Several dozen paces from Nundle’s group, the soldiers stopped. The golden-bearded one in the middle stared at them, a confused expression upon his face. “A tomble, a giant, and a girl?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Were I a betting man, I would have lost a fair number of ducats just now.”
Broedi rumbled, “And were I a betting man, I would have made a fortune, as I more than expected to be stopped by soldiers of the Southlands.”
The longleg—Nundle dubbed him ‘Goldbeard’—lifted his hand away from his sword hilt, crossed his arms, and asked, “Did you now?” He ran his eyes over the three of them again. “I’m guessing that means you’re with those blasted Sentinels. I don’t suppose you’d like to share why there’s an entire company of them this far in the Southlands?”
Sounding as if it was no bother at all, Broedi rumbled, “I will be happy to share. However, my orders are to speak directly with your captain.”
“Orders?” Goldenbeard’s eyes narrowed. “Orders from who?”
Broedi shook his head.
“I am not permitted to share that with anyone but the captain.”
“You wish to speak with the captain, do you?”
“Correct.”
“Well, that will be difficult to do as we have none with us. Lieutenant Madric is in charge.”
Nundle winced. The soldier had called Broedi’s first bluff.
Sounding surprised, Broedi said, “The captain is not here?” A pensive frown spread over his lips. “That is unexpected.” The hillman went quiet for a long moment.
Goldbeard shot Nundle a suspicious stare. Nundle offered a tiny, nervous smile in return while swallowing the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.
With a sigh of resignation, Broedi said, “The lieutenant will have to suffice then. Why your captain did not see fit to come himself is no matter for the moment. Duchess Aleece will have words with his superiors.”
“What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?” asked Goldbeard. He ran his gaze over the three of them again. “The duchess sent you?”
Nundle could understand the man’s dubious expression. The claim that the sovereign of the Southlands Duchy would associate with the three of them was tougher to swallow than last week’s bread.
Nodding, Broedi rumbled, “She did. Now, please, take us to the lieutenant.”
Goldbeard looked as if he wished to challenge them further, but instead shrugged his shoulders.
“Fine, then. Let’s go. Madric can sort this all out. Follow me.”
He turned and began heading east. The two flanking soldiers moved aside, letting the trio pass and then falling in behind, trailing them through the wilderness. Nundle glanced at Kenders several times as they went, praying that the lone, rushed lesson he had given her would be enough if things went poorly. Kenders caught him staring and forced a smile. He could see that she was nervous. Nundle sighed and faced forward. So was he.
After an uncomfortably quiet journey, Goldbeard led them into a clearing filled with a hundred Southern Arms, their horses picketed with saddles still on their backs, soldiers meandering about, ready to move at a moment’s notice. A lone tent had been raised on the far side of the group, amongst the trees and grass.
Like the three soldiers who had guided Nundle’s group to the camp, every longleg here sported a beard. Nundle found the idea of having fur on one’s face a horrid one. He inquired about its apparent itchiness to Nathan one evening, but the sergeant dismissed his concern, saying it was not a bother. A few moments later, Nundle spotted the sergeant scratching his face.
Goldbeard glanced back and held a hand up for them to halt.
“Wait here.”
He strode toward the tent, leaving the three alone in the middle of the camp, surrounded on all sides by ogling soldiers.
A quick glance at Kenders revealed the girl looking from one face to another. She appeared a touch paler than a little while ago. Broedi, on the other hand, appeared as though he were standing alone in a quiet forest glade somewhere, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the wilderness.
Goldbeard reached the tent, entered, and then emerged a moment later with a skinny longleg. The thin soldier pushed his way through the crowd with Goldbeard in tow. He had the same uniform as the rest, but also wore a white cloth mantle draped over his right shoulder. His hawkish nose, thinning brown hair, and sharp, darting eyes all contributed to the man resembling a common river crane.
He stopped before them and stared, his face a mask of bewilderment. In a chirping voice that farcically matched his birdish appearance, he said, “Who are you and why are you here?!”
