The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  Nundle blinked in surprise.

  “Sabine?”

  She released the bowstring, sending the red-feathered arrow through the line of longlegs to strike an oligurt in its right eye. Thick, black blood squirted as the shaft sunk deep in its head and the monster dropped to the ground, limp and already dead.

  Rhohn rushed through the port next, followed by his ragged collection of Dust Men and their mismatched armor and weapons. He started pointing and shouting, directing the Borderlanders to a pair of gaps in the soldiers’ ring.

  A quick look to the north and south revealed that this was the only true fighting on the hillside. Most of the Sudashians seemed at a loss as to what to do. The thorn’s audible attack had disrupted whatever plan the invaders had for the assault.

  A longleg’s pain-laden scream cut through the air. Looking over his shoulder, Nundle saw Reed Men emerging back through the port, dragging injured compatriots with them. The scream belonged to a young longleg with blonde hair. Something heavy had crushed the poor soldier’s hand into a bloody, mushy pulp. His eyes were wide, staring at what used to be his hand.

  Nundle scooted backwards, hopped from the battlement, and took a step toward the poor soldier, intent on helping with the Reed Man’s injury. Yet he stopped short and glanced back to the port. He had a choice. He could stay here and help the injured, or go below and keep others from joining their ranks.

  Shutting out the man’s moans of pain, Nundle sprinted for the inky void. He leapt from the hard stone of the battlements, passed through the port, and landed on the soft, squishy ground of the marshes. For a moment, he stood in place, stunned by the battle’s volume. Everything was thrice as loud down here as it had sounded from the walls.

  The sharp clangs of metal on metal.

  Oligurts roaring.

  Mongrels howling and barking.

  Soldiers yelling and screaming.

  Khin’s magic globes hissing and sizzling.

  Through it all, two voices—Jak and Nathans’—lifted over the chaos, calmly shouting out orders.

  Shaking himself from his stupor, Nundle hurried to stand beside the ever calm and collected Sabine. She did not even acknowledge his presence as she was too intent on the Sudashians, firing arrow after arrow into the enemy.

  Nundle shifted some of his concentration from the port and mimicked the Weaves Khin was using, knitting patterns of Charge as quickly as he could and directing them at selected targets.

  Soldiers were falling quickly. Some were injured. Some, without doubt, were dead.

  Nundle did not know how long they could hold this position.

  Chapter 57: Sacrifice

  Shift.

  Standing behind the oligurt mage, Nikalys drew his white blade across its neck, slicing open a black, bloody wound. Flailing, the monster began to spin around, opening its side to a secondary attack. Nikalys jammed the Blade of Horum through its exposed side, aiming for where he thought the beast’s heart might be. He wanted to kill the oligurt quickly both so he could move on and because, enemy or not, he did not want the mage to suffer needlessly.

  His strike was true. The oligurt stiffened—its eyes round in shock—before it went limp. As the monster toppled over, Nikalys ripped his blade free, heard an angry roar behind him, and spun around. Three oligurt warriors were rushing him, their spiked clubs raised.

  Shift.

  He drew the blade over the left hamstring of the first and—

  Shift.

  —separated its head from its shoulders as it bent over, stumbling from the leg injury. Glancing at the patch of marshy ground beside the second oligurt—

  Shift.

  —Nikalys lopped off its left arm in a single, effortless stroke. The oligurt roared as its severed limb dropped to the ground, the spiked club absurdly still clasped in its hand.

  Sensing something flying toward him from behind, Nikalys looked to his right—

  Shift.

  —and spun around. A massive spiked club was whipping through the air where his head had been moments ago. Staring to a spot of ground behind the now off-balance monster—

  Shift.

  —Nikalys jammed the point of his sword through the oligurt’s back, driving it forward until it burst free of the beast’s chest. After giving the hilt a quick twist, he ripped the weapon free. As always, the Blade of Horum emerged clean and unspoiled. Nikalys, however, was coated with black oligurt blood.

