cut through the wind. He turned his head in all directions, searching for the source. Other men had also dropped their face scarves, braving the dust storm and scanning the hillsides. Zecus’ heart quickened. He was not imagining the cries.
A moment later, the muffled, alarmed shouts of men filtered through the sandstorm, only a few words here and there audible over the wind.
“—cut off from the—”
“—on the hill—”
“—trapped in and—”
The shrieks grew louder, closer, more frequent. New sounds, deep grunts and growls, joined in. Men drew swords, whipping their heads around in all directions, their colorful scarves flapping freely in the wind. Horses pranced and danced, tossing their heads. The man beside Zecus spun his mount in a stationary circle, peering up the hillside.
Zecus froze.
They were under attack, something for which he was not prepared in the slightest. He had no sword and even if he did, he did not know how to use one. He was a goat-herder. All he had was his throwing knife, a bow, and a dozen arrows rattling around in a quiver. His hope had been that when he arrived at the main camp, the men there would give him a sword or staff and teach him how to fight.
Shaking off his nerves, Zecus swiveled in his saddle and pulled his bow from its case. He bent the limbs together, stringing the weapon faster than he ever had. In this wind, a bow and arrow would be useless against anything more than a dozen paces away, but he was not going to just to sit here on his horse like a sack of grain. Something was coming, and he would be as ready as he could be.
Peering into the dusty gloom, he focused on the man next to him. His column mate sat in his saddle, a longsword upraised in his right hand, his left shielding his eyes from the wind and sand. Zecus was about to call out and ask for guidance when the rider abruptly turned to look in Zecus’ direction. His eyes widened.
“Grayskin!”
Zecus stared at the man, confused.
Loosing a sharp curse, the man drew a dagger from his belt with his free hand and flung it at Zecus.
Zecus bent down, over his horse’s neck, as the heavy dagger whizzed through the air. To his left, there was a wet thunk followed by a deep, bellowing roar.
Twisting his head, Zecus spotted a giant, gray-skinned figure but ten paces away. The monster was well over six and a half feet tall with a shorn head, deep set pitch-black eyes, an oversized flat nose, and two yellowed tusk-like teeth jutting up from between thick, gray-green lips. A shaggy-furred animal skin tunic draped over its massive chest and hung to its knees. A massive wooden club with spiked, metal cleats on one end lay on the ground, next to the creature, dropped so the beast could claw at the dagger jutting from its throat. Black blood squirted from the wound in the neck.
Shocked, Zecus realized he was staring at an oligurt, one who would have crushed him with the discarded club had it not been for the man beside him.
As Zecus gaped, the oligurt stumbled away, swallowed by the dust storm.
Zecus twisted to face his savior.
“Thank you!”
“You’re lucky! She almost got you!”
Zecus nodded his head in hasty agreement. It took a moment for the man’s words to register fully.
“She?”
He stared back into the storm, wondering what the males looked like. Swiveling around to face his column mate, he spotted a small figure rushing through the blowing dust toward the man.
“Behind you!”
As the man spun around, Zecus drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, pulled the string back, and shot at the sand-shrouded figure. The wind grabbed hold of the shaft and carried it away into the storm.
Before the man could raise his sword, the figure leaped from the ground and landed on the man and his horse. A half dozen small, dark blades burst through the man’s back. Blood squirted out, much of it whipped away by the wind. The man screamed, joining the cries of other men up and down the column.
He struggled with the creature, twisting and turning in his saddle, but it was pointless. In a few short moments, the man stopped thrashing and the blades retreated, sliding back into his body. Limp and lifeless, his corpse slid from the horse, falling to the ground in a heap.
Zecus stared at the man’s body, stunned. The man had saved his life moments ago. Now he was dead. Zecus did not even know his name.
A bone-rattling roar startled Zecus from his shock. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted another oligurt swinging a wooden club toward his head. Instinct took over.
He rolled out of the saddle—to his right and away from the oligurt—trying to avoid the impending blow. He was too slow, however. His left temple exploded in pain and the world went black.
Chapter 35: Fate
21st of the Turn of Sutri
The sound of voices in the streets greeted Nundle as he awoke, cracking open his eyes and staring at the sky out his open window. Based on the dim, nameless gray outside, he guessed dawn had yet to arrive. After rising from the straw mattress and stretching, he moved to the window, stood on the tips of his toes, and looked outside.
Even at this early hour, people filled the streets. Most longlegs he saw carried large canvas bags slung on their back or had baskets full of all sorts of goods—fruit, vegetables, clothes, rugs, and trinkets—balanced atop their heads. As the general flow of traffic was towards the merchant district through which he had come yesterday, Nundle assumed they were vendors on their way to set up their stalls.
Heading downstairs, he was surprised to find Heriot standing behind the counter considering the early hour. When he made such a remark, the longleg said that it was her job to be last to bed and first to rise.
