Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (98 page)

As he stood there, staring into the pyre without truly seeing it, he battled himself, trying to reconcile who he was: the middle child of farmers or the eldest son of two legendary heroes. It had taken time, a long time, but he eventually concluded he was not one or the other. He was both and always would be.

At once, his nerves settled. The Shadow Manes’ gazes still bothered him, but less so.

Two turns ago, the sight and smell of a bonfire of burning bodies would have made him sick to his stomach. Tonight, he felt nothing. The cold, empty numbness had engulfed him once again. It was easier to feel nothing.

A pair of men hefted an oligurt off a horse and tossed it into the burning pile. As they moved away, on their way to retrieve another, Nikalys eyed the new corpse. For a moment, the flames did not touch the oligurt, seemingly pausing as if unsure whether or not they were supposed to char the beast’s flesh. Curls of white smoke seeped from crevices between the newest body and the others already burnt beyond recognition. The fire toasted the edges of the oligurt’s hide tunic for a moment before fully committing to their purpose.

Nikalys wondered if this particular beast had perished at his hand. He stared at a long, fleshy wound across the beast’s chest, straining to recall if he had inflicted it.

A deep voice rumbled behind him, saying, “You did what had to be done, Nikalys.”

Nikalys blinked, startled. He had not heard anyone approach him. Turning to look over his shoulder, he found Broedi standing a few paces behind him, staring at the bonfire as well. With quiet wonder, he muttered, “You called me by my name.”

The hillman’s gaze shifted to Nikalys’ face. “Yes, I did.” As Broedi studied him, a small frown spread over the White Lion’s face. The hillman let out a quiet sigh, stepped forward to stand between Nikalys and the fire, and clasped his hands behind his back. “When aki-mahet reach their fifteenth year, they lose their given name and are called ‘uora’ or ‘uori’ by the tribe until they prove themself worthy of their name. Dozens of people are alive tonight because of you, Nikalys. Your fathers—both of them, I believe—would be proud of you.”

Not knowing how to respond, Nikalys simply stared up at the hillman, watching the bonfire’s light dance around the edge of Broedi’s hair and face. When the silence between the pair stretched long, the hillman nodded as genuine concern spread over his normally stoic face. “Aryn was very quiet after battle as well. He would stand alone for hours. ‘Thinking,’ he said.”

Nikalys dipped his chin, dropping his gaze to the muddy ground, unsure what Broedi wanted him to do with that bit of information.

Broedi rumbled softly, “Remember his advice to you.”

Nikalys stared up at the hillman. “Pardon?”

“His letter. Remember his words to you.”

Nikalys had read the letter countless times since that first night by the campfire. By now, the scrawled words were burned into memory. Reciting it to himself in his mind, he stopped when he realized to what Broedi must be referring. In a quiet, reserved tone, he said, “‘Do what you must, when you must. Move on as best you can, as soon as you can.’”

“It is good advice,” replied Broedi.

Nikalys glanced past the White Lion to the glowing pyre. “He said it took him a long time to realize that.”

“Decades, I am afraid.”

Without looking away from the fire, Nikalys asked, “How long have I been standing here?”

“Longer than I had hoped.”

Nikalys nodded slowly. Aryn was right. Standing here, dwelling on his actions was not helping anything or anyone. Pulling his eyes from the blaze, he stared up at Broedi. “Let’s go.”

A slight smile graced the hillman’s face. “Come with me, please.” Turning south, he began to stride from the burning bodies.

Nikalys followed, asking, “Where are we going?”

Lifting a hand, Broedi pointed toward the southern hillside and the grove of trees in which Jak and his men had hidden. “There.”

A roaring campfire burned amongst the oaks where Nikalys’ family and friends had set up for the night. “Good.” He needed to be with them more than with his thoughts.

As the pair walked across the hillside, the people they passed would stare at him and, for the first time, he met their gazes without reservation. Most gave a silent nod of greeting, but some offered a quiet “hello” or even a “good evening, Progeny.” He smiled and politely nodded back, trying not to cringe when someone addressed him with the title.

