Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (50 page)

A little ahead of him, Jak spoke.

“Something wrong?”

Looking up, Nikalys found his brother—still astride Hal—stopped a few horse-lengths ahead and staring back. Beyond Jak, Kenders and Broedi continued moving through the grass, her atop Smoke and the hillman striding beside her.

“I’ve had it, Jak. My rear—Hells, all of me—hurts. I’m going to walk for a bit.”

Grabbing Goshen’s reins, he took a few halting steps, his face contorting into a twisted bundle of scowls and winces. Thighs, knees, calves, and ankles complained with each movement.

“You look like an old man,” teased Jak. He wore a wide smile. “Shall I ride off and find you a walking stick?”

Glaring at his brother, Nikalys said, “Please do. I need something to knock that grin off your face.” Parts of him started to loosen, but he was still moving slowly. Upon reaching where Jak waited, he nodded to where Broedi and Kenders were quickly outpacing them and said, “You know, for someone with six senses, you’d think his hearing would be better. They don’t even seem to realize we’ve stopped.”

At that exact moment, Broedi halted and, putting a hand on Smoke’s neck, stopped Kenders as well. The hillman turned halfway and stared back at the brothers.

Nikalys’ eyes narrowed.

“Show off.”

With his own moans and grunts, Jak dismounted and the brothers walked side-by-side. Glancing over, Nikalys found Jak walking as gingerly as he was. Throwing a friendly elbow at his brother’s side, he said, “Looks like you need to find two walking sticks.”

“Hey, I’m every bit as sore as you are. The only difference is
you
are the one complaining like a girl.”

From up ahead, Kenders shouted, “I don’t appreciate that!”

Both brothers turned and looked toward their sister. She and Broedi were still a hundred paces away.

Jak leaned over and whispered, “How did she hear that?”

Nikalys guessed magic had something to do with it. Lifting an eyebrow, he said, “I think she’s been holding out on us.”

They continued their approach, silent now, walking through the ever-present, waist-high grass. Kenders glared at them both, a stern expression upon her face.

As they drew near, Jak smiled wide and asked, “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today, sis?”

The compliment did nothing to chase away Kenders’ frown.

“Truly, Jak? Complaining like a girl?”

Jak’s grin slipped a bit.

“So you heard that?”

“I did.”

Looking between Broedi and Kenders, Nikalys asked, “Magic, I suppose?”

Nodding, Broedi rumbled, “A simple Weave of Air and Soul.” He shifted his gaze to Kenders. “We have been working on it all morning. Only now did she get the pattern correct.”

Jak said, “What wondrous timing…”

Nikalys smiled, happy not to be the target of Kenders ire. Taking a moment, he turned his head, staring out at the endless prairie around them.

“Broedi, is the entire Southlands one giant field of grass?”

“No, uori
,
it is not,” rumbled the hillman. “Had you not stopped, you would have never asked the question.” Broedi faced south and resumed walking, leaving the three siblings behind. Jak called after the hillman.

“What does that mean?”

Broedi did not stop nor look back.

Nikalys looked up at Kenders, thinking she might have an explanation.

With a shrug of her shoulders, she said, “Don’t look at me. I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s talking about.”

The three of them set off after the hillman, Kenders urging Smoke into a quick trot, while Nikalys and Jak hurried on with their horses in tow. Up ahead, Broedi had stopped again and was still facing south. The line of grass appeared to fall away right past where he stood.

When Kenders halted beside Broedi, she turned back and waved her hand to Nikalys and Jak, urging them to hurry. Gritting his teeth, Nikalys broke into a slow jog, wincing as new muscles revealed their aching presence. Jak shuffled alongside, his quiet groans mimicking Nikalys’ grunts.

Upon arriving beside Kenders and Broedi, they stopped. Apparently, the Southlands were not one, endless prairie.

They stood atop a gradual slope leading into a shallow valley, at the bottom of which flowed a wide, muddy river less than a quarter mile away. Halfway between them and the riverbank sat a river-rock cottage—no bigger than the Isaac home in Yellow Mud—topped with a pitched roof of bundled prairie grass, dried and bound with cords.

On the side of the building that faced them was a single, closed door along with two uneven holes no bigger than a water bucket. Well-tended fields flanked the cottage, each filled with a variety of vegetable crops. A half-dozen chickens strutted around the four-wheeled wagon sitting before the home. Seven horses—all under saddle—stood beside the wagon, their reins leading to the cart and tied off.

