Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (59 page)

Interrupting the tomble, Nathan asked, “So do you have ruling lords or ladies in the Five Boroughs?”

“While there are some tombles who think themselves so worthy, no, there is no nobility. We have a
much
different way of governing.”

“How so?”

Nundle peered up at the taller man, squinting against sun and pulling down his wide-brimmed cloth hat to shade his eyes.

“May I speak freely? I do not wish to offend you with my opinions on your country.”

“If I have not proven that I can be open-minded, I am not sure what else I can do.”

Nundle smiled and offered a nod of concession.

“Quite true.”

Nathan had accepted everything the tomble had told him, despite some of Nundle’s outlandish claims. The same instinctual sense that had made Nathan uneasy the moment he had met the saeljul—be his name Fenidar or Jhaell—told him Nundle was an honest soul telling the truth. In fact, his immediate trust of Nundle ran so deep that the morning following their long talk by the oak tree, he ordered three men to ride as fast as they could to catch Corporal Holb with a distinct change in orders.

Sighing, Nundle said, “Well, to be honest, I find the idea of lords and ladies absurd. Nobles ruling simply because they are nobles? It’s…silly.” He shook his head, scoffing, “It takes
no
skill to be born to the right parents.”

Nathan’s opinion of Nundle continued to increase.

“Nundle, your observation does not offend me in the least. In fact, I happen to believe the same. Although, I would not give voice to such an opinion in most company. Some nobles might not be fit to rule, but rule they do. And questioning their authority is…unwise.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” said Nundle.

After a moment passed—filled only by the quiet rustles of the unending grass and the murmured conversations of the men behind them—Nathan looked back to the tomble and asked, “So how is ruling done in your home, then?”

“Well, in Deepwell, we had a council chosen by the tombles who live there. I served on it for two years, actually. It was dreadful.”

Smiling, Nathan said, “Villages and towns do the same here.”

“Ah, but in the Boroughs, you see, we use councils for everything. Towns, villages, cities, principals. Even the country.”

“The Five Boroughs is run by council?”

“It is.”

“Chosen by whom?”

“Every tomble over the age of fifteen.”

“What happens if people choose poorly?”

“Then we are ruled by poor leaders,” conceded Nundle. “But at least it is our own fault and not because fate saw gave some noble a lout of a son or daughter. Admittedly, it happens more often than one would hope—poor leaders elected, that is. And many are in it just for power and prestige. I almost feel sorry for them.”

Nathan sat in his saddle, thinking through what Nundle had explained and comparing it against the system with which he was familiar. After a few moments, he stared back down to the tomble.

“Honestly, your system does not sound better than ours. Just different.”

A wry smile spread over Nundle’s face and the tomble turned to look at him.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

Spotting a flicker of movement far ahead on the southern horizon, Nathan instinctively leaned forward to get a better look. All he could see was a tiny dark dot moving through the grass.

“It’s one of the scouts,” said Nundle.

Nathan glanced over to find the tomble also staring south.

“How can you tell?”

“We—tombles—have better eyes than longlegs—ah, men. I was quite surprised when I discovered the fact while I was in the—uh, when I was traveling and met other men.”

Nathan would have bet good coin Nundle had caught himself before mentioning his time in the Arcane Republic. Nathan had asked the tomble not to mention magic anywhere near the soldiers. He had yet to share the truth with his men.

As the scout drew closer, Nathan recognized him as Wil Eadding, a young footman with short, light-brown hair and a face that had yet to see a single whisker. He was a natural with the sword—by far the best in the company—but his other skills were lacking, which was why Nathan had sent him with Hunsfin and Blainwood, the two best scouts Nathan had. He had hoped Wil would learn something.

When the Wil arrived, he wheeled his reddish-brown horse around and fell in beside Nathan. The horse was breathing hard, spit flying past the bit clenched in the back of its jaw.

Looking over, Nathan said, “Morning, Wil. Does your horse need water?” He might need to say something to Wil not riding his mount so hard.

“No, Sergeant. I found some rainwater in a hole not too far back.” He reached down and patted his Hawthorne Red on the neck. “He should be fine.”

