The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  As he made to turn around, Nundle—unable to restrain himself any longer—burst forth with a quick list of whispered questions.

  “What is going on here? Shouldn’t you be happy to see one another? You’re friends, aren’t you?” Peering at Tobias, he demanded, “Why did you try to run and why are you hiding here?”

  Tobias’ expression darkened. Broedi was about to interrupt Nundle when the redheaded tomble wheeled on him.

  “And you! Why in the Nine Hells didn’t you warn me about any of this? You didn’t think you should take a moment to say, ‘By the way, Nundle, Tobias can port—he might try to run?’”

  Tobias’ mood lightened a bit as he eyed Broedi and said, “Still keeping secrets, I see.”

  Broedi shrugged and gave the tomble a slight smile.

  “It is habit.”

  A shout from the street lifted above the quiet murmuring of the crowd.

  “Blast it, Belor! What is going on?”

  Broedi, Nundle, and Tobias turned to face the road. Custodian Belor appeared to be having a rather difficult time in answering whatever questions the crowd was asking. Heavy suspicion tainted each glance shot toward Broedi and Nundle.

  Frowning slightly, Broedi said, “We should leave quickly, I think.”

  Nodding, Tobias muttered, “Let’s go around back. There’s a path that leads out to an alley. We’ll be able to reach the road to Rindleview from there.” He turned and began to hobble away. Broedi was moments from issuing a warning when the tomble called over his shoulder, “I promise I won’t run, Broedi! You’ve piqued my curiosity as well as ruined my life!”

  Broedi closed his mouth and nodded. That was good enough for the moment.

  Glancing down to Nundle, Broedi rumbled, “Let us go, little one.”

  Nundle pointed to the street and asked, “What about my horse?”

  His small chestnut still stood in the street, surrounded by the crowd as they peppered Custodian Belor with questions.

  Broedi shook his head at Nundle and said, “It would not do to have you face the citizens of Tinfiddle. The Custodian is having a difficult enough time trying to keep them calm.”

  “But we can’t leave him,” pleaded Nundle. “All of our things are in the saddlebags.”

  Broedi rumbled, “Do you have your coin purse?”

  Nundle patted a heavy leather sack on his belt.

  “Here.”

  “Then leave him,” said Broedi. “We will buy another horse.” The truth was, if Broedi’s plan worked, there would be little need for purchasing a replacement mount.

  Nundle frowned, wavering. Broedi thought he might ignore the warning and march into the crowd anyway.

  Tobias called out, “If you two want to get out of town by dark, we had better start now.” Standing at the corner of the stone house, he gestured toward his crippled leg. “Remember, Broedi, I walk slowly.”

  Broedi rumbled, “Come, Nundle. We must go.”

  With a quiet, melancholy sigh, Nundle muttered, “I was starting to like that horse, too.”

  Broedi looked down at his friend, slightly amused.

  “Enough to give him a name?”

  Nundle had refused to name the chestnut, insisting that it was “longleg nonsense to name animals.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  The tomble’s eyes betrayed him, however. He liked his horse more than he would admit.

  A slight smile touched Broedi’s lips. Figuring it was impossible to un-spill the spilt wine, Broedi reached out to grasp some green Strands of Life and a few silver Strands of Soul, weaving them together in a unique pattern he had discovered shortly after his time with Thonda.

  Nundle’s head turned sharply to stare at the pattern forming in the air before Broedi.

  “What are you doing?”

  Tobias echoed the warning from the corner of the house.

  “Broedi…”

  Ignoring them both, Broedi reached inside himself, plucked a single, unique Strand—Thonda’s Strand as he thought of it—and wove it into the design before him. Directing the small Weave through the air, Broedi watched as it settled over Nundle’s horse, melting into the beast’s velvety, chestnut skin.

  An instant later, he sensed the simplistic mind of the horse. The beast recoiled from the contact at first, tossing his head into the air and loosing a sharp, startled whinny. The tombles surrounding him took a few hurried steps backwards.

  Broedi tried to convey a sense of calm.

  Peace.

  The horse’s whicker cut off. Broedi sensed confusion.

  I am sorry for the intrusion. But I need you to come here. And try to be gentle to the little ones around you.

