The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  In an even, somewhat pointed tone, Tobias said, “Funny. Nearly every man on this wall would say the same thing about your race.” As the kur-surus glowered at him, the White Lion twisted around and stared east. “The sun will be up in short order. If they were smart, they would attack soon.”

  Rhohn glanced backward, peering over the great city to stare at the grayish-pink horizon.

  Kenders murmured, “Could we not use the Suštinata of Stone to help reinforce the walls?”

  Rhohn turned to stare at the Easterner, confused.

  “Suštinata?”

  “No,” replied Khin. “There is no situation imaginable where it would be a good idea to do so.”

  Shaking her head firmly, Kenders said, “I understand your hesitation to use them, but nobody knows—” She stopped in mid-sentence and swiveled her head to stare west. Her face grew taut and strained, as if she were trying to hear the rustle of a single leaf miles away. In a quiet, worried voice, she mumbled, “Do either of you feel that?”

  “Soul and Air,” said Tobias softly.

  Kenders muttered, “Will, too.”

  Rhohn looked west.

  “What are—?”

  Kenders lifted a hand, cutting him off, stepped closer to the wall, and peered over.

  “We need to see what is down there. Now.”

  As though responding to her, a deep, guttural voice rose up through the morning fog, its pitch rising and falling as it bellowed, “Hugg saumush maurogh! Glurcull ugrogh urdreg! Yuragh raghlag udok!”

  Tobias muttered, “I can tell you what’s down there.”

  Rhohn could as well. Enough stories had drifted about the Borderlands that he had no doubt it was an oligurt. Okollu confirmed it for him with a low, angry growl.

  “Grayskins.”

  The lone voice roared again, the rhythm and intonation of the garbled words reminding Rhohn of a playman’s poem, only infinitely more fearsome sounding.

  “Hugg saumush maurogh! Glurcull ugrogh urdreg! Yuragh raghlag udok!”

  There was another brief pause before the chant resumed, only instead of a single oligurt voice, thousands shouted as one, the thunderous, raucous chorus smacking Rhohn in the face.

  “Hugg saumush maurogh! Glurcull ugrogh urdreg! Yuragh raghlag udok!”

  Forced to shout, Kenders called out, “We can’t wait any longer!” She turned to stare at Khin, her eyes wide. “Khin?!”

  The aicenai nodded once and the pair peered into the air, their gazes seemingly fixed on nothing. Moments later, they shifted their stares to the blanket of fog below.

  Looking down, Rhohn watched a perfect circle appear in the mist. Only a few feet across at first, the hole provided a clear view of the marshy ground below. Reason told him the cutout should not be there while instinct told him the surrounding vapor should swallow it. Instead, the void grew, expanding outward, the mist coalescing into droplets and falling like a quick, sudden rain. Something was squeezing the fog from the air as one wrings excess water from a rag.

  Within a few moments, the hole swelled to the size of a full regiment, gaining speed as it rushed outward in all directions. Light from the torches could now reach the dirt below.

  The sudden twang of a nearby bowstring startled him. Looking to his right, he saw Sabine, her recurve bow gripped tightly in her left hand, in the midst of drawing an arrow from the quiver strapped to her leg. Staring west, he spotted a red-feathered arrow arching downward, flying toward the edge of the fog. An oligurt emerged from the mist just as the arrow arrived, striking the monster in the forehead. The gray-skinned beast stumbled forward and collapsed to the ground.

  Moments later, to the south, a man’s voice shouted over the oligurts’ chanting.

  “Bows! Steady fire!”

  Soldiers all along the wall picked up the call, repeating the order even as they followed it. Within a pair of heartbeats, the air was alive with arrows, the shafts soaring toward the host of oligurts marching on Demetus.

  Each of the monsters wore simple hide armor and carried a weapon similar to a simple club with giant, metal spikes jutting from the end. They strode forward, heads tilted back and staring into the air with expressions that Rhohn interpreted as confusion. He knew nothing about how an oligurt thought—if the beasts even did—but he would have bet coin they were wondering where the fog was going.

  As the oligurts gaped upwards, the avalanche of arrows rained down upon them, turning their unified war chants into disjointed, random roars of pain.

