The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  “Hold still. It must look real.”

  Instantly understanding what the mongrel was doing, Rhohn allowed the beast to cover him in Silas’ blood, letting it smear his friend’s gore on his face, neck, and chest. Throughout, the cries of the villagers turned from cries of terror to shrieks of pain. Rhohn shut his eyes, praying their deaths were swift. This was not how he had wanted this to happen.

  After a moment, he reopened his eyes, stared at the mongrel, and asked, “What happens when the others come to eat me? This won’t fool them.”

  A short series of puffs and snorts burst from the mongrel’s snout. It almost sounded like laughter.

  “You must have us confused with grayskins, smooth-face. Kur-surus do not eat men.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Then you have heard wrong,” growled the mongrel. It shifted its yellow-eyed gaze to his face as it applied the last of the blood in silence. Sitting back on his haunches, the beast studied Rhohn, and growled, “You were in a fire, yes?”

  Rhohn nodded.

  “As a boy.”

  “And you survived,” said the mongrel gruffly. “That is good.” The beast paused, leaned in closer, and growled, “Now, remember every word I say.”

  The mongrel proceeded to recite an unusual message, one given to it by a woman. Little of the missive made sense to the Dust Man, yet he listened intently, baffled and intrigued. The beast repeated it twice more, by which time Rhohn had it memorized. Once he recited it back, the mongrel nodded its approval and stood.

  “After my pack is gone, head to the territory you call the Southlands and find a place named Storm Island.”

  “The Southlands?” exclaimed Rhohn. “How am I to get there?”

  “That is your problem, smooth-face,” snapped the mongrel. “When you get there, you are to ask whoever you see for Miriel Syncent. The people you must give the message to will find you.”

  Confused, Rhohn said, “Did you not just say the message was from her?” The name sounded familiar, but he could not mark why.

  A great cacophony of howls arose from outside. The mongrel swiveled around to face the door.

  “The battle is over.”

  The screams from the men had ceased. Ninety-four souls were on their way to visit Maeana. Rhohn’s gaze slipped over to where Silas lay slumped against the wall and he frowned. Ninety-five souls.

  The mongrel allowed him a lone breath to mourn their passing.

  “Lie down, smooth-face, and face the wall. Baaldòk will be here soon. No matter what, hold still, and pretend you are as dead as your pack-mate.”

  Without waiting to see if he complied, the mongrel scampered to the doorway, stomping his bare paw on the torch along the way, extinguishing the flame. The room dipped into blackness.

  Rhohn briefly considered retrieving his sword, but as it was on the far wall, it seemed a bad idea. Frowning, he lay down on the dirt floor, facing away from the door, and listened to the howls. Shortly thereafter, the mongrels were rushing about town, barking and yipping in what Rhohn could only assume was the mongrel tongue.

  Suddenly, a deep voice bellowed, “Okollu!” The echo of power reverberating in the words made it impossible to deny to whom it belonged.

  “Yes, tas-vilku?”

  The response came from the doorway and matched the voice of the brown and white mongrel. However, all brazenness was gone from the beast’s tone. The mongrel almost sounded meek.

  Heavy footsteps approached, stopping just outside the entryway. Oddly enough, the aroma of wildflowers drifted though the dark and abandoned building.

  “The Dust Men are dead?”

  “Yes,” replied Okollu.

  “Were they any trouble?”

  “No, tas-vilku,” growled the mongrel respectfully. “They were not.”

  “What was the delay with the second one?”

  “The first man died too quickly. I took my time with the second.

  “Good, Okollu. Very good,” replied Baaldòk, a smile in his voice. “Move aside. I wish to see.”

  There was a moment of hesitation prior to the mongrels’ response.

  “Yes, tas-vilku.”

  Rhohn heard the scuffling of the mongrel’s paws on dirt, followed by heavy footsteps crossing the threshold and entering the building. Wondering how the massive demon could fit through the door, he held his breath and prayed the demon could not hear the incessant thudding of his heart.

  Baaldòk chortled softly.