Nundle accepted a loaf of soft, fresh bread and a few slices of a hard white cheese for his morningmeal, along with a cup of a sweet, weak wine. When he inquired about Joshmuel and Boah, Heriot informed him the pair had already left. Disappointed that he would not be able to say goodbye to the two Borderlanders, Nundle finished his meal and headed out of The Screaming Butcher with a word of thanks. Heriot tried to give Nundle back some coins saying that the food and the room had not cost nearly what he had paid, but Nundle refused. Heriot was an honest person, hard worker, and kind soul. Nundle was happy to have overpaid.
Deciding that he could use one more of those sticky buns before he left the city, he retraced his steps to the bakery. The people whom he passed in the streets stared at him with open curiosity, but were always polite, offering smiles and wishes of “Good days ahead.” Other than the ‘all magic is outlawed’ nonsense, he decided the Oaken Duchies was a pleasant eno
ugh place.
After finding his way back to the baker, he bought a single pastry—only one, having learned his limit—and asked the man for directions to where he could buy traveling supplies. The simple canvas bag he had brought from the academy was already beginning to fall apart.
The kindly baker gave him directions to a building around the corner, telling him to look for a forest green awning with bright, white stripes situated on a rooftop.
With a word of thanks, Nundle left, ducking and dodging his way through the increasingly crowded streets, trying to avoid being stepped on. Upon rounding a corner, he spotted the building the baker had described. Three stories tall, the first floor was made of smooth, light gray river rock while the upper two stories were a darkly stained oak. The building was one of the few he had seen that was so tall; most Lakeborough structures were only one or two floors.
Walking to the northern side of the building, he climbed the stairs to the rooftop. Custom seemed to dictate that people went up the northern set of steps and down the southern stairwell.
Once on the rooftop, he moved straight to the green awning with white stripes and greeted the vendor. The longleg was still setting up his goods but seemed happy to have a customer so early in the day. He was helpful, giving Nundle his full attention while the tomble looked over a vast assortment of leather travel packs, waterskins, bedrolls, firesticks, skinning knives, slings, snares, walking sticks, and more. Realizing how vastly under prepared he was for his trip, Nundle bought one of nearly everything. The vendor could not stop smiling.
Remarking that it seemed the tomble was going on a long trip, the peddler noted the sandals and ragged gray robe that Nundle wore and made an excellent point that neither would last long on the open road. Nundle had to agree. His acolyte garb was made for the paved halls and walkways of the Strand Academies, not for extended travel over dirt and rock roads.
The longleg directed him to another vendor with a bright blue awning on the same rooftop, one who sold children’s boots and clothes. Pushing aside his initial reticence to wearing clothing meant for longleg children, Nundle bought some proper breeches and a shirt, along with a new set of boots. Thanking both vendors, he moved to the southern side of the building in order to walk down the stairs.
When he reached the edge, he stopped for a moment and looked down at the city around him. The hundreds of colorful awnings made it look as if someone had chopped up a rainbow and sprinkled it over the rooftops. To his left, the green treetops of the oak forest through which he had traveled yesterday ran to the horizon. Within the city proper, three sprawling structures rose high above the rest of the buildings; Nundle figured they were temples. By now, the streets were as busy as they had been when he had arrived yesterday, perhaps more so.
Not wanting to delay any longer, Nundle moved to the open stairwell on the south side of the building and was about to climb down when something in the crowd below caught his eye. Two columns of longlegs in red and black uniforms were coming around the corner of a nearby building, moving through the center of the street on horses. Behind them rode other longlegs with dark blue uniforms trimmed with gold.
Running his gaze along the procession, Nundle froze.
“Impossible…”
Preceptor Myrr rode at the head of the column. The saeljul was wearing tan traveling clothes and not his normal crimson robes, but Nundle did not doubt the ijul’s identity. The white-gold hair and elongated features were unmistakable.
Panicking, his heart racing, Nundle leapt back from the stair platform and slipped behind the nearest vendor stall, confident that his size and bright red hair would have given him away in a heartbeat. He reached into his pack and pulled out the wide-brimmed hat he had just bought and jammed it on his head, tucking his hair into the cap.
The vendor of the stand behind which he was hiding spoke, his tone conversational.
“Red Sentinels.”
Nundle glanced up at the vendor, finding the longleg peering down at the soldiers.
“Pardon?”
Motioning below, the longleg said to Nundle, “The red and black soldiers are Red Sentinels. From the Great Lakes.” A frown creased his face. “I’m surprised the duchess granted Duke Everett permission to let them ride here.”
Nundle’s head snapped up at the name.
“Duke Everett? The duke of the Great Lakes Duchy is named Everett?”
The vendor peered at him, brow furrowed, eyes curious.
“Um…yes?”
Nundle’s heart pumped as though was in the middle of a Leisure Time post race.