  Broedi doubted the horse understood his words or thoughts, but, somehow, Thonda’s creatures understood the intent behind them.

  The chestnut turned to stare at Broedi, the gelding’s big brown eyes focusing on the hillman. Broedi’s sharp ears caught a short, almost gruff puff of air from the horse. The animal was not overly pleased at being summoned. Nevertheless, the horse took a few hesitant, plodding steps toward the path that led to Tobias’ house. The crowd of tombles quickly parted in silence, giving way to let him pass.

  By the time the gelding reached Broedi, every tomble within sight was silently staring. Broedi stretched out his arm and let the horse nuzzle the palm of his hand.

  Thank you.

  The chestnut let out a low nicker in response.

  With that, Broedi released the Weave, severing the connection with the horse.

  Nundle said with awe, “I did not know you could do that.”

  Broedi rumbled softly, “I do not like to do so often. It is a horrible intrusion.” He regarded his friend and the horse. “But as it is obvious you have grown attached to him, it did not seem right to leave him behind.”

  Nundle stood tall, the beginning of a protest halting before it could reach his lips. With a simple shrug of his shoulders, he said, “He’s a good horse.” He reached up to pat the horse’s neck, having to stand up on his toes to reach.

  “You truly should give him a name.”

  Nundle shot Broedi a quick look.

  “Yes…well…I was thinking about that and—”

  “Excuse me,” urged Tobias. “This is all very touching and such, but we should leave.”

  Tobias was leaning against the side of his house, jabbing his cane in the air in the direction of the crowd. Swiveling around to peer at the gathered tombles, Broedi found more than a few openly distrustful expressions. Upon locking eyes with Custodian Belor, it was apparent the village leader was silently pleading for them to go.

  “Tobias is correct,” muttered Broedi. “We should go.”

  Nundle glanced at the crowd for a split-second before nodding.

  “Right.”

  He grabbed the reins of his horse and began to walk to where Tobias was waiting.

  “I never did get my spiced turnips.”

  Without another look at the assembled tombles, Broedi followed Nundle, his mind quickly turning to what he was going to say to Tobias.

  Chapter 15: Woodeaters

  “Another storm is coming.”

  Rhohn twisted to his left to look over his shoulder, wincing as the horse’s backbone dug into his rear. He had not ridden without a saddle in years and had forgotten how uncomfortable it was. Staring back to the northwest, he found a blue sky full of voluminous white clouds.

  “I don’t see any—”

  “Other way, Mud Man,” said Tiliah softly.

  Swinging around to his right instead, Rhohn peered to the southwest. While the late afternoon sun still shone down on the rolling plains, a wall of gray filled the horizon, clouds heavy with rain. As though it were waiting to be noticed, the first low rumble of thunder reached his ears. Their horse nickered softly.

  “Perhaps we should stop for a time?” suggested Tiliah.

  “Why?” asked Rhohn, a frown upon his lips. He had only just begun to dry out from the last
bout of rain.

  “To let the face of the storm pass.”

  He tried to twist around to meet her stare, but could not.

  “We can either stop and get wet, or ride and get wet.”

  “Yes, well this particular horse you stole shies at loud noises. You won’t want to be on her back when the storm arrives, unless you enjoy broken bones.”

  Another distant peel of thunder rolled over the prairie. Their horse broke into a quick trot for a few steps and tossed her head, letting a puff of air rush from her nostrils. Sighing, Rhohn swiveled his head, studying the grassy terrain around them. A slight rise in the land, topped by a single, apparently dead bulboa tree was a short distance away. Judging it a good vantage point to watch the western horizon, Rhohn nodded toward the hill.

  “We stop there.”

  After a moment’s pause, Tiliah asked, “And what of Nimar and his family?”

  “We have kept a good pace,” answered Rhohn. “Besides, they might not be tracking us.”

  “Truly?” asked a skeptical Tiliah. “You killed one of them and stole a gem. Do you believe they would let us go so easily?”

  Rhohn pressed his lips together, wishing that might be the case, but knowing it was not. Shaking his head, he muttered, “No.”

  “What? No reassuring words?”

  “Why would I do that? I would bet every ducat in the duke’s coffers they are trying to find us.”