“Then report. What did you find?”

The footman glanced past the sergeant to eye Nundle.

Nathan assured the young man, saying, “It’s fine, son. Speak freely.”

For the most part, the men had taken a liking to the tomble. He was sure they had a long list of questions as to who Nundle was and why he had so readily accepted the tomble into their ranks, but they held their tongues as good soldiers were trained to do.

“Of course, Sergeant.” Facing forward, Wil nodded toward the south and said, “Not far from here are the remains of a camp. Hunsfin, Blainwood, and I searched the area yesterday, but we didn’t find much besides a burnt-out campfire, some burnt grass, and the signs of three horses.”

“Three, you say?” asked Nathan. The Trackers had found the tracks of three horses by the cliff south of Smithshill. It most likely was a coincidence, but he hoped it was not.

“Yes, Sergeant. Three.”

Nundle leaned forward and asked, “The burnt grass? Describe it for me.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Wil said, “Not much to describe. There were patches of burnt grass all over. Mostly near the remains of the campfire, though.”

Nundle turned away and stared south, a pensive expression on etched on his face. Nathan could see the information meant something to him.

“Nundle?”

Giving Wil a quick glance, Nundle said, “Not now.” His reluctance to speak in front of the soldier was clear.

Nathan frowned, guessing that whatever the tomble was thinking had to do with magic. And that meant it would have to wait. Sighing, he looked back to Wil.

“So. Burnt grass. Well, as it rained all of yesterday, the burning had to have occurred sometime before two evenings ago.”

Wil nodded along in agreement. “That’s what Blainwood said.”

“I hope that is not the only reason you came back, Wil. If it’s not too far ahead, we would have come across it on our own.”

Arching his eyebrows, Wil said, “Oh, no, Sergeant, there’s more. Much more. Less than half a day’s ride from the camp, the trail leads to a small farm on a river where—” the young man paused and rubbed his hand over his face, grimacing “—well, where something happened.” He went quiet, his gaze remaining fixed on the southern horizon.

After a few moments, Nathan prompted, “I will need more than ‘something happened,’ Wil. Start from the beginning and be clear with the details, please.”

Looking over, the footman nodded.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Wil then recounted everything the three scouts had found: signs of a bloody battle in front of a ruined house missing a wall and its roof, a large pile of sand where the wall had been, and two fresh graves. A small one in a field of longpeppers and a much larger one further down the hill.

Nundle asked a few, very specific questions about the sand: what it looked like, the color of it, if the grains were all the same size or varied with chucks of rock. Guessing it all had something to do with magic, Nathan waited until the tomble was done and then asked Wil a question of his own.

“What could you gather about the graves?”

Grimacing as if he had swallowed something rotten, Wil said, “Hunsfin wanted to dig them both up, but Blainwood and I refused. He left the single grave alone, but said he had a feeling about the larger one, so he found a shovel, and dug into one side, just deep enough to find that whoever was buried there was facedown.”

“Were they now?” asked Nathan. “That’s surprising?”

“Why?” asked Nundle, glancing between Nathan and Wil. “What does that mean?”

“That they were lawbreakers,” answered Nathan. “Murderers or the like.” Looking back to Wil, he asked, “How many bodies were in the grave?”

“We figured six or seven,” said Wil. “Hunsfin actually laid atop the mud to count how many of him would fit in the grave.”

“And how big was the house?”

“Large enough to hold three or four people. We found three sleeping pallets, so I would say three.”

Quickly developing a theory as to what happened, Nathan asked, “And you said there was a single grave in the field nearby, true?”

“Yes,” replied Wil. “Although why it was in the same field they grow crops is odd.”

“Different customs for different people, Wil,” said Nathan. “Could Blainwood tell how many horses had been there? I’m guessing…upwards of ten?”

Wil paused for a moment before answering, “He said nine or ten.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”

“Think it through, Wil. One of two things happened. Either the people we are following attacked the farm, killed seven or eight people—at a house that holds three—buried one in a field and the rest together like criminals, or…”

He trailed off, wanting Wil to come up with the likely alternative on his own. It would make the footman’s story more convincing when he shared it with the rest of the men, which was something Nathan was counting on him doing.