  Rhohn wished he had a bow. He and his men had acquired armor and swords from the Reed Men armory, but it had been bare of bows. They—and he—would need to wait their turn to fight.

  The hole in the fog continued to grow, revealing even more of the slope leading to the western wall. To the south, Rhohn saw a pack of mongrels appear as the mist dissipated. Within a few breaths, they, too, were subjected to a barrage of arrows from the walls. A few dozen collapsed to the ground, howling in pain, their bodies riddled with arrows.

  Rhohn glanced at Okollu, anxious to see how the kur-surus would take to seeing his kind cut down like this. Okollu stood rigid, his nostrils flaring. His fur-covered hands were balled in fists.

  Shouting over the chants and screams, Rhohn called, “Okollu?”

  The kur-surus whipped his head around to meet Rhohn’s gaze, his eyes wide and burning. With teeth bared, he snarled. “That is my pack! Baaldòk is driving the Drept to their deaths!”

  Rhohn stared back below.

  “Hells.”

  Greya had a cruel sense of humor.

  With the fog pushed back, the men on the walls had a clear view of the advancing horde and fired arrow after arrow into the throng. Only moments old and the battle was already a one-sided massacre.

  A single, yapping howl pierced the air, followed immediately by similar calls from within the Drept pack. The mongrels halted their advance, turned around, and began running from the walls. The war chants of the oligurts changed, too, as the hulking gray beasts began a full retreat as well. A loud cheer poured from the duchies’ soldiers even while they continued to loose arrows at the backs of the enemy.

  The fog west of Demetus continued to dissipate, revealing a mottled landscape of marshes mingling with swaths of pine-tree groves. As the Sudashians slipped beyond bow range and into the cover of the trees, calls ran up and down the walls to halt firing. The soldiers complied and watched the retreat, their cheers growing even louder.

  Rhohn shook his head, a frown on his face. It was much too soon to cry victory.

  The mist’s disappearance accelerated, showering the ground with a quick moment of rain as the edge rushed westward. Early dawn now provided enough illumination to light the world below, but not enough to gift it with color. Everything in the murky dimness below was washed-out and pallid. The land looked dead.

  After a time, Rhohn began to spot what appeared to be firelight flickering in the distance. With each moment that passed, more and more far-off lights were revealed, quickly forming a long, unending line on the early-morning horizon. His stomach dropped as he realized what he was seeing.

  Tobias let out a soft gasp, Okollu a whimper of surprise. Both Kenders and Sabine let a soft curse slip. The joyful shouts along the walls died within two quick heartbeats.

  They were torches. Tens of thousands of torches.

  Rhohn muttered, “Impossible.” His mouth was as dry as Borderlands dirt on a Summer day. “Is that the…?” He trailed off, unable to finish his question. Khin answered it anyway.

  “The army of Chaos.”

  The men on the walls were silent now.

  After a few moments, Kenders—a slight quiver in her voice—muttered, “How many?”

  “Impossible to know for sure,” answered Khin slowly. “And I do not guess.”

  “But I do,” said Tobias. He let out a long sigh before saying, “Forty-thousand.”

  Rhohn shook his head, muttering, “Bless the Gods…”

  “Forty-tho
usand?” repeated Sabine. “Are you sure?”

  “Perhaps more,” said Tobias. “But I doubt less. That guess is based on what I can see. More might be hiding in the forests.”

  Rhohn tilted his head back, stared to the lightening sky, and let out a long sigh. At least the odds were better than they had been back in Ebel.

  Shouts from along the wall pulled his attention to the north. Seeing the front line of Reed Men pointing to the hill below, Rhohn swiveled his head and spotted a group of four oligurts step from the pine trees, slosh through the marshy ground, and stop just beyond bow range. Another group emerged a few dozen paces south of the first.

  Then another.

  And another.

  All along the length of the wall, oligurts—always in groups of four—strode from the tree groves, stopped where they were safe, and stared up at the walls. Two of each group were bare-chested, their heads covered in either mud or dark brown paint. The remaining two wore long, patchwork leather skirts and had large red and yellow tattoos etched on their foreheads. While none carried weapons of any sort, the tattooed oligurts all clutched a lit torch in their right hand.