  With a soft chuckle, Tiliah said, “At least you are an honest soul.”

  The pair did not say another word as they approached the tree. The endless fields of chest high grass waved in the wind, rustling quietly. The air was thick and heavy with moisture, hard to breathe, and smelled of wet earth. Rhohn eyed the bulboa tree as they neared. Leaves had not graced its branches for quite some time. It looked like a bony, weathered gray hand clawing its way free of the boundless, tan prairie.

  When they stopped atop the hill, Tiliah dismounted, alighting to the ground with ease. After Rhohn handed her the sack of dried meat—which she tossed by the base of the tree trunk—he unbuckled his belt and lowered his sword to her. After lowering it to the ground, Tiliah glanced at his wounded leg.

  “Do you need help down?”

  Rather than answer her, Rhohn swung his left leg over the mare’s neck and slid down, landing hard and wincing as a sharp pain ran up it. Trying to keep his voice clear of discomfort, he muttered, “Not necessary.”

  Shaking her head, she turned and faced the western horizon.

  “It looks clear still.”

  Rhohn stared westward a moment, confirming her assessment. No horses. No carts. Nothing but grass and a few other random bulboa trees, still with leaves. Content that they were free of immediate danger, Rhohn retrieved his belt and sword, looped the leftover rope around the horse’s neck, and led the mare to the tree trunk. As he wrapped the braid around a dry branch, he noticed countless tiny holes in the wood.

  Muttering to himself, he said, “Woodeaters.”

  Behind him, Tiliah said, “Pardon?”

  Raising his voice, Rhohn said, “Woodeaters. This tree looks to be infested with them.” Buckling belt and sword around his waist, he turned to eye Tiliah’s back and asked, “Are you hungry?”

  Without turning around, she called back, “Are Summers hot?”

  Smiling slightly, he bent down and grabbed the burlap bag. Standing tall, he opened it and was greeted with the spicy saltiness of dried boar. As he reached inside to retrieve a strip, the back of his hand brushed past the nobleman’s pouch, instantly triggering an involuntary, cold shiver that rippled up his arm, through his chest, and bounced about the back of his neck. Quickly pulling his hand and the meat free, he peered into the dark bag and stared at the rich leather pouch sitting amongst the boar.

  “Is that for me, Mud Man?”

  Rhohn glanced up and was surprised to find Tiliah standing beside him. He had not noticed her approach. She eyed him, a curious expression on her face.

  “Do you feel ill?”

  Rhohn blinked twice, shook his head, and murmured, “No…I…” Trailing off, he stared back to the pouch, his mouth suddenly as dry as a Borderlands Summer.

  Suddenly, their horse let out a low, nervous nicker. Rhohn looked up, wondering if he had missed a rumble of thunder. The horse whinnied again, the anxious tone in its call different than before. Rhohn dropped the strip of boar meat back into the bag and slipped his left hand around the pommel of his sword. The leather was tacky, still damp.

  His gaze traveled the chest-high grass around them. Beside him, Tiliah held perfectly still, her head swiveling side to side slowly, doing the same. She also recognized the horse’s reaction for what it was: fear.

  Tiliah whispered, “Do you see anything?”

  Rhohn shook his head a fraction and shushed her with a whispered, “Quiet.” The wind had picked up with the advent of the storm and was randomly tossing about the grass. Were the air still, he could perhaps sense movement in the prairie. But not today.

  The mare nickered again, louder this time, and tossed her head, yanking the rope tight. The bulboa branch audibly cracked.

  Rhohn dropped his chin and stared at the ground, wondering if they had stumbled upon a den of ran-ras. The snakes were known to hole up in old, hollowed-out trees. A woodeater-infested bulboa would be a perfect home for a number of the reptiles. His gaze darted about the grass, paying particular attention near the horse’s hooves.

  Tiliah took a step closer to him.

  “What do you—”

  “Hush!” hissed Rhohn, still staring about the rise.

  Tiliah glared at him and murmured, “Do not shush me! What is—” She cut off as, two dozen paces to the east, some sort of creature burst from the prairie, rising a dozen feet above the grass, and soared through the air toward them.

