The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  “I am curious,” began Broedi. “How long has ‘Toby’ lived here?”

  Hanno shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh…thirty years or so.”

  Broedi’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.

  “He has lived here for thirty years?”

  Hanno eyed the hillman carefully.

  “You must be very old friends of his if you did not know that.”

  Nundle hid a tiny smile at the tomble’s inadvertently ironic statement.

  “Circumstances have prevented us from keeping in touch,” said Broedi. “May we pass then, Hanno? It is important we see ‘Toby.’”

  The tomble was quiet for a few moments before saying, “Fine, you can enter.” He tilted his head back to stare up at Broedi. “I’m quite sure I could not stop you even if I wanted.”

  Broedi nodded graciously, rumbling, “Thank you.”

  Hanno nodded and turned to face Nundle.

  “Might I make a suggestion? Hop off your horse before you come into town. You two will surely draw attention, but less so if you aren’t all the way up there. Honestly. A tomble riding a horse? It’s absurd.”

  A few turns ago, Nundle would have agreed with Hanno. Yet lately, he had grown to appreciate the incredible distances that the beasts could cover. Besides, in present company, the horse was indispensable as one of Broedi’s strides matched six of Nundle’s.

  Taking Hanno’s advice, Nundle began the process of dismounting. Swiveling his right leg over the back of the horse, he slid on his belly down the side, grasping a pair of metal rings he had a leatherworker in Claw add to his saddle. Hanging in the air for a moment, Nundle dropped nimbly to his feet and turned to grab his horse’s reins, ready to go.

  Hanno was staring at him with admiration.

  “I would have bet you were going to fall and break your neck,” said the tomble.

  “It is still a concern of my own,” admitted Nundle.

  Hanno stepped backward, beckoning the pair to follow him, and said, “Come, I’ll take you to Toby’s home. And I’ll point out the Joyful Bear.” With a wink at Nundle, he added, “The best spiced turnips in the Four Towns.” He smiled, spun around, and began walking over the bridge, calling over his shoulder, “Welcome to Tinfiddle!”

  Broedi, Nundle, and Nundle’s horse followed. The straw-topped buildings of Tinfiddle beckoned.

  Chapter 13: Pouch

  Allowing his stolen horse to slow to a walk, Rhohn swiveled around to check behind them. The long, brown northwestern horizon was clear. Still, there was no sign of pursuit.

  The worst of the storm had passed, the rain slowing to a steady trickle. The thunder had changed, no longer sudden claps and crashes, but rather distant booms that rolled over the soaked prairie.

  A sudden, sharp bite of pain shot through his calf. Wincing, he stared down at his leg, a deep scowl on his face. He prayed that the arrow was not too deep. Or barbed. More than anything, he hoped it was not barbed.

  He glanced at the sack in front of him. The woman had been remarkably patient—and quiet—since leaving the slavers’ camp. After one last look to the horizon, Rhohn decided it was safe to stop.

  Grabbing a fistful of mane, he gently tugged, hoping the beast understood the intent behind the gesture.

  “Hold…hold…”

  Whether the mare grasped his meaning or was simply tired from the hard pace Rhohn had set, she stopped.

  Instantly, the muffled voice of the woman called, “What’s wrong?” She sounded concerned, but not afraid. “Why are we stopping?”

  Rhohn said, “I was thinking about letting you out of there.”

  “Thank the Gods. This is worse than riding in that blasted cart.”

  Rhohn turned his attention to his right calf, wondering how he might dismount without aggravating the wound. The burning had waned, but the throbbing was worse. He could feel every thudding heartbeat in his leg.

  For a short time, he attempted various maneuvers in order to dismount, trying to avoid brushing the arrow against the horse’s side. Any pressure exerted along the shaft sent a new burst of pain shooting up his leg. After a particularly bad one, he let out a short, hissing curse of pain.

  “Are you alright?” asked the woman. “You sound hurt.”

  “I have an arrow sticking out of my leg,” replied Rhohn tersely. “So, yes, I am hurt.”