  Kenders muttered, “Desert Fire mages.”

  Rhohn glanced over.

  “Pardon?”

  Nodding to the oligurts below, she said, “The ones with the tattoos. I’ve seen their kind before. But the other ones are new to me.” She glanced over at Tobias. “What about you?”

  The tomble shook his head.

  “I have no idea. Broedi is the expert on Sudashians.”

  “They are Kalnu Edaji,” growled Okollu, his black lips drawn back to reveal his teeth. “Mountain Eaters. They call themselves Mountain Eaters.”

  Before any of them could ask why, Kenders drew in a sharp, hissing breath.

  “Khin!”

  “I know,” said the aicenai softly. “Unravel what you can.”

  Moments later, the walls began to shake.

  Chapter 56: Foothold

  The ground refused to hold still.

  Nundle was in the shadow of the western wall, doing his best to remain upright as the city shook around him. Like him, the Reed Men and Southern Arms lining the street struggled to stay standing, bracing themselves against walls, poles, and one another.

  The hillmen from the Primal Provinces looked about, their eyes wide. The group of thorn standing nearby swayed side-to-side, like a grove of trees caught in a stiff wind. Nundle wondered how many were second-guessing their decision to come to Demetus.

  A few paces to Nundle’s left, Broedi stood, his feet wide apart, staring up at the mud-brick wall with a concerned look on his face. Wren, using his longspear to steady himself, appeared just as worried. Whipping his head around, Nundle eyed the tan wall, watching as it shook and shuttered. Chunks of mortar slipped from the crevices in the walls, tumbling to the streets below. Dust filled the air.

  “Oh, this is not good.”

  The low, deep rumbling was felt as much as heard. It reminded Nundle of his time spent at the Academy of Veduin. The dormitories there had been built into the side of the Ciyriel volcano. Earthquakes were common.

  As Nundle looked at the mud-brick buildings and walls surrounding him, a deepening frown on his face, the shaking suddenly tempered. The ground still rocked and shuddered, but much less violently than even a moment ago.

  Nundle glanced around anxiously.

  “What was that?”

  “Stone mages, I’d say,” answered Wren.

  Broedi rumbled, “It would seem so.” His deep baritone was nearly lost among the remnant thudding in the city.

  Staring at the White Lions, Nundle asked, “Why’d they stop? Much more of that shaking and—” He jumped as a large, irregular chunk of mortar crashed to the flagstone street two paces away and shattered into dozens of smaller clumps. Staring at it with wide eyes, Nundle muttered, “Lots of that would have happened.”

  Pulling his gaze from the walls, Broedi said, “I doubt they stopped of their own accord. We have Stone mages of our own. Two of whom are very capable.”

  Nundle tilted his head back to stare at the battlements.

  “Let’s hope they can keep things quiet.”

  “We need to eliminate their mages,” rumbled Broedi. “Quickly.” Swiveling to face Wren, he said, “We do not have time to prepare everyone. Take five buhanik and their partners, go to the northern gate now, and get ready.”

  Wren, his thick-handled spear gripped tight in his hand, nodded and began to move toward the thorn and hillmen mages.

  “And wait for my signal, Wren!”

  “I’ll wait,” said Wren, glancing over his shoulder. “You just make sure I can hear it!”

  Turning around, he pointed to five thorn and hillmen—including Fingard and Talulot—calling them each by name, and began striding north along the streets. The thorn and hillmen followed without a word, drawing stares from every longleg soldier as they passed.

  Wren’s agreeable response surprised Nundle. Looking up to Broedi, he said as much.

  “That was easy.”

  Eyeing the tijul’s retreating form, Broedi said, “Wren can be disagreeable, but there are few other I would want by my side when steel is drawn.” He shifted his intense gaze to Nundle. “Now, you know what to do, yes?”

  Nundle nodded, saying, “Spread the mages among the towers and take the warriors to the commander.”

  “Good,” rumbled Broedi. “You had best get moving. Ketus with you.” Before Nundle could respond, the hillman spun around and called out for the remaining thorn to come with him, along with their hillmen mages.

