Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (47 page)

He was getting sleepy and about to push himself back from his perch when Preceptor Myrr stepped from his tent and immediately called to the two Trackers sitting at a nearby fire. The pair jumped up, ran over to him, and listened as the ijul spoke. Moments later, they were hurrying off to opposite sides of the camp.

Fully awake now, Nundle frowned. Preceptor Myrr showed no fear of the Trackers. On more than one occasion, Nundle had sensed the use of the Strands, yet the longlegs in gray did nothing. He was beginning to question the effectiveness of the feared Constables.

The Tracker with the black hair headed into the Red Sentinels’ section of the camp, which was closer to Nundle’s hiding spot. The Tracker sought out the bearded Red Sentinels’ leader and spoke to him briefly. Even from a distance, Nundle could see the soldier’s agitation in his responses as the Tracker appeared to beg with him. Finally, the Sentinel leader stepped past the gray-clad longleg and, with long, determined strides, marched to the fork in the road with the Tracker in tow.

The pair arrived at the branch where the preceptor stood waiting, his back toward the approaching men. The Sentinel leader might have said something to the ijul, but if so, the preceptor ignored him. Frustrated, Nundle wished he could hear what they were saying. He knew of a small Weave of Air that would help with that, but he did not dare use the Strands so close to Preceptor Myrr.

The three men stood in the fork of the road with the bearded soldier pacing back and forth and the Tracker shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. The preceptor paid no attention to either of them.

When the blond Tracker marched up with the leader of the Southern Arms, Preceptor Myrr turned and addressed the group. He pointed down one branch of the road, then the other, and finally directly to the south, into the forest. Whatever the preceptor said, the Red Sentinel soldier appeared not to agree with, motioning back to his camp with crisp, sharp gestures while speaking.

Nundle whispered to himself, “You would be wise to calm down.” Preceptor Myrr’s patience was as thin as the ice on a pond after the first freeze.

The display went on for a few moments longer when Nundle suddenly felt the crinkling and crackling of Strands of Will. Preceptor Myrr wove a quick Weave of Will, one with which Nundle was very familiar. The black-haired Tracker took a step back, staring directly at the large, golden pattern hovering in the air.

Nundle muttered, “So that’s how you do it…”

Preceptor Myrr directed the Weave of Will at the bearded soldier and spoke again. The Red Sentinel soldier immediately stopped his arguing and stood perfectly still. After one last, brief exchange with the Red Sentinel, the preceptor gave an impatient nod and waved the soldiers away. The Trackers remained.

Nundle watched as both soldiers returned to their respective camps and began to shout orders, motioning to the resting soldiers. Within moments, all of the Southern Arms soldiers and half of the Red Sentinels began to tear down camp and pack.

Feeling the familiar crackling again, Nundle’s gaze snapped back to where the preceptor still stood with the two Trackers. He watched, fascinated, as the saeljul wove two copies of an intricate, extremely complex pattern. Gleaming gold Strands twisted with the inky black of Void that Nundle felt more than saw in the gloom of night. Bright white Air joined the design later, looping through the Weave in a circular swirl. It was a masterful Weave, but to Nundle’s eye, incomplete. Gaping holes dotted the design, most likely filled with Strands he could not touch.

The Weaves settled over the two Trackers, wrapping around them and drawing tighter until the patterns disappeared inside the longlegs’ bodies. Both Trackers held unnaturally still throughout the process.

The two longlegs moved away at once, leaving the saeljul standing alone in the road. After a time, Preceptor Myrr moved back to his tent and retrieved his personal items from inside, allowing the soldiers to dismantle the tent and pack it up.

Nundle was suddenly quite worried.

“Uh-oh…”

Soon, the soldiers who were leaving were packed and ready. Nundle watched helplessly as the two groups left, the preceptor heading down the southwest branch accompanied by the Southern Arms soldiers while half of the Red Sentinels headed southeast with the blond, shaggy-haired Tracker. The Red Sentinels’ leader stood at the fork, watching both groups ride away. Only a third of the soldiers’ camp remained.

Nundle was panicking.