  He tried lifting his right leg over the back of the horse, but stretched his calf muscle in such a way that the burning-ember sensation returned. He drew a sharp breath between clenched teeth, grabbed a fistful of the small burlap sack he had stolen.

  “Blast!”

  He sat that way for a moment or two, waiting for the agony to subside when the woman spoke up.

  “You might want to hurry. If you killed one of them, they will probably come after us. You did kill one, yes? Nimar sounded awfully angry.”

  Ripping the smaller burlap bag he had tucked in his belt, he tossed it to the ground and said, “I think so.”

  “You should have killed them all.”

  “The odds were against me.”

  “A shame,” said the woman. “Now hurry and get me out of here.”

  Frowning at the woman’s demands, Rhohn unbuckled his belt, taking it and the attached sheath and sword off. Leaning over, he dropped it to the ground as carefully as he could.

  Lifting his left leg over the mare’s neck, he rolled onto his back and slid off the horse, ensuring that he landed on his left foot first. Despite his caution, he still was forced to put weight onto his right, prompting another burst of pain in his right calf. He stood motionless for a few moments, willing it to go away before turning his attention to the woman in the sack.

  The top of the bag faced him, bunched together and bound with a length of braided rope. He hobbled over and tried to untie it, but the rain had made the knots difficult to grip and undo. His half a right hand did not help things. Bending over, he retrieved his sword, wincing through the pain the movement caused, and cut through the knot. He opened the sack and peered inside.

  All he could see was the top of the woman’s head, her short, wiry, black hair, and the back of her neck. Her skin was a touch lighter than Rhohn’s own, the color of bulboa bark.

  The woman took a deep breath, held it a moment, and then exhaled.

  “Bless the Gods, that smells good.”

  With the bag now opened, Rhohn heard the woman’s voice clearly for the first time and was mildly surprised. She sounded younger than he had originally thought.

  “Don’t suppose you can slip off on your own?” asked Rhohn hopefully. He did not want to try to lift her off with the arrow in his leg.

  “Probably not,” replied the woman. “My wrists, knees, and ankles are tied together.” She tried to lift her head to look up, but in her position, she was unable to do so.

  Rhohn sighed.

  “Fine. I’ll try to lift you off, but I can’t put too much weight on my leg. So…if I drop you…well, I drop you. You’ll live.”

  “That looks like it hurts a lot,” said the young woman. She might not be able to look up at him, but she had a clear view of the arrow sticking out from his calf. “Get me out of here and I can help you with that.”

  “That would be wondrous,” muttered Rhohn through gritted teeth.

  Placing his hands under her shoulders, he began to hop backwards, pulling bag and woman as he went. Three painful hops later, the woman’s weight was entirely on one side of the horse. As she began to slide off, Rhohn instinctively placed his right leg on the ground to help slow her fall. The worst jab of pain yet bolted from inside his calf, up behind his right knee, through his buttocks and into his lower right back. He let out a sharp yell, but managed to hold onto the woman as she landed on the wet ground.

  The moment she was down safely, Rhohn collapsed, falling forward into the wet, matted brown grass and pounded a balled up fist into the ground. He lay that way for a few moments, catching his breath, and waiting for the pain to subside.<
br />
  From behind him, the woman said, “Oh, please. You’ll be fine. I’ve seen wounds thrice as worse.”

  Miffed by her dismissive tone, Rhohn pushed himself up and peered back to find the woman sitting up, the bag having slipped down to her waist. He could not decide if she had reached her Matron’s Day or not. She looked both young and old at the same time, no doubt her ordeal had taken a toll on her. The ragged shirt or dress she wore had once been light cream or tan but was now stained, streaked with mud and what looked like old blood. Her face was drawn and dirty, yet an underlying beauty shone through. The richest, darkest brown eyes he had ever seen stared at him, the skin around them crinkled with amusement. Two small dimples dotted her soft cheeks, summoned forth by her disarming smile.

  “Nice to finally see your face, too, stranger.”

