Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (48 page)

“Hold right there!”

Nundle jumped and nearly fell from his saddle. Twisting his head in all directions, searching for the source of what most definitely was an order, he threw his arms up in the air and shouted, “I’m unarmed!”

As soon as the words left his lips, he realized what a profoundly brainless thing it was to say. He had assumed the cry belonged to a soldier, and his instinct was to convey that he was not a threat. Yet it was possible the yell came from some random bandit who would now see Nundle as an easy mark.

He continued to hold his hands over his head, thinking that if he dropped them now, the bandit or soldier might assume he was reaching for a weapon. Peering through trees and brush, he spotted a red and black figure skulking toward him, sword drawn.

Nundle sighed with relief. Not a bandit.

The relief lasted only a moment, however, as he realized that the very soldiers he had hoped to avoid had just captured him. He wondered if he should turn his horse and crash off through the forest.

“If you bolt, I’ll order my man to shoot!” called the soldier.

Nundle quickly scanned the trees and bushes around the longleg and saw nothing.

“I assure you he is there,” said the soldier. “And that he has an arrow drawn on you. He has orders to shoot if you run.”

Nundle eyed the longleg, wondering if he was bluffing.

The doubt on Nundle’s face must have been clear for the soldier twisted his head around and shouted, “Hollins! A warning, please!”

The faint twang of bowstring—somewhere to Nundle’s right—was followed an instant later by a soft, whistling whoosh rushing past him, an arm’s length from his nose. Hearing a loud thunk, Nundle turned left and found an arrow embedded in a tree a dozen paces away, the shaft and black feathers quivering. Looking to where he thought the shot had originated, he scanned the trees and bushes, but could not see anything.

Sagging in the saddle, Nundle sighed and swiveled to face the Sentinel with the sword. The longleg stood less than a dozen paces away, staring at Nundle with an equal mixture of curiosity and caution. Giving the soldier the friendliest smile he could manage, Nundle asked, “Why are you firing upon a simple traveler, good man?” He tried to sound jovial, but his nerves added a tremor to his voice.

“Simple traveler, eh?” The longleg’s gaze danced over Nundle, taking in his clothes, small horse, and traveling bags. “You certainly are far from home.”

Nundle remained quiet. The longleg had no idea how right he was.

A moment later, the soldier asked, “Why you are following us?”

Deciding to play ignorant, Nundle asked, “Following who?” Turning his head in all directions, he made a show of scanning the forest. “How could I be following you if I did not know you were there?”

“You, little sir, are a liar.”

“I swear I did not know I was following anyone.”

The soldier sheathed his sword, apparently deciding that Nundle was not much of a threat. He did not give an order for the mysterious, hidden bowman to stand down, though.

“Say I do not believe you, little traveler. Instead, let us say that you know all about the soldiers traveling ahead of you.”

“Soldiers? Truly? I did not—”

Raising his voice, the longleg interrupted, saying, “And
we
know that you have been trailing us for the better part of the day.”

Noting they had thought he had been following them for only today, Nundles’s chest swelled with pride. He thought the title, ‘Nundle Babblebrook, Master Woodsman’ had a nice sound to it.

“Truly, I did not know.”

“Then why are you in these woods?”

Nundle stared at the man in silence, his mind racing for a logical answer.

Stepping closer, the soldier asked, “Why did you stray from the roads?”

“Perhaps I enjoy the wilderness?”

“You can end the show, little playman. Hollins and I have been watching you since midday, following our path straight away.”

Eyebrows arching, Nundle asked, “Midday?” He rescinded his self-granted title of ‘Master Woodsman.’

Nodding slowly, the longleg said, “Midday. Now, care to answer my question?”

“Which one was that again?”

“Why are you following us?”

Nundle remained quiet for a moment, biting his lip, before letting out a long sigh.

“Perhaps I am merely curious why soldiers of the Great Lakes are traipsing about the Southlands?”

“That is a question you can put to the Master Sergeant.”

Without thought, Nundle asked, “Is he the tall one with the dark hair and a beard?” He instantly regretted his bumble.

His eyes narrowing, the soldier asked, “Just how long have you been following us?”