He wanted to follow the preceptor, but there was no way he would be able to get back to his horse and navigate around the remaining soldiers in time—not without the Sentinels capturing him and asking questions. Perhaps he could lie his way past them and pursue the preceptor, but he could not count on that. Nor could he use a Weave of Will to get past the soldiers, with the one Tracker still below able to sense it.

“Bless the gods, what do I do?”

Eyeing the Red Sentinel leader standing in the road, Nundle wondered if it might be best to follow him. The longleg’s judgment seemed sound, as it was apparent he did not much like the preceptor. Perhaps Nundle could speak with him and figure out what was happening once the preceptor was far away. Very far away.

With the beginning of an idea forming in his head, Nundle scooted back from his perch. Once clear, he stood and hurried through the woods, back to his horse, silently planning exactly what he was going to say.

Nathan stood in the middle of the moonlit road, his arms crossed over his chest, a bitter frown stretched across his lips as he watched his men march away. A frustrated, quiet curse slipped from his lips.

“Hells.”

He glanced over his shoulder, staring to the southwest where Fenidar and the Southern Arms were riding in the opposite direction. Nathan had argued effusively with Fenidar over the utter lack of wisdom behind the saeljul’s ‘plan,’ yet for some reason, he had ultimately agreed to it. He still could not understand why he had done so. He briefly considered recalling his men, but immediately felt compelled to dismiss his concern.

Splitting his men up in the Southlands was one of the worst things to do. They should have never even crossed the border into the duchy without formal permission, but Fenidar had insisted.

The ijul had driven a hard pace to date, repeatedly making the men march through the night. Upon reaching Lakeborough, Fenidar had met with the regent and convinced him to allow the Red Sentinels to search the streets, inns, taverns—every corner of the city—for the lawbreakers they were pursuing. Somehow, he had even persuaded the man to contribute some of his own soldiers to aid in the city’s search. Nathan had been beyond surprised when the same group of Southern Arms had then ridden south with them.

After Lakeborough, Fenidar tried to resume the overly brisk pace but Nathan had successfully argued against riding through the night again, insisting men and horses needed rest to remain effective. Fenidar had initially listened to reason, but the saeljul grew increasing agitated as each day passed with no sign of the mages.

This evening, Fenidar’s patience had ended.

After Cero had retrieved Nathan, the Red Sentinels’ sergeant strode up to Fenidar and demanded to know what was so important that it could not wait until morning. Fenidar had ignored him. Nathan had looked over at Cero to see if he knew what this was about, but the man would not meet his eyes. Since the ijul had shown up, the Trackers had become Fenidar’s lackeys.

Once the Southern Arms’ sergeant arrived at the fork with Latius, Fenidar shared with them his ‘intense disappointment’ that they had not caught up to the outlaws. As a result, the ijul was splitting their force into three groups: two were to head down the two separate branches of the fork, and the remaining one would head straight south into the forest.

Nathan had vehemently refused to split his men. Nevertheless, that was exactly what he had done, only managing to successfully argue that his contingent—the one heading south—not leave until morning. While traveling on the road at night was possible, heading through the forest was much too dangerous. An unexpected, unseen rabbit hole would cripple horses, forcing men to walk or double up and slowing everyone down.

Fenidar had been irritated, but nonetheless agreed to let Nathan and his group leave at first light and then push on as hard as they could. Fenidar had taken the Southern Arms with him, and sent Latius with the other half of the Sentinels. Nathan had put Amiles in charge of that detachment. The corporal was more than capable.

When Nathan had asked what they should do should they catch up to the outlaws, the ijul had assured him that Cero and Latius would know what to do.

Nathan kept an eye on his men’s backs as they headed down the road, barely able to make them out anymore, spotting an occasional stray flash of silver where the moons’ light reflected off a helmet. When he had not seen a glint of moonlight for a while, he turned and headed back to camp to get some sleep. At dawn, he was heading into a forest about which he knew nothing to chase an enemy about which he knew little, all under the orders of an ijul he did not trust.

With a disgusted grunt, he shook his head, and muttered, “This is a poor use of good soldiers.”