  It took Rhohn a moment or two before he could stammer out a response.

  “Um, my pleasure is to meet you in peace today, miss.”

  “And what peace might that be?” asked the girl, skipping the ritual response. “You do know there’s a war going on?” Freeing her arms from the bag, she held her bound wrists up and asked, “Could you cut these off, please?”

  Nodding, Rhohn said, “Hold a moment.”

  Wincing, he crawled to where his sword lay in a patch of mud as the girl scooted closer to him. She held out her wrists and he carefully slipped the tip of the sword between her skin and the rope. After a few gentle back and forth movements, the blade sliced through the braid and the ropes fell away. The skin on her wrist was raw. She had been bound for a while.

  Pulling the rest of the bag from around her legs, the girl said, “If you’ll give me the sword, I’ll get my own legs.”

  Rhohn held out the sword for her to take and, a few moments later, she was free, having severed the ropes binding her knees, then her ankles. Tossing the ropes aside, she stood tall and stretched her high arms over her head, his sword grasped in her right hand.

  “Gods! That feels so much better.”

  As she arched her back in another stretch, the lightweight dress she wore, torn and ragged at the knees, clung to her, soaked through from the rain. Rhohn eyed her appreciatively for a moment before staring back to the muddy ground. It was rude to stare. As he peered at the nearby grass, it suddenly occurred to him that she had not stared at him, either, which was strange. Nearly everyone gawked at his deformities.

  As he sat there, rain dripping from his forehead and into his eyes, the young woman spoke, a smile in her voice.

  “Well, you appear to be a modest soul. That certainly speaks in your favor.” She moved closer to him quickly, prompting Rhohn to glance up in time to watch the girl point the tip of his own sword at his chest, mere inches from his heart. Glaring at him, she asked, “Now, who in the Nine Hells are you?” Her friendly tone from moments ago was gone, replaced by a wholly unexpected, hard edge.

  Rhohn eyed the sword, a frown on his face. He was a fool for having ever handed the blade to her. After a moment, he stared up to the young woman’s face.

  “I save you from slavers, got shot while doing it, and you stand here, holding my own sword against me? Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

  “Nimar said you were a Dust Man. Is that true?”

  Rhohn shrugged his shoulders.

  “Yes and no.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means I was, but I am no longer. I doubt the Dust Men even exist anymore.”

  Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “What are you doing out here?” She looked away to scan the landscape. “And where is here? We were headed west before the slavers stuck me in that blasted sack.”

  Curious, Rhohn asked, “West from where? And where were they taking you?”

  The woman’s gaze snapped back to him. Still she did not flinch at his scarred appearance.

  “I have the sword. Therefore, I ask the questions.”

  Frowning, Rhohn waved his good hand to the north and said, “Fine. Ask away. But you might want to hurry before they get here.”

  As he hoped, the woman glanced to the horizon and he attempted to spring up, planning to grab the sword from her. The girl recovered swiftly, however, and pressed the tip of the blade against his stomach.

  “Don’t do that.”

  Rhohn glared at her for a long moment before loosing a heavy, dejected sigh and relaxing.

  “Fine.”

  He should have left the woman with the slavers.

  Leaving the sword against his gut, the young woman asked, “Now, who are you? And what are you doing out here alone? I’m not letting you up until you explain yourself.”

  Frowning, Rhohn muttered, “You want my tale? You shall have it.”

  While sitting in the grass and mud, he told her his name, about his assignment at Fort Jorodas, his journey from there to Midiah, the crumbling backbone of the Dust Men, and his foolish choice to join the non-existent resistance. He told her about the resulting massacre of Ebel, but lied about how he survived, claiming he played dead under the body of two other men. He said nothing about Okollu or the strange message that he was taking to the Southlands. The girl might gut him right now if she learned he was cooperating with a mongrel.

  By the time he concluded his story, the girl had pulled back the sword a few inches. She still pointed the tip at Rhohn, but it was no longer jammed into his flesh.

  “And what are you doing now?” asked the woman.