  As the oligurt tumbled forward, Nikalys felt a flicker of guilt for taking yet another life. He had killed many today, more than he wished to count. All had been necessary, but he loathed every moment of it. To hear Okollu tell it, these Sudashians were as much victims in this war as any duchy man or woman. They were not the enemy. Tandyr was. And these oligurts were his unwilling weapons.

  He twisted around, looking for the next group of mages and froze. Nothing but open marshland, distant hills, and pine trees awaited him. He stood at the southern edge of the battle. Spinning around, he stared back to the north. He might be over a mile from where he had started.

  “Blast it!”

  Nikalys looked to the mud-brick walls of the city and saw the southern gates were shut. During his progression across the battlefield, he had caught glimpses of green-and-white-clad soldiers rushing out to carry the injured, smoking thorn back into the city. Tandyr’s army had made short work of Alumon and his kind.

  Suddenly, a very familiar—and unusually angry—voice rumbled beside him.

  “Uori! What do you think you are doing?!”

  Nikalys jumped and spun around, looking for Broedi, but found that he was still quite alone, his only company the corpses of oligurts, some marsh grass, and muddy puddles.

  “I am on the walls!” bellowed Broedi. “Where you should be!”

  Nikalys stared back to Demetus, scanning the long line of battlements running north. On the third tower from the southwestern corner of the city, Nikalys spotted the unmistakable form of Broedi standing at its edge, glaring at him.

  “Get back to the port!” rumbled the hillman. “Quickly! They are holding it for you!”

  Looking north, Nikalys muttered, “They’re what?”

  He had expected that Nundle would have closed the port long ago. As the entirety of Broedi’s message registered, he stared back to the hillman atop the tower.

  “They? Who’s holding—?”

  He cut off and shook his head. Broedi could not hear him. Nikalys did not know much about magic, but he remembered that the Weave Broedi was using only worked one way.

  Taking full advantage of his gift, he rushed north, darting across the battlefield, covering short distances in an instant. Within a few heartbeats, he found himself in the thick of the Sudashian ranks again, oligurts mostly. He fought only when he had no other choice. He needed to get back to the port.

  After a time, he broke through the oligurts and began to encounter a kur-surus pack. Moving past them without incident, he spotted a ring of soldiers around the port. The men—a mixture of Reed Men, Shadow Manes, and Dust Men—were fighting oligurts to the north, kur-surus to the south. Khin and Nundle stood at the ring’s center, lobbing small spheres of lightning and fire at the attackers. Sabine was with them, loosing arrow after arrow toward the oligurts. Her eyes were as cold as a Storm Island Winter morning.

  Nikalys caught a brief glimpse of Jak, his face streaked with blood and grime. Wearing a determined sneer, he was backpedaling, locked in single combat with a massive oligurt. Nikalys eyed the open space beside Jak’s opponent—

  Shift.

  —and hacked at the beast’s side, slicing through tunic and flesh, sinking his blade’s edge inches deep into its gut. A torrent of black blood squirted from the wound. The beast roared at the vicious blow and wheeled around, blindly swinging its club. Nikalys ducked, pulled the Blade of Horum free, and stepped to the side, readying a counterattack.

  Jak leapt forward first, though, plunging the point of his longsword into the oligurt’s ribcage. The m
onster whirled in place again and grabbed the longsword with an open hand, the sharp metal edge slicing open its palm. It leaned over and roared into Jak’s wide-eyed face, spittle flying from its mouth and dripping from its tusks.

  Nikalys reached out, grabbed the oligurt’s weapon arm, and yanked as hard as he could, ripping the oligurt free from Jak’s sword.

  Shift.

  Standing before the grayskin, he reached out with his free hand and shoved it in the chest, tossing it backwards and into the mass of Sudashians, knocking over a number of the enemy in the process.

  Safe for the moment, Nikalys whirled to face his brother. Jak was staring after the oligurt, his eyes still wide, but with surprise now, not fear. He blinked once, shifted his gaze to Nikalys, and smiled with relief.

  “Thanks, Nik.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Jak’s grin fell away an instant later. He reached up, punched Nikalys in the arm, and shouted, “What in the Nine Hells were you thinking?”

  He stepped forward, grabbed Nikalys’ blood-soaked Shadow Mane tunic, and began pulling him deeper into the circle. For the first time, Nikalys noticed there were two ports, not just the one.