  At first, Rhohn though it an animal, but realized quickly that the figure had two arms and legs like a person, only it was much smaller—at least a few feet shorter than him. It had a black, pinched face, and was covered from head to toe with long, sharp quills glistening black and emerald in the sunlight. As the creature reached the apex of its arc, the barbs along both forearms sprang to attention.

  Rhohn’s eyes went wide. Without doubt, the creature flying toward them was a razorfiend. He had heard frequent descriptions, but this was the first he had ever seen one in person.

  The moment Rhohn’s gaze locked onto its black, beady eyes, the fiend loosed a series of sharp chitterings and clicks, murdering the soft rustling of the grass and yanking Rhohn from his stupor. The mare began ripping her head back repeatedly, trying to free herself of her bond, its whinnying joining with the fiend’s shrieks. Rhohn dropped the sack of meat, reached out with his maimed right hand, and shoved Tiliah back and away while whipping his Dust Man blade from his scabbard.

  Tiliah fell to the ground just as the razorfiend reached Rhohn, the blades along its forearms and hands aiming for his chest. Lashing out with his sword, Rhohn smacked the attack away while stepping to his right. His blade connected squarely with the quills of the fiend, bouncing along them in a series of quick, staccato clacks. Somehow, he managed to deflect the creature’s assault and push it aside.

  Stumbling through the grass, Rhohn kept his eyes on the fiend as it tumbled to the ground, rolled once, and stopped near the stomping hooves of the panicked horse. He prayed the terrified horse might trample the fiend, but the creature nimbly dodged the hooves. The mare, eyes rolled back and white, gave one last frantic yank of her head, snapped the woodeater-laden branch off the tree, and bolted down the hill, dragging the shattered log behind it.

  The fiend righted itself, turned its sharp-eyed gaze to Rhohn, and sneered, “Stazsla mirtinz!” The words were short and clipped, its voice loud and shrill,

  Rhohn’s heart pounded in his chest, his mouth had a strange, almost metallic taste in it. Fiends were quick, agile, and vicious killers, their quills as hard as steel and sharp as a new-edged blade. While shorter an
d smaller than most men, they were thrice as deadly. Rhohn knew he was outmatched. He was lucky to have deflected the first attack.

  Stealing a quick glimpse at Tiliah, he found the young woman half-sitting up in the grass, her gaze locked on the fiend.

  “Tiliah! Run!”

  She did not move and Rhohn did not have time to entreaty her to flee a second time as the fiend leapt again, straight for him. Only a dozen feet separated the pair, forcing Rhohn to react quicker than he thought possible, flailing with his sword to block another slashing onslaught. Quill met sword again, sending another strange, muted crack of fiend blade striking metal through the air. Rhohn’s arm shuddered. The fiend was small and wiry, but incredibly strong.

  Hissing, the fiend attacked again, wildly swinging its left arm. Rhohn dropped his hand and twisted his wrist, barely catching the fiend’s longest blade against his hilt’s guard. Were he fighting any other creature, Rhohn would have lashed out with his foot to kick it away, but forethought overrode instinct. He would surely impale his leg or foot on the quills covering the fiend’s shins and thighs.

  Instead, he spun his sword in a tight circle, shoving the bladed arm away, and leapt to his right. Backpedaling as quickly as he could away from the tree and down the slope, he tried to draw the fiend from Tiliah. He stayed close enough not to lose the creature in the dry shafts, but kept enough distance that he could react to the next, inevitable attack. Fifteen hurried paces backward, he lost sight of Tiliah, still crouched on the ground.

  “Tiliah! Run!”

  The fiend stood to its full height—still shorter than the grass tops—and glared at Rhohn. He forced himself to hold the creature’s glare while trying to ignore the throbbing arrow wound in his calf.

  The razorfiend began to slink through the grass, like a lion stalking its prey. For the first time, Rhohn noticed the creature wore a pair of short breeches that stopped above its knees and a crisscrossing leather harness on its chest.

  The creature clicked a few times before hissing, “You will periszzh, fleszzhling.”

  Surprised the fiend could speak Argot, Rhohn nonetheless ignored the Sudashian and called out, “Run if you aren’t already, Tiliah! Stay low!”