The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  Talulot matched Puno’s oscillation with his own, whistling, “Fingard will defend them, Puno. I ordered him to do so.” His voice carried a hint of the ear-piercing shriek from days past.

  “Then he would die as well,” replied Puno, the tone of his voice turning shriller as well.

  “You are not permitted to do so,” protested Talulot. “He is my aliipin.”

  A deep, throaty growl rumbled from Broedi, sounding more like hill lynx than hillman. Nikalys glanced up at the White Lion and frowned.

  The thorn ignored the growl entirely while continuing their non-stop swaying. Puno spoke.

  “Should your aliipin die, we would find another for you.”

  Broedi took a sudden step forward and barked, “If you harm Fingard, I will kill you all.” The sharp words and tone caused the four thorn and the lone, enslaved hillman to turn and stare.

  Placing a firm but gentle hand on Broedi’s arm, Nikalys moved forward and placed himself between Broedi and the thorn. Keeping his own tone calm yet firm, Nikalys said, “What he means to say is that should you attack our companions, we will defend them.”

  “There are many more of us than you,” whistled Puno. “You will lose.”

  “Will we?” asked Nikalys, his gaze locking on Puno. Drawing himself up to his full height, he kept his voice steady as he bluffed, “You have seen inside us. You know what we are capable of. Leave our companions alone and take us to Aembyr-The-Ageless now, else we will destroy your city and all within it.” He placed his right hand on his sword hilt, readying to draw it both to emphasize his point and to be prepared should his ruse not work.

  The thorn stopped swaying and, for a few moments, no one moved. Nikalys kept his eyes on Puno, waiting for a response, one way or the other. Behind him, a low growl continued to emanate from Broedi.

  Fortunately, when Puno finally moved, it was to drop its gaze and turn toward the bridge.

  “You will follow us.”

  Relief flooded through Nikalys as he let out a tiny sigh. Dropping his hand from his hilt, he said softly, “Lead on.” As Broedi seemed incapable of being Broedi now, Nikalys would do his best to imitate the hillman.

  As Puno began to shuffle over the bridge, the other two thorn followed. The tattooed hillman trailed the trio, his gaze repeatedly returning to Nikalys and Broedi as he stepped onto the wooden planks.

  Nikalys was about to move to the bridge when Talulot whistled, “How?”

  Turning to stare at the thorn, Nikalys said, “Pardon?”

  “You said you would destroy our city. How?”

  Nikalys peered at the thorn, his face blank. He had already forgotten his empty threat.

  “Uh…”

  Broedi stepped forward abruptly, glared at Talulot, and growled, “Be thankful we did not show you.” Without another word, the White Lion strode past the thorn, marched to the edge of the bridge, and began to cross. Nikalys followed quickly before the thorn could ask any more questions.

  Stepping onto the wooden planks, he moved across, trailing Broedi. The vines holding the bridge—already stretched tight—sagged under his added weight. He offered a quick prayer to Duryn, the God of Industry and Crafters, silently pleading that thorn were decent bridge builders. Halfway across, he emerged from the cool shade back into the sun’s warm glow. Looking down, Nikalys caught a glimpse of the river snaking through the tree trunks and judged the forest floor some two hundred feet below them. He said another prayer.

  Countless stares awaited them as they neared the platform. Each thorn stood motionless, tilting its head side-to-side, observing the strangers with unnerving silence. The sound of Nikalys’ boots resounding off the wooden platforms were like thunderclaps on a cloudless day.

  Stepping from the exposed bridge and onto the terrace, Nikalys gave up the fleeting warmth of Mu’s orb for the shade of the great pine boughs. Rays of sunlight penetrated the canopy’s thinner sections, spreading patches of light throughout the city. Red birds with yellow tipped wings darted about the trees, warbling as they flittered.

  The pair of thorn that had accompanied Puno to the rocky trail melted into the crowd once across the bridge. Puno—followed by the still-silent, tattooed hillman—and Talulot continued forward, leading them through the city, moving from balcony to platform to terrace. Nikalys swiveled his head in all directions, gaping in wonder at the city’s tranquil beauty. Vibrant paintings of leaves, flowers, and trees decorated every building they passed, giving color to a treescape dominated by dusty tans, rich browns, and faded greens. Nikalys wished Jak and Kenders could share this moment with him.