  “Vicious, Okollu. Especially this one…”

  “He was the first.”

  “I see why he perished so swiftly.”

  Remembering Silas’ ripped-open throat, some of Rhohn’s original rage returned, quickly bubbling back to the surface.

  Baaldòk shuffled a few steps closer to Rhohn, his boots grinding the dirt floor.

  “And the one in the corner?”

  Rhohn’s lungs were beginning to burn.

  “He fought,” growled Okollu. “And he lost.”

  The demon grunted wordlessly. His boots scuffled again, signaling the spawn was on the move and leaving the building. Okollu followed, the mongrel’s paws padding softly. The moment the pair were outside, Rhohn exhaled and drew in a long, silent breath of sweet air. The scent of wildflowers was thrice as strong now, heady and intoxicating.

  Baaldòk continued walking after he exited, relaying a list of instructions as he went.

  “Check to see if they have food stores hidden, then burn anything that…”

  The commotion of the mongrels rushing about Ebel swallowed the rest of his words.

  Rhohn remained in place, listening carefully should anything else step through the door. A short time later, he smelled smoke. Soon, the air was thick with it. For a horrific moment or two, he was a boy again, lying in the Lurus home as it burned. He shoved away the memories, focusing on his current nightmare.

  Risking a bit of movement, Rhohn draped the collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose, doing his best to keep from coughing. He remained there as Ebel burned, waiting anxiously for the mongrels to leave, all the while searing Okollu’s strange message into his memory.

  Indrida’s prophecy is upon us. The Eternal Anarchist is a saeljul who goes by the name Tandyr. The Borderlands have fallen, the Marshlands are next. Vanson and Everett are in his palm for reasons I still do not understand. Time grows short. The Shadow Manes must rise.

  Chapter 3: Advisor

  Chalchalu’s Day of Leisure, 4999

  The smoke from the Yutian incense made Kenders’ head swim.

  Sitting cross-legged on a faded-green reed mat in the dim, cold room, she stared at the items on the floor, arranged equidistant between her and her teacher.

  Three tan incense sticks jutted up from a bulbous, cream-colored pottery bowl, one end jammed into white sand, the others lit and glowing orange. Wisps of smoke curled upward, filling the air with a thick, musky sweetness. Two shallow ebonwood saucers sat next to the bowl, one on either side. The plate to her left held a puddle of water, while a fist-sized chunk of limestone sat atop the other. She had yet to discern the purpose of the water or the stone.

  She reached up to brush a few stray strands of blonde hair from her eyes and shifted her gaze to the figure sitting across from her. Khin, also on a mat and cross-legged, had his eyes closed and white, bony hands folded in his lap. His clasped, interlocked fingers reminded her of a rabbit’s sun-bleached ribcage she had once found along the shores of Lake Hawthorne. The rest of Khin was just as thin and skeletal. In private moments, Kenders had jested with her brothers that she thought Khin might shatter into a hundred pieces if he tripped and fell.

  His pale skin stretched tight over his frail frame, thin and nearly translucent. A web of blackish-blue veins crisscrossed his bald head and face, reminding her of the maps stored in the enclave’s library. Most of his features were like her own, except where she expected a nose, he had only a pair of vertical slits. His eyelids were shut now, but she knew th
at beneath them lived two bright cerulean eyes, alive and sharp.

  A turn ago, the day they had arrived at the enclave, Broedi had led her and her brothers up to this very room in the western tower. He opened the door, stepped into the room first, and asked the trio to follow him. When the three siblings entered, they stood, mouths agape, staring at the lone figure in the stone room.

  Playmen’s tales told of the aicenai, a race that had walked Terrene eons before the Locking, their lives dedicated to study and knowledge. Blessed with extraordinary long life, aicenai were nonetheless a doomed people, rumored to be incapable of having children.

  Once Broedi introduced the trio, he explained that Khin was to be Kenders’ primary teacher at the enclave. The aicenai could touch Fire, Water, Air, Stone, and Soul, making him one of the most powerful mages the Shadow Manes had. At first, the prospect of studying under Khin had seemed exciting, but a full turn of instruction with him, had tempered her enthusiasm dramatically.