Ignoring the soldier’s rudeness, Broedi said, “Good days ahead, Lieutenant Madric.”
“Forget the pleasantries and answer me.”
A slight frown touched Broedi’s lips.
“I am here on the behalf of Duchess Aleece and Duke Everett to oversee the commencement of the exercise. The Sentinels are ready to begin if you are.”
The lieutenant’s face scrunched up in confusion.
“Exercise? What exercise? What are you talking about?”
Nundle felt the golden crackling of Will and watched as Broedi knit the Strands together into the pattern with which Nundle was quite familiar. He glanced at Kenders to ensure she was paying close attention. She was indeed, alert and staring at the Weave.
Once it was complete, the hillman directed the pattern to settle over the lieutenant. As it melted into his body, Nundle scanned the surrounding soldiers and was relieved to see that none had reacted to the Weave. They had not expected there to be a mage here, but it had been a worry.
Broedi rumbled, “You are here for the joint exercise between the Arms and the Sentinels, Lieutenant, are you not?”
For a brief moment, the lieutenant struggled against Broedi’s suggestion before nodding.
“Of course. That is why we’re here.”
A low murmur spread among the soldiers, rippling outward through the assembled Southern Arms. Goldbeard, standing behind the lieutenant with a very surprised expression on his face, leaned toward his officer.
“Sir? What is he—Hells, what are you talking about?”
Lieutenant Madric’s eyes went blank and he began to stutter.
“Well, the joint exercise that is to be…there is a…”
Nundle frowned; the lieutenant could not possibly answer Goldbeard’s question without some guidance. Thankfully, Broedi provided it.
“Lieutenant Madric must be at a loss for words now that the time is at hand. It is certainly understandable. It is a great honor to have been chosen by the duchess.”
By now, a steady thrum of confusion filled the clearing. Nundle eyed the soldiers, a frown on his face. The Southern Arms carried themselves differently than Nathan’s soldiers. These longlegs looked to be of a rougher cut and not nearly as respectable.
A longleg on Nundle’s left shouted, “What’s he talking about, Lieutenant?”
Broedi took a step toward Lieutenant Madric and suggested, “Perhaps I should explain things? You should go to your command tent and begin preparations.”
The officer’s face was drawn taut. Tiny muscles twitched along his eyes and jawline as he fought against the Weave. Nundle had seen this dozens of times. Much longer, and the soldier might push aside the suggestion. Not wanting that to happen, Nundle whipped together a second Weave of Will, directed it over the longleg, and spoke.
“It sounds like a good idea to me, Lieutenant. Head to your tent now. We’ll explain everything to the soldiers.”
His Weave and his words earned him a sharp glare from Broedi. Nundle pretended he did not see it.
Any resistance within the lieutenant melted away. The longleg nodded slowly and said in a hollow, distracted voice, “Yes, please explain to the men about the exercise. I will be in my tent.”
With that, Lieutenant Madric turned and strode to the lone tent. His men parted to let him pass, staring at him with befuddled expressions. Nundle breathed a tiny
sigh of relief.
As the lieutenant disappeared into his tent, Goldbeard turned to face the trio, took a step forward, and demanded, “What in the Nine Hells is going on? What exercise are you talking about? Nobody ever said anything about any blasted exercise!”
With a patient tone, Broedi explained, “Duchess Aleece gave explicit orders that nothing be said to you until your command was approached by a special envoy. We are that envoy. She will be pleased to know that the lieutenant followed her orders so well. He must be an excellent officer.”
Goldbeard sniggered at the statement and sneered, “The man is a pompous fool who only got this command because he is some coastal nobleman’s brat.”
The open disdain displayed for the lieutenant surprised Nundle. He had become accustomed to the way the Sentinels venerated Nathan. From the grumbling emanating from the bulk of the soldiers, it was apparent the low opinion of the lieutenant was widely held. Nundle frowned, his nervousness increasing threefold in an instant.