Zecus’ world was completely, utterly black, the only breaks to the darkness being the rhythmic white flashes paired with thudding bursts of pain in his head. Realizing he had his eyes drawn tight, he cracked them open rewarding himself with bright torrent of evening sunlight searing his eyes. He blinked against the brilliance, trying to focus on his surroundings.

In front of him was a mass of bulging, undulating, dirty pink and mud-brown splotched leather hide covered patches of black fur. He stared at it for a moment, watching as it heaved repeatedly in a constant pattern. Despite the thick cobwebs coating his thoughts, he reasoned he was lying across the back of some sort of animal as it walked. With the realization came a flood of smells—a mixture of animal waste, slop, and musty sweat. He grimaced, wondering how he had not smelled the malodorous concoction sooner. He could almost taste it.

He tried to lift his head a bit to get a better idea of his surroundings, but was unable to summon the strength. His nose and ears might be starting to work, but his muscles were a step behind.

Rather than lifting his head, he tried to roll it to the right to alleviate the pain on his left temple. Using an extreme amount of effort relative to such a simple task, he swiveled his head successfully so that he was staring forward. A thick, gray, tree trunk filled his field of vision. Zecus remained baffled until the tree trunk moved, flexing like a muscle.

Certain recent events began to bubble from the depths of his memory slowly allowing him to piece things together. It seemed to reason that this gray tree trunk was an oligurt’s leg. And if that were the case, that meant he was draped over the back of one of their mounts.

Besides the Sudashians he and his father had seen that day on the hill, there had been large creatures grazing the dry grasslands that resembled a cross between a plains boar, a bear, and a large, wild dog. Joshmuel had named them bullockboars.

For reasons unknown, Zecus’ assailants had not killed him. Rather, they had strapped him to the back of a bullockboar and were taking him with them. Wherever that might be, Zecus doubted he wanted to go.

He tried to move his hands and feet, but found both bound tight, his arms wrapped behind his back and tied at the wrist. Rope dug into his flesh by his ankles. As he struggled with his bonds, a deep, guttural sound came from behind his bullockboar.

“Rorrargh! Udok rauthil!”

The sound of leather creaking beside him sent a rush of panic through Zecus’ chest, providing him a shot of energy that allowed him to lift his head. Twisting it around, he stared up, straight into the black eyes of the oligurt riding the bullockboar upon which he was strapped.

The grayish green lips with the yellowed fangs grinned at him as a massive fist hurtled toward his head. Again, he reacted too late, but still managed to turn his head, softening the blow a bit. A brilliant flash of lights exploded, rivaling the bright evening sun.

His world went black.

Again.

26
^th
of the Turn of Sutri

Nundle sat on the back of his small chestnut horse, looking between the two branches of empty road and wondering if he was making the right decision.

The remnants of the soldiers’ camp were evident on both sides of the main road and while the dirt-covered campfires were cold, the smell of wood smoke still hung in the air. The bright disc of the morning sun hung low in the eastern sky, threatening to turn the day hot and uncomfortable—yet again.

He released a long, drawn-out sigh and, pushing aside the moment of self-doubt, and urged his horse straight south with a determined “Get on!” Nundle and horse moved off the road and down a small, rocky decline spotted with shrubs and grass.

Once the thinning forest fully engulfed him, Nundle set to following the tracks of the soldiers’ horses. As it turned out, his worry over being able to follow the soldiers through the wilderness was unfounded. The markings of fifty horses tromping through virgin area would be difficult for anyone but a blind person to miss. He kept a careful ear out for sounds that did not belong in a forest, listening for anything beyond birds singing, animals scurrying, and trees creaking with each gust of wind.

Nundle grew uneasy as evening approached. Having no idea what the terrain ahead of them was like, he was afraid that if the soldiers moved into an area where tracking became too difficult for his meager skills, he would lose them entirely. Yet if he rode too long, he might accidentally overtake them and ride straight into their camp.

Looking west, he stared through the drooping branches and figured early dusk was near. He pulled his horse to a stop and considered his options, nervously eyeing sky, debating himself if he should stop or continue when a loud voice shot through the clearing.