  Kenders pressed her lips together and sighed inwardly. Khin had not moved in hours. She did not know how he could stand it. Her own legs were cold and stiff from the lack of movement.

  Exasperated, she let her gaze drift throughout the rest of the square room, anxious to stare at anything else other than her teacher and the confounding saucers.

  Two oak chairs sat squared against the wall to her right, taunting her. She did not understand why Khin even had chairs in his room. He never sat in them, nor allowed her to sit in one, either. A plain round-topped, four-legged table stood in the far corner of the room, the resting place for a pewter water pitcher and two wooden cups. Other than the two glass-covered, rectangular openings near the wooden rafters, the room’s gray, stone-block walls were completely bare. She did not understand how Khin lived here.

  Khin’s robes rustled as he shifted ever so slightly.

  Kenders quickly looked back to her teacher, thinking he might finally begin today’s lesson. She waited, staring at Khin, silently urging him to do or say something, anything at all.

  He did not, however. He remained perfectly still and quiet.

  As she sat there grinding her teeth, a tiny, chilled shiver ran up her spine, through her shoulders, and along her arms. Despite choosing her heaviest wool dress this morning, she was still cold. The stone beneath her mat had been leaching heat from her body all morning.

  The chilly weather of Storm Island was new to her. The coldest night of the year in Yellow Mud was never as chilly as it was outside right now, and it was not even truly Winter yet. As much as she disliked the cold, her teacher relished it. At times, she would spot Khin standing atop the battlements, his nonsensically thin white robes whipping in the chill wind.

  Khin had given her one instruction when she arrived this morning: “Remain silent.” She swallowed her question as to why her quiet was necessary and followed the directive. The one thing she had learned without doubt during her lessons was that to ask Khin anything was pointless. The aicenai made Broedi look like the village gossip.

  During her first few lessons, she had pelted the aicenai with dozens of questions about magic, the Strands, and different Weaves. Khin politely turned every one aside. When she shared her frustration with Broedi, the hillman gave her one of his slight smiles and rumbled a single word.

  Patience.

  Sitting in the tiny, cold room, Kenders frowned. She and patience did not mix.

  Khin was supposed to be teaching her how to better control her ability. He was supposed to be an expert in weaving the Strands. He was supposed to teach her new patterns. What he was doing instead, was wasting her time.

  Her bitterness slipped out in the form of a tiny, frustrated sigh.

  Khin’s wispy voice followed a moment later, startling her.

  “Stone fibríaal first. Then Air. Begin.”

  A soft crackling filled her head and chest as the aicenai immediately reached for the Strands. Pushing back a quick flash of panic, she tried to recall the correct patterns, but the heady sweetness of the incense, her cold and stiff muscles, and her irritation with Khin all interfered with her concentration.

  Khin’s intricate pattern of loops and curls was half-complete already, hovering in the air above the incense, a mix of heavy, dark brown Strands of Stone and the sparkling silver of Soul. Her eyes went wide. The speed with which he worked the Strands never ceased to astonish her. She had taken half a breath and was already far behind.

  Reaching out for her own Strands of Stone and Soul, Kenders began to work the strings of magical energy, knitting her own Weave. She shot a furtive glance towards Khin’s pattern to compare hers to his, and was surprised to see that while their designs were comparable, his had far fewer Strands of Stone.

  He abruptly directed his Weave to the limestone in the saucer, surprising her. A soft crack filled the room as the chunk of stone split in half, morphed into a vaguely humanoid shape no bigger than her fist, and stood on two rocky legs. Dust and pebbles fell from the fibríaal’s new joints.

  Kenders pressed her lips together, angry with herself. His Weave had been different because he used the limestone with the magic. Despite staring at the hunk of rock for hours, it had never occurred to her to do that. Finishing her Weave a moment later, a tiny stone fibríaal appeared from nowhere to stand beside Khin’s creature. The other half of limestone remained unused in the saucer.