  “Gods, Nik! You can’t just go running off—”

  A blur of brown and white fur rushed from the second port, knocking the brothers to the ground as it rushed past, growling and snarling. Lifting his head, Nikalys spotted Okollu on all fours, charging south, his green cape flapping as he ran. Back by the ports, a too-familiar voice called out.

  “Okollu, stop!”

  Looking back, Nikalys spotted Kenders stepping from a port, her gaze locked on the mongrel. Pushing himself from the ground, he glared at his sister and screamed, “Kenders! Get back to the walls!”

  Her gaze shifted to him ever so briefly before returning to Okollu. She pointed at the kur-surus and shouted, “He’s going after the demon! That’s his pack you’re fighting!”

  Nikalys turned to find the former pack leader pushing his way past the duchy soldiers, shoving men to the ground. It was a wonder none of them had attacked him yet.

  Nikalys made to go after him, but Jak grabbed his arm.

  “Let him go, Nik.”

  Nikalys looked over at his brother, surprised.

  “What? Why?”

  “He’s one of them. If he wants to get himself killed, let him. Now, let him go!”

  Nikalys studied his brother’s dirt-streaked face, the wild eyes, the set jaw, tight lips. Jak barely looked like Jak right now. Shaking his head once, he ripped his arm from Jak’s grip.

  “No!”

  “Nik, don’t you—”

  Nikalys did not hear the rest of the Jak’s plea as he was already a half-dozen strides away. He sprinted to the southern edge of the soldiers’ ring and leapt into the air, soaring over the heads of men and kur-surus locked in battle.

  His boots sunk into the soft earth as he landed amidst the Drept. Dozens of kur-surus immediately dropped to all fours, baring their teeth. Squeezing his sword’s golden hilt, Nikalys pivoted in a stationary circle, scanning the mass of furred figures, looking for Okollu’s Marshland green cape. All he saw was black, brown, gray, and auburn fur surrounding him. They approached slowly, growling and snapping their jaws, the hair on the back of their neck standing straight up.

  Nikalys called out, “I don’t want to hurt you!”

  The pack’s snarling told him the Drept had the exact opposite intentions.

  He was in the midst of reaching for Horum’s gift, preparing to defend himself, when a great whoosh of air rushed from above, buffeting him, striking the ground, and surging outward in all directions. The gale’s force was strong, pushing him to his knees while shoving every kur-surus within two dozen feet backwards. The Drept tumbled along the ground like Harvest leaves in a stiff wind.

  He stood tall, knowing he had his sister to thank for the help and hoping he could do so later. Free and clear for the moment, he again scanned the battlefield for either Okollu or the demon captain. From Rhohn’s stories, he knew the demon leading Okollu’s pack to be a towering giant with red skin and black horns. Baaldòk should stick out in this crowd like a saeljul in Yellow Mud.

  Nikalys was not wrong. Forty paces to the west, he spotted the Nine Hells’ spawn. His eyes went wide.

  “Bless the Gods…”

  Baaldòk stood eight feet tall from boot heels to horns’ tips, a full foot of that was the spiraled horns themselves. Black metal armor, implausibly shiny and unmarred, encapsulated the demon’s chest and upper legs, leaving his blood-red arms and calves bare and bulging. A massive sword few mortal men could even lift rest casually on his shoulder, the hilt gripped tightly in his enormous right hand.

  As Nikalys stared at the demon, mouth agape, the hunched, cloaked form of Okollu suddenly appeared on his right, slinking past him on all fours, toward Baaldòk. Were it not for the green cloak still hanging from the kur-surus’ neck, Nikalys would have attacked.

  “Okollu!” hissed Nikalys. “Hold a moment! We need a plan!”

  Ignoring him entirely, Okollu continued his approach, rising to stand on his hind paws. The demon-man, already staring at them with a curious, bemused expression, now shifted his full attention to Okollu. The monster’s eyebrows arched in quiet surprise.

  To Nikalys’ left, a hesitant yet firm voice asked, “So how are we doing this?”