Jak said good-naturedly, “Look at that. Someone went and ruined the prairie by putting a river—”

A woman’s raw, knifelike scream cut Jak short, shattering the stillness of the prairie and turning Nikalys’ insides cold.

“Nooooooooo!”

The door to the house burst open and a small girl—no older than four or five—with long black hair ran out. Dressed in a common tan field-dress, she scurried away from the house, crying and screaming. Her terrified shouts, while awful, did not match the soul-rending shriek from a moment ago. A burly, bearded man emerged from the house, following the girl. The toddler looked back at him and screamed even louder, her eyes wide open.

Before he knew what he was doing, Nikalys was running down the slope, vaguely aware that Broedi was rushing along beside him.

From inside the building, through the open door, a woman screamed, “Run, Helene!” The voice matched the first, ear-splitting scream.

Nikalys watched in horror as the man trailing the toddler drew a longknife from a sheath on his belt.

From atop the hill, Kenders shouted, “No!”

Both the man and little girl looked up the slope. The toddler screamed louder and shifted directions, aiming for the tall grass east of the farm. The man paused a moment, his wide-eyed gaze darting between Nikalys and Broedi, before looking back to the fleeing girl. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the knife in the air and caught it, switching his hold from handle to blade. He drew his arm back, preparing to throw it at the little girl.

Nikalys was still two hundred paces away. Saying a silent prayer his gift would work, he stared at a spot right before the brigand—

Shift.

—grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted hard. He felt and heard bones shatter.

The brigand dropped the knife, screaming in agony, the shocked look on his face lasting only a moment as Nikalys drove a fist into the man’s nose with a loud, sickeningly wet crack. The bandit crumpled to the ground, landing in a heap beside his knife.

Expecting retaliation, Nikalys pulled his throbbing fist back and stared down at the man.

The bandit did not move.

Nikalys felt ill as the thought that he might have just killed a man dashed through his head.

“Nik! Turn around!”

Jak’s shout pulled his attention from the bandit. Glancing up, he saw Goshen and Hal alone at the hilltop, their reins dangling in the air. Kenders was thundering down Smoke while Jak was left to running. Broedi was much closer, pointing past Nikalys.

“Uori!”

Turning his head, Nikalys spotted four men rushing from the stone building, directly at him. They were dressed in dark, tattered clothes just as was the man he had just knocked out. Or killed.

“Hells…”

Three of them had swords drawn while the fourth held a thick wooden club. Nikalys considered drawing his own blade, but he stayed his hand. He was more of a danger to himself with the sword out than a threat to the bandits.

A deafening, feral roar ripped through the air.

The brigands rushing him skidded to a stop, staring beyond Nikalys with wide, fearful eyes. The cry startled Nikalys as well, yet he did not turn around. He knew what was behind him.

The enormous, golden-furred lynx sidled up to stand beside him, a low growl rumbling deep in its throat. The fowl around the wagon scattered, clucking and screeching as they flapped their wings and half-ran, half-flew away. The seven tethered horses—their eyes rolled up in their heads—whinnied in terror, repeatedly yanking their heads back in a futile attempt to free themselves.

Hearing hooves pounding behind him, he assumed Kenders was drawing ever closer. Jak would not be far behind.

The nearest brigand—a lean man with wild black hair and a shaggy beard—stared at Nikalys, his sword gripped tightly in his right hand, his gaze flicking to the still-sheathed Blade of Horum on Nikalys’ hip. The man was probably wondering why Nikalys had yet to draw. Nikalys was reconsidering his decision when, out of the corner of his eye, Kenders moved into view on the other side of Broedi and spoke in an anxious whisper.

“What do we do!?”

As he had no idea, Nikalys kept quiet, his gaze darting between the bandits, the horse, and the house. Seven saddled horses meant seven men. With one unconscious—or dead—and four in front of them, Nikalys reasoned two men must still be inside the stone cottage.

Jak finally reached them and stopped beside Nikalys, his breathing heavy.

“What now?”

The second person in mere moments asking for direction prompted Nikalys to hiss, “How should I know?”