  “Heading east,” replied Rhohn. “Looking for safety.” He shrugged. “Or an army to join. There’s not much one man can do alone in this war.”

  Peering intently at him, she asked, “How did you find me?”

  “I was hungry and I saw smoke from a fire. I was hoping they were refugees who might share a bite. Instead, I got you.”

  She stood motionless, staring hard at him with her beautiful brown eyes.

  “You found me by accident?”

  Rhohn stared up into the gray sky and sighed.

  “To be clear, I did not ‘find’ you. To find something, you have to be looking in the first place. I stumbled over you. Call it luck, call it fate, call it ‘yesterday’s eveningmeal, all anew’ for all I care. I mean you no harm, miss. None. All I want from you is my sword back so we can get on that horse and leave before Nimar and the rest show up.”

  The woman eyed him for another long moment, a tiny frown on her face. Finally, with a short, firm nod, she announced, “Fine.” She moved the sword to the side, jammed it into the earth, and released the hilt.

  Rhohn cringed. That was no way to treat a sword.

  Crouching by his leg, she said, “Now, be a good patient and let me look at that arrow.”

  Rhohn peered at her, surprised.

  “So then you believe me?”

  Gripping his leg, she stuck her fingers through the ripped cloth of his breeches and tore it open to expose the wound. Rhohn winced at the sudden movement. Without looking up at him, she replied, “Either I trust you and help get you well, meaning I have a Dust Man by my side as I head east. Or I don’t and I’m out here alone.” She glanced up to meet his eyes. “I think my odds are better with you than without.”

  Rhohn admired her sensibility. She acted years older than she looked.

  The girl probed the entrance of the wound with her fingers, wiping away the new blood still seeping out. Rhohn grunted in muted pain with each poke. She made no effort to be gentle.

  Her gaze focused entirely on the wound, she mumbled, “Try to hold still. I need to check something.”

  Before he could acknowledge her instruction, the girl gripped the shaft and began to twist it slowly, rotating the arrow in place. Rhohn bit his lip and held in a curse. She only twisted the arrow a fraction before she stopped.

  “Good. It’s not barbed. I should be able to pull it out.”

  Rhohn gaped at her, not understanding how she could be positive of that.

  “Are you sure? If it is barbed and you—”

  He let
out a sharp scream as the girl ripped the arrow free of his calf, a flash of white exploding before his eyes. As the white faded, he saw a pointed, non-barbed shaft held before him, red with his own blood. The falling rain was already thinning out the crimson, rinsing it away.

  “See?” said the girl. “No barb.”

  She tossed the arrow aside and ripped away the rest of the cloth around his ruined breeches up to his knee. Using it as a bandage, she began to wrap the material around the hole in his calf.

  “This will stop the bleeding as long as you don’t run or walk too much on it. But if we’re riding the horse, that shouldn’t be much of an issue. Oh, and we should keep an eye out for thornroot as we go.”

  Watching as she expertly bound his calf, he muttered, “Thornroot?”

  “Yes, it’s a yellowish-green plant, low to the ground—hidden under the grass if you aren’t looking for—”

  Rhohn interrupted her, saying impatiently, “I know what it is. Why are we looking for it?”

  The girl stopped her bandaging, stared up at him, and said, “Because if we don’t get some in that hole in your leg, wound-rot will set in, and you’ll be dead within a week.”

  Rhohn held her gaze for a quiet moment before nodding once.

  “That’s a good reason.”

  He immediately began scanning the area nearby for any sign of a yellowish-green leaf.

  With a firm, final tug, the girl wrapped the cloth inside a previous loop and pulled it tight. She wiped her hands on his breeches and stood, saying, “Come. We’ll find some as we go. If Nimar’s father has decided to come after us, your screaming like a hungry newborn surely alerted them to where we are.”

  The girl turned toward the horse and stopped, noticing the small burlap bag that Rhohn had taken.

  “Did you take that from the cart?”

  “I did,” said Rhohn. “I was hoping I might be able to sell it as I move east. Or trade it for food.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t looked inside.”