  Peering through the triangular holes cut into some of the walls, Nikalys glimpsed simple interiors: tall tables laden with wooden bowls, unnamable trinkets, and square planks of thin wood covered with elegant markings. Assuming he was staring into the homes of the thorn, Nikalys wondered why the race needed structures in which to live. Certainly, it was not to sleep. In addition to never eating or drinking, Talulot had never seemed to sleep. Each evening when they had made camp, the thorn would remain upright, standing in the same position in the morning that it had assumed at night.

  He wanted to ask Broedi the reason for the buildings, but one glance at the hillman told Nikalys that any explanation would have to wait. The White Lion was a tightly woven bundle of anger, keeping his gaze mostly straight ahead despite the wonder around him, his glances reserved only for the tattooed hillmen and hillwomen they passed.

  Puno led them ever deeper into the city, weaving from one bridge to another. Left to his own devices, Nikalys would have been lost a long time past. The interconnected walkways were a maze. Finally, the thorn turned onto a thick-planked bridge that led to the largest building Nikalys had yet seen in Buhaylunsod.

  The wooden structure was majestic, nestled among the boughs of multiple pines. Unlike every other building in the city, this edifice was absent walls. Its sloping roof hung over the platform, suspended by hundreds of braided-vine ropes. Triangular sections were cut into the ceiling to allow sunlight to shine through.

  As they reached the end of the bridge and moved onto the platform, Nikalys was surprised to find the pine-board dais utterly bare save for nine figures, all of them standing but one who rested in a single chair to the right. Straight ahead, four thorn stood in a line, each one basking in a pool of sunlight. They were taller and thicker of limb than other thorn, less spindly than the rest of their race. The grassy hair atop their heads was tan and dried out, much as Nikalys imagined the Borderlands’ prairies to be. Four robed and tattooed hillmen stood ten paces behind them, one to each thorn.

  The ninth and final soul lounged in a wooden chair that was polished to a glossy sheen. The elongated limbs and facial features marked the individual as an ijul. The darker skin—the color of black tea and four thimblefuls of milk—named him a tijul, rather than the fairer saeljul. Glossy, rich brown hair hung to his shoulders, framing a sharp, angular face filled with the wide ijulan eyes and lips. He wore a simple leaf-green tunic that cut off at his thighs, revealing black breeches and leather, calf-high boots. His head was tilted against the chair back and his eyes closed. Were it not for the fact he was lazily running his fingers through his hair, Nikalys would have thought him asleep. An ornate, thick-handled spear rested against the chair’s tall back.

  Nikalys allowed himself a moment of quiet relief. As this was the only tijul he had seen in Buhaylunsod, he assumed he beheld Wren Aembyr, the Leafwalker and champion of Lamoth.

  The scraping of Puno and Talulot’s feet against the wooden floor, along with the heavy thuds of Nikalys and Broedi’s boots prompted Wren to crack open his eyes and stare lazily in their direction. His hand froze in mid-stroke and he sat tall, his relaxed posture gone in an instant. His gaze tracked Broedi as they moved across the platform. Broedi held Wren’s stare, glowering.

  Stopping fifteen paces from the four thorn, Puno whistled, “Maring ang araw tumang sa iyo, Mataan.”

  Frowning, Nikalys turned to his l
eft, hoping Broedi might translate the almost melodic words this time. Broedi ignored him again, his angry gaze remaining locked on Wren. He began to lift the strap to his leather satchel over his head.

  Keeping his voice low, Nikalys muttered, “Uh…Broedi? What are—”

  Dropping his bag to the platform, Broedi stepped in front of Nikalys and, in two long strides, was already in a full sprint toward Wren’s chair, a wrathful growl rumbling from his throat.

  For a moment, nobody moved. Nikalys, along with everyone else, watched as Broedi rushed towards Wren, his heavy frame shaking the wooden planks.

  Wren moved next, shoving himself from his chair to stand, spin around, and grab his spear.

  Broedi’s growl grew into an enraged, bear-like roar as his body started to shift, changing as he thudded across the platform.

  Wren hefted his spear, clearly readying to throw it at the charging hillman, and shouted, “Don’t do this, Broedi!”

  When the half-Broedi, half-animal figure did not comply, Wren pulled his arm back.