“Where does he live?”
The longleg’s eyes narrowed.
“Redstone.”
Nundle’s eyes widened a fraction. The letter he held was from an ‘Everett’ and spoke of a city named ‘Redstone.’ While it was possible that both names were a coincidence, Preceptor Myrr’s presence said it was not.
He stared back to the street, wondering how the preceptor had found him. Even if Magistrate Ulius had returned and shared what had happened, the preceptor would not have had the means by which to track Nundle to Lakeborough. His gaze settled on two men riding beside his former teacher, flanking the ijul.
“The pair in gray. Who are they?”
The question drew another curious look from the longleg.
“Constables. Trackers from the look of them.” He paused before asking, “You are new to the area, I take it?”
Nundle ignored the man’s question. His heart was beating so fast that he thought it might burst.
“Constables? Here? How?”
The mutterings were simply Nundle musing aloud, but the vendor answered him anyway.
“Word is they’re hunting some outlaw mages. Something about a whole village being destroyed in the north. Not sure about the ijul up front, though. I’ve never heard of a saeljul in any duchy army. And he’s not wearing gray, so he’s no Constable.”
Nundle’s heart slowed a bit. They were not here for him.
Glancing up at the vendor, he asked, “You said mages? More than one?”
The longleg shrugged.
“One is enough, isn’t it?”
Nodding slowly, Nundle mumbled, “I suppose so.”
“To answer your question, though, yes. More than one mage. A friend sold a smoking pipe to a Sentinel yesterday. The soldier said they were hunting four lawbreakers.” His eyes went wide. “Four! Can you believe it?”
Nundle stared at the man blankly. He could not believe it. The letter he carried mentioned only one survivor from the preceptor’s attack. Peering back down to the column of soldiers, he muttered, “Four?”
Preceptor Myrr seemed to be tracking these four mages. And Nundle had a good idea why.
Turning to the longleg peddler, he asked, “Do you know where I can buy a horse? A very small horse?”
Chapter 36: Lessons
24th of the Turn of Sutri
Jak sat alone in the grass, an anticipatory grimace on his face, and muttered, “Please get it right this time.”
Fifty paces away, a small, indistinct tongue of flame appeared several feet over tonight’s campfire. It wavered in place for a moment before dissipating in a disappointing puff of smoke.
Sitting beside the fire, Kenders slapped her open palms against her knees and shouted, her voice ringing out over the prairie.
“Hells!”
Jak sighed and shook his head. If she kept that up, she would have bruises.
Resting on the grass, across the campfire from Kenders, Broedi spoke, his tone firm.
“You are still rushing. Take your time. Focus. Be deliberate with each Strand. Do you understand?”
Kenders nodded, an expression of frustration mixed with determination on her face.
“Good,” rumbled Broedi. “Do you need me to show you the Weave again?”
“No,” said Kenders quickly, shaking her head. “I know it.”
“Then try again.”
Jak mumbled to himself, �
��Oh, good. Again.”
Tonight’s lessons were going poorly. Like previous nights, Broedi would demonstrate what he wanted her to do, Kenders would insist she saw ‘the pattern,’ and then try to replicate it. More often than not, something would then explode.
When the hillman did the magic, the campfire between them would flare and bend into different shapes. So far, Jak had seen a sphere, a cube, and once—to his surprise—a small bird. Mouth agape, Jak had watched the bird of fire fly in a graceful circle about the camp, soaring overhead, before disappearing into a puff of white smoke.
Earlier, Jak had been sitting closer to the fire than he was now, but after one of Kenders’ accidents singed his shirt and set patches of the tall Southlands’ grass on fire, he had moved back to where he sat now. While he was finding Kenders’ lessons interesting to watch, these with fire were dangerous.
“How’s she doing?”
Glancing over his shoulder, Jak found Nikalys approaching through the waist-high grass, the ever-present swishing sound of the tall blades masking his footsteps. They had moved into the grasslands a few days ago and Jak was already tiring of the constant rustling.
A couple days after skirting Lakeborough, the siblings and Broedi had come to a fork in the road; one branch went southwest, the other headed southeast. Rather than take either, Broedi had instead led them straight, off the road and into the forest. For a day, they had moved through thinning clusters of trees before the land finally gave way to endless fields of green grass spotted with patches of white and violet wildflowers. The land was beautiful, yet alien. Jak had spent his entire life where wilderness’ palette had been restricted to dirty yellows, dusty greens, and every imaginable shade of brown.
As he watched his brother draw closer, the sunset-soaked sky behind Nikalys forced Jak to squint. Streaks of orange and purple clouds filled the western horizon, a bright and colorful backdrop to Nikalys’ dark silhouette. Despite the glare, Jak could see that Nikalys was returning from his evening hunt empty-handed. Jak frowned. That meant a choice between salted rockeye or an empty belly tonight.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 35