Halfway to the grove, they came across a section of ground with at least a dozen freshly dug, still-empty graves. Dozens of Sentinels were hollowing out more, using whatever they could to shove the muddy earth aside while trying to find places in the soil where solid rock was not inches below the surface. Nikalys spotted Cero and Wil on their knees, using their bare hands to dig. Wil looked ten years older than he had this morning.

The bodies of soldiers were lined up nearby, on their backs with arms folded over their chests, waiting to be placed into the unfinished graves. Nikalys might not have known many of them well, but he recognized every face and knew most of their names. Two, however, stood out. When he reached the bodies, he stopped and stared down at the pair of men.

Corporal Holb had suffered a crushing blow to the back of the head from an oligurt’s club during the charge into the bullockboars. His face was untouched, and if it were not for the sunken, bloody skull Nikalys had seen earlier, he would swear that the man was sleeping.

To the corporal’s right lay Hunsfin. Without the scout’s sacrifice and those of ten other men in that charge, Jak would be dead. Staring at the dead man, Nikalys murmured, “Thank you for my brother.”

If Broedi heard his quiet whisper—and he probably did—he showed no sign. The hillman stayed by his side, offering his mere presence as comfort.

Looking up, Nikalys spotted Sergeant Trell walking among the graves and dead soldiers. The sergeant glanced up, saw Broedi and Nikalys, and strode over to them, pushing aside the haunted expression on his face. Halting before the pair, Sergeant Trell examined Nikalys closely. The concern in his eyes was clear.

“How are you doing, son?”

Nikalys stared at the man in quiet awe. The sergeant was burying dozens of his men and here he was, inquiring as to Nikalys’ wellbeing. After a stunned moment, he managed to reply in a quiet, restrained tone. “I’ll be fine.”

Sergeant Trell shot Broedi a quick, questioning look. After a slight nod from the White Lion, the soldier glanced back to Nikalys and nodded.

“Good to hear.”

He accepted Nikalys’ answer, whether or not he believed it was another matter. Nikalys wondered what the sergeant’s instinct was telling him right now.

Glancing at the line of bodies, Nikalys murmured, “Do you have a final number, then?”

Sergeant Trell failed to hold back the sorrow in his face or voice as he answered. “Thirty-nine.”

Nikalys’ gaze drifted to the sky, coming to rest on White Moon. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Thirty-nine Sentinels dead.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” rumbled Broedi. “They were good men.”

With pride in his voice, the sergeant said, “Yes. They were.”

Nikalys dropped his head and stared back to the dead soldiers. “So many…”

Sergeant Trell looked to the oak grove where the other campfire burned. “It would have been more if not for Nundle and your sister. At least twenty men owe them their lives.”

Nikalys supposed that was some solace.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Sergeant? I could dig graves?”

Holding up a hand of protest, Sergeant Trell said, “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I think the men want to do it themselves.” He looked at soldiers who were digging, a sad scowl spreading over his face. “It helps them, I think.”

Nikalys nodded. “I understand.”

Reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, Sergeant Trell said, “Go. Be with your brother and sister.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

A weary smile touched the corners of the soldier’s mouth. “Truly, son, you are going to have to stop calling me that.”

Giving the man a tired grin of his own, Nikalys asked, “What would you like your new rank to be, then? Lieutenant? Captain?”

“Don’t start with that nonsense.” His tone was jovial but definitely muted by the day’s events. Giving Nikalys a gentle shove, he said, “Go on, now. Get out of here.”

Nikalys made sure to walk past where the injured were resting to check on their recovery. Most of those on the ground were Sentinels, although a few Shadow Manes lay among them, having been hurt while chasing down the fleeing Sudashians. Many were sleeping, healing quicker than was natural due to the magical aid given them.

Both Broedi and Nikalys stopped to talk with those who were awake, thanking them for their bravery and offering condolences for the loss of their friends and fellow soldiers. It was a difficult experience for Nikalys, but he did what he could to keep the grief he felt from reaching his face.

As they left the final soldier, Broedi murmured, “You did well. They will remember you care the next time they fight for you.”

Nikalys let out a long, low sigh. “The next time, huh?”

Broedi eyed him, but said nothing.

Nikalys knew there would be more battles, more injured, and more deaths. And it sickened him.

The pair finally reached the small grove where his family and friends waited. The brush that had covered the areas between the tree trunks now lay in a large pile off to one side. A huge fire roared at the camp’s center, fueled by logs and branches from the nearby mound.