  With his eyes going wide, Nikalys stared at the open platform behind Wren and reached inside of him, grasping at the gift he had inherited from his blood father.

  Shift.

  Now standing behind Wren, he reached out, wrenched the spear from the ijul’s spindly fingers, and launched the weapon as hard as he could straight up, aiming for the sloped roof forty feet overhead. Wheeling around, he spotted Broedi in mid-step, moments from completing his transformation into the golden-coated Cartusian bear.

  Shift.

  On Broedi’s left side now, he swept a foot across the shin of the part-hillman, part-bear, upsetting the White Lion’s balance. As Broedi tumbled forward, Nikalys glanced up to find Wren reaching for a dagger’s hilt protruding from a sheath on his belt.

  Shift.

  Reaching out with his right hand, Nikalys grabbed Wren’s dagger before the ijul could. Pulling it free from the sheath, he flung it up after the spear that was still wobbling through the air. Using his left hand, he gripped Wren’s tunic and yanked backwards, gently kicking in the back of the tijul’s knees at the same time. As Wren began his topple backwards, Nikalys looked back to Broedi. The hillman—nearly all bear now—had been unable to halt his fall and was moments from crashing, face-first, into the platform.

  Nikalys stared at an open space between the two White Lions—

  Shift.

  —and waited for the pair to complete their falls, releasing his grasp on Horum’s gift.

  Overhead, a loud thud, followed immediately by a softer clang, filled the platform as spear and dagger embedded themselves in the roof. Glancing up, Nikalys saw the spearhead fully entrenched in the wood and the dagger buried to the hilt. Broedi the bear struck the wood floor with heavy thump, shaking the terrace. Wren finished his collapse, as well, a surprised “oomph” slipping from the tijul.

  Glaring at the sprawled-out Cartusian bear, Nikalys demanded, “What in the Nine Hells are you doing?!”

  The bear lifted his head to stare at Nikalys, Broedi’s deep brown eyes angry and intense, peering over a golden muzzle. Its gaze shifted back to Wren and the low growl rumbling from its throat resumed.

  Nikalys glanced at Wren to find the tijul sitting up, openly gawking at him.

  “As Broedi can’t answer me at the moment, mind telling me what is going on here?”

  Shifting his gaze to Broedi, Wren said, “I will if he promises not to maul me.”

  The bear glared at Wren and growled even louder, prompting Nikalys to step closer to the hillman and say, “Remember why we came here. He’s not much use to us if he’s dead.”

  Broedi turned his gaze back to Nikalys and, a moment or two later, the growl slowly, reluctantly faded away. Nikalys eyed the bear, waiting to see if he would make another move. Content he would not, Nikalys looked back to Wren.

  The tijul’s wide, elongated eyes were locked on him again, studying every detail. When Wren’s gaze flicked to the scabbard at Nikalys’ side and the golden hilt sticking from it, the already present confusion in his eyes deepened. After a moment, he looked back to Nikalys’ face and muttered, “Aryn?”

  Nikalys blinked, shook his head, and said, “No—”

  “Ever the fool, Wren” interjected Broedi, his voice terse and sharp. A quick look back to Broedi revealed the White Lion was back to being a hillman and glaring at Wren. “How could that be Aryn? Unless time went back upon itself.”

  His eyes narrowing, Wren muttered, “Then how is—”

  “He is Aryn’s son. Aryn and Eliza’s son.”

  Wren gaped at Broedi, his eyes going round.

  “Their son?”

  As Broedi stood from the platform’s floor, Nikalys raised his left hand, palm out, and said, “Stay where you are, Broedi. I don’t want to knock you down again.”

  Without taking his eyes from Wren, Broedi muttered, “With one Weave, I could hold you where you stand and do as I pleased.”

  Nikalys frowned. He had forgotten about that. Apparently, so had Broedi in his anger.

  “Are you going to attack again, then?”

  After a long pause, Broedi rumbled, “For the moment? No.” The hillman’s anger was still simmering, yet he seemed to have control over it now.

  Turning to Wren, Nikalys asked, “What about you? Will you behave?”

  Wren continued to stare at Nikalys in silence, evidently stunned by Broedi’s revelation. After a moment, he managed a short nod.

  “If Broedi will, so will I.”