Nundle stared at the longleg, gave a weak grin, and shrugged. “Ah…well…” Deciding that it was a good idea to keep his mouth shut, he said, “If you take me to this ‘Master Sergeant’ of yours, I can explain.”

“You most definitely will.” Moving forward, the Red Sentinel grasped the bridle of Nundle’s horse and said, “Hop down. I don’t want you trying to ride off on us.”

Nundle began the process of dismounting, first sliding his right leg back over the horse’s rear, then, while holding one side of the saddle, his slid his belly along the other side, his legs dangling in the air.

“Do you need help?” asked the soldier, concern in his voice.

“No, thank you,” grunted Nundle. He let go and landed on the ground, managing not to fall over as he had the first few times he had dismounted. Turning around to peer up at the soldier, Nundle said, “You should see me try to get on the beast.” He stared at the chestnut. “Or saddle him. I bought the smallest one I could find but…” He shrugged and stared at the longleg again. “There’s a reason tombles don’t ride horses.”

A grin crept over the soldier’s face. “I suppose so.” Swiveling to the west, he shouted, “Hollins! Let’s go!”

Curious as to where the bowman was hiding, Nundle peeked under the neck of his horse and was shocked when a solider stepped from behind a tree nearly two hundred paces away and began to walk towards them.

“That was quite a shot from that distance,” muttered Nundle.

The soldier standing with him said, “Actually, Hollins is one of our worse shots. I’d be surprised if—” He stopped and turned to the approaching soldier. “Hey, Hollins! What were you aiming for?”

“His hat!”

Nundle’s stomach dropped. He could not tell if the soldier was joking or not. Looking up at the first soldier, he said, “Good thing he missed wide and not low, eh?”

The soldier set off to the south, leading Nundle’s chestnut horse by the reins. Nundle walked behind his horse while Hollins brought up the rear. They moved through the forest until the sun was a giant glob of red hovering just above the horizon, its light spilling through trunks and branches.

Nundle smelled the camp first: smoky campfires and charred wood mixing with something scrumptious and meaty cooking over the fires. His stomach growled. Shortly after, the sounds of soldiers talking and laughing, pots banging, and metal clanking metal filtered through the trees.

Nundle and the two soldiers emerged from the trees and stepped into a large clearing where the Red Sentinels’ camp rested. Longlegs standing near them stopped what they were doing to stare as he strolled past, smiling and nodding to them all. Most nodded back, a few even returned his smile.

Hurrying to draw even with the longleg leading his horse, he said, “I take it most of them have never seen a tomble?”

The soldier shook his head.

“Some have. Although I bet they could count how many on a clumsy woodcutter’s hand. For most, though, I suspect you are their first.”

“You didn’t stare at me like they are.”

With a quiet chuckle, the soldier said, “That’s because
I’m
familiar with your kind.” He glanced down and added, “I’m originally from the Foothills.” He said that as if it explained everything.

Not grasping the implication, Nundle said, “I don’t understand.”

His response drew an odd look from the soldier. Furrows split his forehead. “I’m from Rodrics Field.” Again, he spoke as if that should be sufficient to clarify things.

Nundle shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I am unfamiliar with the area.”

The longleg looked as confused as Nundle felt.

“Rodrics Field. You know—the city within a day’s ride of Four Towns?”

The longleg might be trying to make things clearer, but he was failing miserably. Baffled, Nundle asked, “And what might the Four Towns be?”

The soldier slowed his step and peered down at Nundle, his eyes narrowed.

“The Four Towns. The tomble villages?”

Nundle nearly tripped over his feet.

“Tomble villages? Here? In the duchies?!”

The longleg stared at Nundle for a long moment before asking, “Where exactly are you from, little one?”

“Deepwell. In the Thimbletoe Principal.”

The soldier shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, an indication that Nundle’s clarification meant nothing to him.

“You know,” said Nundle. “The Five Boroughs?”

Understanding washed over the soldier’s face. “Oh! My apologies, then! I had just assumed…” He trailed off and, eyeing Nundle closely.

Nundle was nearly at a loss for words. Besides a few towns scattered just inside the borders of Cartu, he had never heard of a tomble settlement outside the Five Boroughs.

“To be clear, you’re saying there are tombles liveing in the Foothills Duchy?”