Broedi drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders, seemingly growing a foot taller and wider. The confident smirk on Goldbeard’s face slipped a touch at the sight of the towering hillman. In his deep, thudding baritone, the hillman said, “That is a dangerous opinion to hold about one’s superior officer.”
Goldbeard huffed and stood as tall as he could.
“Madric knows how things work. We pretend to listen to what he says, but we mostly run ourselves.”
“This is disappointing,” said Broedi. Nundle expected that phrase had dual meanings. “I am sorry to say that I will need to include this in my report to the duchess. The exercise will proceed regardless.”
The grumbling amongst the soldiers grew louder. They did not believe the show. Broedi had hoped to explain the false exercise to the Arms, have their leader endorse it, and everyone would be on their way within an hour. That was not going to happen.
Nundle shot a quick glance at Kenders. Her eyes were round, her back straight as a wagon pole. She repeatedly wound and unwound her horse’s reins around her hands. Nundle shook his head. This was not a good idea.
His best guess was that he could hold sway over twenty, perhaps as many as twenty-five of the soldiers at once. Broedi admitted that his limit was something similar. Unfortunately, over a hundred upset soldiers surrounded them now.
Goldbeard stepped forward, pointed an accusing finger up at Broedi, and shouted, “Who are you truly?” Spittle flew from his mouth, catching on his thick, gold beard. “You expect us to believe that Duchess Aleece sent you? Why would she send a giant, a girl, and a tomble?”
It was an excellent question. And one Nundle had asked earlier, before they had left the safety of the Red Sentinels, as well as a few more times along the way.
Broedi stood still, his face a mask of calm stoicism.
“Are you questioning our—?”
“I’ll bet you’re mages!” spat Goldbeard. “You did something to Madric, didn’t you?!”
Nundle’s eyes widened a fraction. This soldier was as insightful as he was belligerent.
The Arms began to shout obscenities as they crowded closer to the trio.
Broedi hung his head and, with resignation in his voice, rumbled, “Nundle? Uora? Now, please.”
As fast as he could, Nundle began to pull together Strands of Will, stringing them into the familiar pattern. Considering the riled nature of the soldiers, Nundle erred on the side of caution and made each Weave a powerful one. Glancing over, he felt and saw Broedi also working with the honey-gold Strands. Alarmed, he noticed that Kenders had yet to begin.
He had ten completed, golden patterns ready to use before Kenders started her first. Her initial attempt fizzled and fell apart, the golden Strands fading away in an instant. She tried again and nearly had the design right but, at the last moment, twisted two of the Strands in the wrong direction. Nundle recognized the Weave as a valid pattern of Will, but one that would force the target to think he or she was covered with hundreds of tiny bugs. It would not do to have half of the Southern Arms lying on the ground, scratching themselves.
Risking the loss of his own Weaves by breaking concentration, Nundle reached out and pulled Kenders’ incorrect pattern apart. Glaring at a stunned Kenders, Nundle hissed through gritted teeth.
“Focus! You can do this!”
Visibly frustrated, she shot back, “No, I can’t!”
“Try!”
“I don’t know what I’m doing!”
Broedi ignored them both, distracted by both his task and trying to look as intimidating as possible to stave off the angry Southern Arms.
Nundle could hear the soft sounds of metal sliding against leather as swords were drawn. There was no time for Kenders to do this the correct way.
“Forget the weaving!” exclaimed Nundle. “Just do it the way you did in the fort!”
She shook her head, clearly reticent, and glanced at Broedi.
“But I—”
“The result!” shouted Nundle. “Focus on the result!”
Shouts of alarm pierced the air. Some of the Arms had spotted the Sentinels approaching through the trees. Kenders and Nundle spun around in their saddles and stared westward. If these Southlands longlegs were not subdued shortly, bad things would happen.
“Now, Kenders! We don’t have time!”
The hesitation on her face fled, replaced by firm determination. With a quick nod, she turned around and took a deep breath.