  Peering over to where the thorn stood, staring at them, Nikalys wondered what they thought of this display. From outward appearances, they seemed wholly unconcerned by Broedi’s outburst and Wren’s response. Feeling an apology was in order—and with Broedi in no condition to give it—Nikalys strode toward the center of the wooden platform.

  As he moved past Broedi, he muttered, “Try to remain calm.”

  The hillman nodded once, his heated gaze still fixed on Wren.

  Moving to stand before Puno and what he assumed were the Mataan, Nikalys glanced from one triangular face to another. The four enslaved hillmen—two of which were actually hillwomen now that he looked closely—behind the thorn gazed at him with inquisitive eyes.

  Clearing his throat, he repeated the greeting Talulot had offered him on the beach and said, “May the sun shine upon you.”

  His words had no effect. The four Mataan did not move or speak.

  He glanced over at Broedi, hoping for some guidance, but the hillman was still staring down Wren. Sighing, he peered back to the Mataan offered a small smile, and said, “Ah…good days ahead?”

  As one, the four thorn raised their left arms, extended their six-fingered hands, and closed their eyes. Just as Talulot had done at the beach and Puno again on the cliff’s path, they swayed side to side as mature oaks do in a steady breeze. The platform went as quiet as the Yellow Mud olive groves on a Seventhday afternoon. Taking the opportunity to check on Wren and Broedi, Nikalys found the White Lions no longer glaring at one another. Rather, both were watching the Mataan, Wren with a bewildered expression on his face.

  Nikalys turned back to the Mataan and waited. Eventually, the rightmost thorn opened its eyes and dropped its arm. After several moments, it whistled, “You shine bright. Brighter than friend Aembyr, even.” Tilting its head slightly, it added, “Noteworthy.”

  Nikalys glanced back to Wren. The tijul was staring at him again, his eyes cautious and curious.

  “I am called Alumon,” whistled the thorn. “Who are you?”

  Looking back, Nikalys said, “My name is Nikalys Isaac.”

  “That is your name. I want to know who you are.”

  A tiny furrow appeared in Nikalys’ brow as he considered his answer. After a moment, he took a deep breath and said, “I am the son of Thaddeus and Marie Isaac of Yellow Mud. And I am the son of Aryn Atticus, the champion of Horum, and Eliza Kap, the champion of Gaena. I am farmer, brother, friend, soldier, and child of th
e White Lions.”

  With a soft creak of wood, Alumon swiveled its head and torso to stare at the other Mataan. The three opened their eyes, dropped their arms, and stared back at Alumon. For several moments, the four Mataan looked between one another, the crackling of their rough, bark-skin the only sound they made. Eventually, all four turned their gaze back to Nikalys. With a tilt of its head, Alumon spoke.

  “Tell us what you would have us do.”

  A moment skipped past as Nikalys stared at the thorn, his expression blank.

  “Pardon?”

  “We await your guidance,” whistled Alumon. “Share with us our fate.”

  Perplexed, Nikalys turned to Broedi. Every bit of the hillman’s anger had evaporated and had been replaced by muted bafflement. Wren, too, appeared bewildered. Concluding that neither of the White Lions would offer any clarification, Nikalys looked back to Alumon.

  “I do not understand. What do you mean, you await my guidance?”

  Alumon whistled, “We—and all buhanik—shall do whatever you ask of us.”

  After a long pause, Nikalys asked the obvious.

  “Why?”

  “Because we promised to do so.”

  Nikalys cocked a single eyebrow.

  “You…promised?”

  Alumon tilted his head in the opposite direction.

  “We did.”

  Nikalys glanced over to find Broedi—a frown resting upon his lips—striding to where Nikalys stood. Stopping on his right, the hillman stared at Alumon and rumbled, “Who did you promise?”

  Alumon shifted its glass black eyes to Broedi.

  “The savior of the buhanik: the Enlightened Oracle.”

  Nikalys stared in stunned silence. The title was reserved for the Goddess Indrida.

  “Indrida?” rumbled Broedi, his voice a mixture of surprise and doubt. “You promised Indrida to do what—” he glanced at Nikalys “—he says?”

  “In a sense, yes,” whistled Alumon.

  “What does that mean?” asked Broedi.

  “While we four did not promise, Mataan of Buhaylunsod before us did.”

  Finding his voice, Nikalys asked, “Before you? How long before you?”