His eyes opening a little wider, Wil said, “Or, they
stopped
an attack, killed the brigands, and buried them face down. Perhaps the lone grave belonged to whomever the bandits attacked, probably a farmer.”

“Exactly,” praised Nathan. “Excellent job.”

Wil began to nod his head slowly, saying, “Well, that would certainly explain everything else we found.”

Nathan’s eyebrows drew together.

“Everything else?”

“Yes. Away from the house, we found the remnants of a campfire, not much more than a day old. And the trail that led east, along the river with at least four, perhaps five horses.”

A disappointed frown spread over Nathan’s face.

“You did not mention any of that.”

Wil’s face fell.

“I didn’t, did I?”

Nathan rewarded his men with praise when they performed well, but remained firm with them when they did not. With a hard edge to his voice, he said, “Your reports need work, Footman Eadding.”

Sitting straight in his saddle, Wil said, “Yes, Master Sergeant.”

“You had plenty of time to think through what you needed to say on your ride back.”

Pressing his lips together, Wil said, “Yes, Sergeant. I certainly did.” The young man was upset, but Nathan could tell it was with himself and not his sergeant.

Luckily, what Wil had left out did not jeopardize the scenario Nathan envisioned. However, it did change what happened after the attack at the farm. Those whom they were following had ridden away with two more horses—and probably people—than when they had arrived.

“I assume that Hunsfin and Blainwood followed the trail east, then?”

Nodding, Wil, said, “They did. We camped last night at the farmhouse, but once the clouds cleared and there was enough moonlight, Hunsfin and Blainwood left to follow the trail and I started my ride back here.”

“It’s dangerous to ride at night, Wil.”

“I went slow until morning.”

Nathan did not have too much room to chastise the young man. Since meeting Nundle, he had kept his men marching past twilight every day, stopping only when all the stars were out. He did not like doing it, but he was hoping to close the distance on their prey.

“How far to the first campsite?” asked Nathan.

“Not much more than a mile.”

“Good. Now fall back into the column.”

The young footman nodded and pulled his reins back, halting his horse to wait for the body of Sentinels to catch up to him while Nathan and Nundle rode ahead.

Nathan remained silent for a time, lost in his thoughts. A glance at Nundle revealed the tomble slouched in his saddle, his eyes forward without looking at anything in particular. There was an introspective air about him.

Twisting to the side, pretending to stretch his back, Nathan chanced a look back at the company behind him. A handful of men were riding near Wil’s horse, listening to the footman speak. Nathan smiled.

“I had a high opinion of you before we met, Sergeant, but you continue to impress.”

Swinging back around in his saddle, Nathan glanced at Nundle. The tomble was still staring southward.

“Pardon?”

“At first, I didn’t understand why you were leading him on that way, but now?” Nundle paused, turned, and gave Nathan a sly grin. “In no time at all, the story about how these ‘outlaws’ helped save the innocent farmers from dastardly bandits will make its way through the ranks. I would not be surprised if, by this time tomorrow, there had been thirty murderers in the grave they found. All stopped by those we follow.” He lifted a single eyebrow. “I’d bet a gold round—or ducat, if you prefer—that the word ‘heroes’ will have been whispered a dozen times by nightfall.”

Nathan returned Nundle’s slight smile with one of his own.

“I keep forgetting you’re much older than you appear.” He had been shocked when Nundle said he was over seventy years old. Even baby-faced Wil Eadding looked older than Nundle. “Thankfully, young Wil did not catch on to what I was doing. Wisdom comes with time, does it not?”

Scoffing at the suggestion, Nundle said, “My father used to say, ‘If age is all it takes to be sage, why are there so many old fools?’”

Nathan’s grin widened. “True.
Very
true.” After sparing a glance back at the soldiers, he looked back to the tomble, lowered his voice, and asked, “Think you can tell me what about the burn marks interested you? And the sand at the house?”

“Do you mind if I wait until we reach the campsite first? I want to be sure before I say anything.” He glanced over. “Oh, and when we get there, keep the men back.”