He watched her, muttering, “Please don’t pass out…please, please, please…”
A moment later, an impossible surge of gold swelled around the clearing. Nundle nearly lost his own completed Weaves, gasping in wonder as thousands of dancing, gold strings popped into existence around him. Nundle had never seen so many Strands of Will in one place.
“Bless the gods…”
Dozens upon dozens of the correct pattern strung together simultaneously, all within a single, quick breath. Close to eighty Weaves of Will had appeared in an instant, each of them perfect. Glancing at the young girl, he found that she was still sitting upright in the saddle, drawing breath and conscious.
“Oh, thank the gods.”
Broedi tilted his head back, eyed the Weaves, and then glared at Kenders. With a deep frown on his face, he ordered, “Now.” His voice was firm, calm, and entirely out of place in midst of the chaotic scene.
Broedi directed his Weaves of Will first, placing them on the soldiers nearest him. He then began crafting the second pattern needed for their secondary plan to work, a simple one of shining white Air.
Nundle waited to see where Broedi’s Weaves went, then moved his to another set of longlegs. Once he had chosen his targets, he said, “Your turn, Kenders.”
Her face taut with concentration, the young woman sent sixty, perfect Weaves of honey-gold Will descending on every remaining Southern Arms soldier in sight. She wisely held the extra twenty in reserve—hovering over the unaware soldiers’ head—should any of the Arms resist. Nundle nodded his approval.
Once every soldier in the area had been wrapped with his personal Weave, Broedi spoke.
“All of you need to calm down.”
His voice reverberated through the clearing, clearly heard by every soldier due to the Air Weave he was using. Anyone within a few hundred paces would hear Broedi as if he were standing beside them. Preceptors at the Strand Academies had often used the pattern when giving a lecture to a large body of acolytes.
At once, nearly every soldier went silent. The handful who continued to mutter quietly were those under Nundle or Broedi’s control. Every single Southern Arm on whom Kenders had placed a Weave stood still as a statue, relaxed and at peace.
Calling over the thudding of the approaching Sentinels’ horses, Broedi said, “Those of you with swords out, please take this opportunity to sheath them.” Without protest, the Arms slid their swords into their scabbards. “In a few moments, Red Sentinels will be arriving. You will do nothing. Remain si
lent, please.”
Left waiting for the Sentinels to show, Nundle turned his full attention on Kenders. She appeared quite woozy, but at least she was awake.
“Are you all right?”
She gave a lazy nod and muttered, “I’m a little tired.” She sounded exhausted.
“Try to hold on until he tells them everything they need to do.”
She nodded again, quiet.
He gave her an encouraging smile and said, “You did great, Kenders. Truly.”
With half-closed, droopy eyes looking back at him, she returned his grin with a tired one of her own.
“Thanks.”
Sentinels began to emerge from the trees. Nundle swiveled in his saddle to watch, curious. He, Broedi, and Kenders had left before Nathan had received all of the new arrivals’ decisions and he was eager to know how many had elected to stay. He tried to count the unfamiliar faces as the red and black clad soldiers filed into the clearing, but with everyone moving about, it was impossible to keep an accurate tally of new versus old soldiers. After realizing he had counted the same blonde longleg three times, he gave up.
Spotting Nikalys and Jak riding alongside Nathan—Nikalys with Helene in his lap, and Jak with Sabine behind him—Nundle lifted a hand and waved. The Isaac brothers rode straight for Kenders, one moving to either side of her. Nathan pulled op on Nundle’s left, frowning as he surveyed the blank stares of the Southern Arms.
“So I take it the first plan did not go well?”
Nundle huffed, “You could say that.”
His brow furrowed with worry, Nikalys eyed Kenders said, “You look a little ill.”
“I’m fine. Although, I’d like a nap.”
Jak reached out and grabbed Kenders’ hand. Sabine stretched over to pat her back, murmuring congratulations. She gave them both a weary smile.
Nikalys turned his concerned stare onto Nundle and said, “I’m getting tired of having to ask this, but is she going to be all right?”
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 62