  Shouts of alarm erupted from atop the walls, pulling Nundle’s attention upward. Craning his neck, he listened carefully, trying to make sense of the cries, but the soldiers’ voices trampled one another, making their words unintelligible. Hearing the twangs of countless bowstrings, though, and Nundle guessed the Sudashians were advancing again.

  “Nundle!”

  He looked back to Broedi quickly. The hillman’s eyes were bright.

  “Do not waste time!” rumbled Broedi. He turned and began to jog south, the thorn and hillmen trailing him. Looking over his shoulder, he bellowed, “Go, Nundle! Now!”

  Nundle spun around to stare at the hillmen behind, tilting his head back to meet their eyes. He could not see past the first few rows, but he knew four hundred stood before him. All of whom were watching him, waiting for direction.

  Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, in as authoritative tone he could manage, he shouted, “Listen! I need you to follow me!” His voice cracked, an event that might have embarrassed him had his words carried beyond the first dozen hillmen. The battle outside and the remnant thudding drowned out his high-pitched voice.

  He was about to try again when one of the bald hillmen standing before him faced the group and boomed, “Kutojataka, otelu jopa olen ryhmisa!” He had red tattoos on his cheeks that reminded Nundle of a deer. As he shouted, it almost looked like the deer was leaping through the air.

  In awe of the hillman’s thunderous voice, Nundle stared upward.

  “What did you say?”

  Looking down to him, the hillman rumbled, “That we are to follow the words of the tiny man. Tell me what must be done.”

  Grateful for the help, Nundle nodded and said, “All of you are to follow me—” he spun around and pointed to the dark entryway at the base of a nearby tower “—through there. The mages first, followed by the warriors. When we get to the top, the mages are to spread out to the towers—one to each—introduce themselves to the people dressed in black, and tell them how to counter the thorn’s—ah, the buhanik’s attack!”

  “Understood, tiny man,” rumbled the red-tattooed hillman. He began to turn when Nundle held up a hand, stopping him.

  “My name is Nundle.”

  A slight smile graced the hillman’s lips.

  “I am Ranoteemu Petrikallio.”

  “Well met, Rano…tea…” He trailed off, shook his head
once, and said, “Rano will have to do.” He nodded to the group of hillmen. “Tell them now. Oh, and stay beside me. I might need your voice again.”

  Rano nodded, turned, and relayed Nundle’s orders in his native tongue. In an attempt to get a head start, Nundle began walking to the bastion tower. Halfway there, he glanced over his shoulder to see the hillmen warriors and mages following, their long legs quickly making up ground on him.

  Ducking into the darkened doorway, he ran up the stairs as fast as he could but had only made it a half-dozen steps when Rano scooped him up with one arm. Nundle was about to protest being ported like a sack of tubers when the alternative flashed through his mind. Four-hundred, heavy hillmen were rushing up the stairwell, their large, booted feet pounding against the same steps upon which he had just been standing. His objection died on his lips.

  As they reached the first landing, Nundle peered up the stairwell and at the two doorways above. The sounds of battle roared louder with each jarring step Rano took. Bouncing along, tucked tightly under Rano’s arm, Nundle pointed in the direction of the southernmost door of the bastion. The hillman followed his instructions and burst from the dark tower, rushing straight into organized chaos.

  All along the wall, longlegs were shouting, pointing and firing arrows. From below, oligurts chanted, mongrels howled.

  Nundle watched a volley of arrows fly from the walls to soar high into the air and froze, his eyes going wide. Dozens of boulders were hurtling toward the walls, one the size of his home in Deepwell. The enormous rock tumbled through the air, heading straight for the stretch of wall where Rano stood. Still clasped under the hillman’s arm, Nundle reached out for as many Strands of Air as he could, hoping he might somehow cushion the blow. He had only managed to grasp a handful when the massive stone halted its advance and toppled to the ground, surely crushing a number of Sudashians in the process.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Nundle muttered, “Oh, thank the Gods…” He should be thanking whichever mage knocked the boulder from the sky, but a quiet word of gratitude to the Gods and Goddesses would have to suffice for now.

  Staring back to the other rocks careening toward the city, a frustrated frown spread over his face. Weaves of Stone were surely responsible, but Nundle was deaf to the brown Strands.