“Hells, Nik! I thought you knew what you were doing—”

Jak cut off, and let out a quiet, surprised “oomph.” Nikalys looked over and found Jak, chin on chest, staring at his stomach. Looking down, Nikalys spotted a white-fletched arrow shaft protruding from Jak’s gut, just below the ribs.

Jak took a step forward, stumbled, and began to fall to the ground. Nikalys reached out, caught his brother by the arm, and gently eased him to the grass. Jak’s eyes were wide, seemingly more in shock than pain.

An anger hotter than a thousand bonfires burned inside Nikalys’ chest. Staring into his brother’s eyes, he said, “Lay still.”

Nikalys stood and faced the brigands. None had a bow, meaning the arrow had come from within the house. He eyed the darkened doorway, expecting to see another shaft fly out at any moment.

A great whoosh of wind blew past him, shoving him in the back as it rushed toward the house. The roof launched high into the air, the bundles of grass ripped apart by the gust. Clumps still bound by cord dropped to the ground while individual blades floated down like leaves from a tree. A moment later, the wall with the door appeared to shimmer and shift. The river rocks lost their shape, crumbling and collapsing into a piled heap of sand. The door remained upright for a moment before tipping over, falling outward, and making a solid thud as it struck the ground.

Nikalys gaped.

Through falling grass and a cloud of dust rising from the sand, Nikalys spotted two men—one of whom held a bow—standing inside the ruined cottage, near where the door had been. A young woman stood in the back corner. All three were looking between the sky and the sand pile, most likely trying to figure out what had happened to the house. Nikalys certainly was.

The bowman recovered from his shock first. While yelling at the others to fight back, he pulled an arrow from a hip quiver, nocked it on the string, and raised the bow, preparing to fire.

Eyeing the dirt ground just beyond the former threshold of the home—

Shift.

—Nikalys grabbed the man’s shirt and, somehow, lifted the man off the ground. The startled bandit dropped his weapon and clasped Nikalys’ arm, smacking it. Bow and shaft struck an overturned table, clattering as they tumbled to the ground.

A vicious roar split the air behind him. A moment later, the men outside began to scream.

Holding the man suspended before him, Nikalys hesitated, unsure what to do next. His indecision cost him.

Pain exploded behind his right ear.

He dropped the man he held, stumbled forward a step or two, and collapsed to the house’ dirt floor, falling to his hands and knees. He shook his head, blinking repeatedly, trying to chase away the tiny balls of lights flashing before him. Through the haze, he saw a pair of eyes staring up at him, blank and lifeless.

The body of a bearded man dressed in the simple tan clothes of a farmer lay next to him. A precise, clean cut spread from one side of the man’s neck to the other with crimson blood still oozing from the wound. The man appeared to be the right age to be the little girl’s father.

The hot fury that surged through Nikalys again cleared his head in an instant. Pushing himself up so that he was kneeling, he whirled, expecting that the man who had hit him would come and finish him off. He was right.

An unclean man, both shorter and stockier than Nikalys, was advancing on him, a thick, wooden stick with a dark metal cylinder at the end, raised and ready to strike. Nikalys looked to a spot on the man’s right—

Shift.

—wrenched the weapon free, and slammed it into the bandit’s chest, eliciting a sickening crunch as metal smashed bone. Nikalys’ gifted strength sent the man flying back to crash into one of the remaining walls. The brigand bounced as he hit the stone, slid down the wall, and slumped on the ground.

Nikalys stared at the crumpled body, wondering if he had killed again.

A rage-filled battle cry exploded to his right.

Spinning around, Nikalys found the other man charging him. Lifting the weapon he had just used, he found that he was holding nothing but a short handle of wood. The blow to the bandit’s chest had snapped off the metal end. He was weaponless again.

A whistle of air kissed his ear. The man charging him stopped, threw his hands up to his face, and began screaming. A white-fletched arrow shaft protruded though his clasped fingers. From its placement, Nikalys guessed the other end was in the man’s left eye.

A flood of crimson blood poured from the man’s hands and down his face. He stumbled about the interior of the cottage, bumping into overturned chairs and tripping over the farmer’s body. Screaming the entire time, he managed to make it to the small opening in the sand pile sand where the door used to be. Catching the edge of the sand pile, he tripped, falling atop the heap of pulverized wall. His movements turned wild and random for a few heartbeats before ceasing completely. His shrieks stopped.