As he approached, Nikalys judged the fire unnecessarily large. The evening was chilly, but not cool enough that it warranted such a sizeable blaze. The bright, warm light that illuminated the grove was welcome, though, and effective in chasing away the gloom of night. As he stepped closer, the pungent wood smoke from this fire filled his nostrils, masking the odor of the roasting oligurts and razorfiends. His opinion changed in an instant. This fire was wholly necessary.

Zecus was the only one standing. Furthest from the fire and with his back to Nikalys, the Borderlander was staring westward into the night, as if he were keeping watch, waiting for one last charge from the Sudashians.

Between Zecus and the roaring fire, Nundle lay on his back with his eyes closed, more than likely sleeping. What with his constant feats of magic during the battle and then his tending to the injured, he had to be exhausted.

Sabine sat on the ground with Helene sleeping in her lap, stroking the little girl’s black hair while softly singing. As Nikalys stared at toddler, he felt a tiny smile touch his lips. Helene was a sweet, funny, and inquisitive little girl for whom Nikalys would give his life. He wondered if this was how a father feels about a daughter or son.

He lifted his gaze to Sabine’s face and the smile slipped away as a set of confusing emotions swelled inside him. Sabine was clever, brave, and fiercely protective of her sister, all qualities he admired. And her beauty was undeniable. Nevertheless, at times he felt uneasy around her, the image of her slicing the unconscious bandit’s neck flashing through his mind unbidden. As wondrous as Sabine was, something inside her chilled him.

Sabine met his gaze and gave him a wide, brilliant smile, obviously happy to see him. The grin, like Sabine herself, both pulled him in and pushed him away. He looked away from her quickly without returning her smile.

His brother and sister were resting near Nundle, Jak sitting upright, his back against an oak trunk and eyes closed while Kenders lie beside him, her head resting on his leg as if it were a pillow. She, too, had her eyes shut, yet her face was taut, tense. Nikalys wondered what was going through her mind.

Nikalys had yet to say much to either of them since the battle. Jak and Zecus had ridden off with Broedi and the Shadow Manes to hunt down the scattered oligurts and razorfiends while Kenders had been helping Nundle tend to the soldiers. By the time Jak had returned and Kenders was done, Nikalys had already taken up his position before the funeral pyre. Kenders had left him alone entirely, but Jak stopped by once, gave him a silent hug, and then walked away.

As Broedi and Nikalys stepped into the circle of firelight, Jak opened his eyes a crack and gave the pair a tired smile. “Good, you got him to stop staring at that pile of dead things.”

Jak’s careless tone bothered Nikalys, his earlier thoughts about the lives he had taken still resonated within him. He almost said something, but stopped short. Such a comment could start an argument. Now was not the time for that. He was too tired. Everyone was.

Eyeing his brother, Nikalys said, “I’m here now…”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Kenders pushed herself from the ground to settle into a sitting position and gave him a tiny, weary smile. “Me, too.”

Nikalys strode over to an exposed, flat rock between Kenders and Nundle with the intention of sitting on the stone. As he approached, the tomble—apparently not sleeping—murmured, “Please don’t sit on me.” Nundle’s eyes remained closed, his hands folded on his chest. He had removed his hat and was resting his mass of bright red hair on it.

Glancing down, Nikalys said, “Why not? You’re about the right size for a stool.”

A tiny smile crept across the tired mage’s lips. “Oh, come now. That’s not very nice.”

“I’m only jesting,” said Nikalys as he settled on the stone.

“Of course, my Lord Progeny.”

Nikalys smiled at the return jab.

“I deserved that, I suppose.”

Broedi retrieved his leather satchel and moved to sit on the ground between Jak and Sabine. The camp remained quiet as the hillman reached into the pack, pulled out his bone pipe, and began to pack it with smoking-leaf.

Nikalys watched him for a few moments before asking, “How do you still have any of that left, Broedi?”

The hillman smiled his slight grin. “I purchased some more in Fernsford. It is not anywhere near as good as Five Boroughs’ Sweetbush cut, but it will suffice.”

With eyes still closed, Nundle mumbled, “Everything about the Boroughs is better, you know.”