  Glancing over, Nikalys found Jak beside him, sword at the ready, gaze fixed on the towering demon.

  “We?” repeated Nikalys. “You’re not doing anything. Go back—”

  “No!” interjected Jak. “Even you shouldn’t face that alone. We’re helping.”

  “Who’s—”

  Hearing a light scuffling of boot on ground, Nikalys looked to his right. Rhohn stood there, glaring at the demon. He pointed his thin bladed Dust Man sword at Baaldòk.

  “That thing needs to die.”

  Wondering how both men had managed to reach him, Nikalys glanced over his shoulder and found a long stretch of open marsh leading back to the ring of soldiers. Dozens of kur-surus lined the pathway, hanging in the air, suspended and unable to move. Kenders was striding down the middle of it, a determined, angry expression on her face. He considered yelling at her to go back, but did not waste the breath. She would not listen.

  Turning back to Baaldòk, Nikalys saw that Okollu had unwisely continued his approach. Having recovered from his earlier surprise, the demon stared at the lone kur-surus, a maniacal grin resting on his face. Shaking his head slowly, he lifted the giant sword from his shoulder and held it before him.

  “Nik?” called Jak over the battle’s din. “If you want to save that mongrel, we had better move now.”

  “The only place you’re moving is back to the ports,” hissed Nikalys. “You and Rhohn both. Take Kenders with you. Drag her if you must.”

  “No one is dragging me anywhere,” said Kenders as she stopped on Jak’s left. “You need me here.”

  Nikalys glared at his sister.

  “I need you to stay safe!”

  Hearing a wicked, angry snarl to his right, Nikalys whipped his head around just in time to see the kur-surus lift into the air, its limbs flailing, and go flying back, crashing into two others.

  “No, Nik,” snapped Kenders. “You need me here! Don’t argue, you’re wasting time.”

  Nikalys bit his tongue. He wanted her to be wrong, but knew she was right. “Fine, you stay.” He glared at Jak. “But you get back to the ring!”

  Jak shook his head.

  “You might be the Progeny, but you’re still my little brother. Go jump off a cliff, Nik. I’m staying.”

  “Stop squabbling,” barked Rhohn. “Must I say it again?” He took a quick step forward, jabbing his sword at Baaldòk. “That thing needs to die!”

  Nikalys pressed his lips together and swallowed any further protests. This was not an argument he would win. Truthfully, this was not even an argument.

  With a quick sigh of resignation, he mutt
ered, “Fine.” Glancing between Jak and Rhohn, he said, “Flank his sides. Make him think you’re engaging, but stay clear of his reach, got that?”

  Jak nodded once.

  “Right. Stay away from the giant demon with the giant sword.”

  Rhohn stared at him, his lone eyebrow lifted high.

  “That is your plan?”

  Hearing another nearby growl, Nikalys glanced up in time to watch another mongrel go flying through the air. Turning back to Rhohn, he nodded once.

  “Yes. That’s the plan. Keep him distracted. I’ll do the rest.”

  A frown flashed over the Dust Man’s scarred face.

  “There’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance.”

  “You want that thing to die?!” shot back Nikalys. “Go. Flank. Don’t die. Got it?”

  Rhohn stared back to the demon man, shrugged his shoulders, and then looked over at Jak.

  “Let’s go be bait.”

  Jak nodded and the pair stepped forward, advancing on the demon, fanning out right and left as they approached. Okollu continued stalking Baaldòk straight from the front, hunched over on all fours again, snapping at the demon-man as a wild dog would a cornered rabbit. The kur-surus was absent his cloak now. The green mantle lay clumped on the ground.

  Before moving forward himself, Nikalys looked over at Kenders.

  “Be careful, sis. Don’t pass out.”

  Kenders, twirling in a slow circle while keeping a close eye on the kur-surus surrounding them, said, “Stop talking and go.”

  Facing Baaldòk, Nikalys spotted a black and gray kur-surus rushing Rhohn from behind, its jaw open wide. He was about to shout a warning when the beast was lifted into the air, flew twenty paces backwards, and crashed to the ground.

  “Blast it, Nik!” exclaimed Kenders. “Go!”