  Kenders moved on to the second pattern, glanced up, and found Khin nearly done with his, interlocking white and silver Strands, wispier and less rigid than the first Weave.

  She could still beat her teacher, but only by resorting to using her gift from Gaena, the Goddess of Magic. She could simply will the air fibríaal into existence if she wished, but knew that would defeat the point of the exercise, earn a rebuke from Khin, and make her want to take a nap all at once. She was here to learn how to weave the Strands the correct way.

  A cool breeze rushed through the room, flaring the glowing tips of the incense sticks and announcing the arrival of Khin’s air fibríaal. The diminutive, whistling twister of air was invisible to the naked eye, yet Kenders could clearly see the white and silver pattern swirling beside the pair of stone fibríaals.

  With a frustrated sigh, she finished her own Weave and sat, glaring at the four motionless fibríaals. Before she could stop herself, a whispered curse escaped from her lips.

  “Hells.”

  Speaking softly, drawing each word out, Khin said, “An understandable sentiment, but ineloquently conveyed.” It took twice as long for him to say something as it did anyone else. He sat as still as a marble statue, his ice blue eyes studying her. Knowing how this went, she simply held his stare and waited for him to speak.

  Ten, agonizingly long and silent minutes passed as the two stared at one another through the wisps of incense smoke. The near-constant wind outside surged and waned, an atonal harmony filing the room as each new gust worked to find every minuscule seam between the windows and stone.

  Kenders held Khin’s stare, gnawing on the inside of her lip. She was moments from snapping when the aicenai finally stirred.

  “You are learning some patience,” murmured Khin. “Even though it is only surface deep.” He spoke so softly, the whistling of the wind almost drowned him out. “You are a lidded pot of boiling water.”

  Kenders did her best not to react to his perfectly accurate assessment.

  “You may go, now.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “Pardon?”

  “You may go,” said Khin slowly. “Today’s lesson is over.”

  “That’s it?” exclaimed Kenders. “You made me sit here for hours!”

  “How observant of you to notice.”

  Her irritation flared into determined anger. Glaring at the aicenai, she demanded, “Give me another chance!”

  “No.”

  “No?” repeated Kenders. “You can’t give me one chance and then shove me out the door!”

  Khin’s gaze locked onto hers, his blue eyes burning
both cold and hot like the Winter sun. The aicenai might be ancient, but time had not dimmed the intensity of his stare.

  “How many chances will the God of Chaos give you?”

  The question acted like a punch to the gut would to breath, knocking the indignant irritation from her in an instant. She dropped her eyes and stared at her reed mat. Khin had made his point.

  “You have great power,” whispered Khin. “Incredible power. More than everyone here at the enclave combined. More than every mage I have known.” He paused, a short one for him, before adding, “Yet you lack discipline, concentration, patience.”

  Kenders continued to stare at her mat and did not respond.

  After a quiet moment, Khin asked, “Why did you not unravel my Weaves?”

  Kenders looked up quickly.

  “I…I did not think I was allowed to do that.”

  “Allowed?” inquired Khin. He shook his head. “Will the God of Chaos agree to a set of rules when he or she faces you? Will you determine what is allowed and what is not beforehand?”

  “I…”

  She trailed off, having no idea what she was going to say. She wanted to argue but could not refute a single word Khin had spoken. Sighing, she dropped her head again, her frustration returning in an instant. Khin spent more time playing with her mind than he did teaching her about the Strands.

  Only three turns ago, her mornings were spent helping her mother make the midday meal, or going with her brothers to help their father in the olive groves or vineyards. They were not spent sitting with an aicenai mage, preparing to help lead the charge against the evil Gods of the Cabal.

  She had no idea how she was supposed to do any of this.

  “Doubt yourself for but a moment,” whispered Khin. “And the Cabal will destroy you.”

  Khin’s uncanny ability to gauge her thoughts only irritated her further.

  Lifting her gaze, she lied, saying firmly, “I do not doubt myself.”