The soldier nodded.

“I am. In four separate towns. Hence the rather unoriginal name.”

“Why?”

“Why the name?” asked the soldier. He shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t—”

“No! Why are there tombles living in the Oaken Duchies?”

“Ah. I see. Well, I used to be friends with a tomble from Tinfiddle. If I recall, he said they all left a few generations back because of…” He trailed off, his face scrunching up in thought. After a moment, he shrugged and said, “Hells, I don’t know. Bumbar talked too much. I rarely paid attention.”

Nundle stared at the man in quiet awe. ‘Bumbar’ was certainly a tomble name.

“You don’t know which principal they came from, do you?”

The soldier peered down at him and said, “I’m a soldier, not a scholar. You’re asking questions I couldn’t hope to answer.”

Nundle asked a few more anyway, and all remained unanswered. Falling back a few steps, Nundle tried to make sense of what he had just learned. On top of everything that was happening with the Progeny and the preceptor, Nundle now had a new set of questions about something else entirely.

The soldier led Nundle and horse to a small group of longlegs sitting between two tents. The tall, bearded Red Sentinel Nundle had been watching for the past few days sat at their center, talking with the other longlegs. The moment he noticed Nundle, he stood and scrutinized the tomble. Nundle stared back as the soldiers who had captured him gave a quick, concise report.

When they were done, the Master Sergeant turned his full attention back to Nundle.

“So, little tomble, mind telling me why you are following us?”

Nundle had wanted this meeting to occur later—perhaps a day or two from now—but fate had nudged him along a little earlier than he would have liked.

“Happily, sir,” said Nundle. “In private, please.” The use of the word ‘sir’ prompted quiet chuckling from nearby soldiers, their mirth cut short by a sharp glare from the sergeant.

“First off, I am not a ‘sir.’ I do not have the correct pedigree for such a lofty title. You may call me ‘Master Sergeant,’ ‘Sergeant Trell,’ or just ‘Sergeant.’”

Not entirely understanding why it mattered, Nundle agreed to the request.

“Yes, Master Sergeant.”

“Much better. Now, should you like to speak in private, we will still have to do it out here in the open somewhere. I am without my normal command tent.”

“I know,” said Nundle with purpose. “It headed southwest last night with the Southern Arms.” He wanted to draw the longleg’s full interest. And it appeared he succeeded.

The sergeant’s brow furrowed. The soldiers sitting on the ground nearby glanced at one another, mirroring their leader’s expression. With a frown on his face, the sergeant murmured, “Follow me, please.”

The sergeant ordered Nundle’s horse be tended to and began walking away from the campfire. Nundle followed, leaving the other soldiers staring after as they headed up a small hill upon which stood a massive oak tree, its sprawling, mature branches spreading far over the grass like a top-heavy mushroom.

As they walked, the sergeant slowed, allowing Nundle to catch up with him. Glancing down, he said, “I must say, your horse is the smallest I’ve ever seen, Mister…?” He trailed off, expecting Nundle to give his name.

“I will share my name when I feel I can trust you,” said Nundle.

The sergeant nodded, accepting his answer.

“Fair enough. Please understand if I am equally cautious about you.”

“Oh, I do, Sergeant. Fully.” Glancing up to the longleg, he asked, “How did you know I was following you?”

The soldier shrugged. “Something told me to keep an eye behind me today. Although—” he glanced down and gave Nundle a friendly smile “—you are
not
what I expected.”

Nundle grinned back. He liked the longleg.

Stopping by the large oak’s trunk, the sergeant motioned around them.

“This is as private as it gets, little one.”

Nundle looked around him. The forest was mostly gone now, the area dominated mostly by tall grass and shrubs. Content that they were alone, the tomble stared up at the soldier.

“Before I begin, I feel it necessary to say two things. First, despite what I plan to share with you, you must understand that I have only the best interest of you, your men, and all of the Oaken Duchies in mind.”

The longleg’s eyes narrowed.

“That sounds rather ominous.”

“Probably because it is.”

Frowning, the sergeant asked, “And the second?”

“I want your word that you will listen to my entire tale before you take any action or make any decision.”

“You are not in the position to make such a demand, little tomble.”