Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (43 page)

He moved to the far side of the table and stepped between the pair of longlegs. With him standing and them sitting, he was able to look them right in the eye.

Nundle opened his mouth to introduce himself when the larger, more rambunctious man locked eyes with him.

“Bless the gods…what in the Nine Hells are you?”

The thinner man on Nundle’s right looked over at his friend.

“Boah! That is rude.”

Boah tore his eyes from Nundle and looked at the other Borderlander. “You’re right.” Returning his gaze back to Nundle, he said in a slightly more polite tone, “Pardon me. What in the Nine Hells are you,
sir
?”

Nundle wondered if he should have stayed on the stool at the bar.

“Please excuse my friend, little one,” said the thin longleg. “He was born without manners and never took the time to learn any.” Inclining his head, he said, “My name is Joshmuel Alsher, and he is Boah Rasus. We are of the village of Drysa. My pleasure—and his, I assure you—is to meet you in peace today.” He gave Nundle a small, seated bow.

Unsure how to respond to what sounded like a ritual greeting, Nundle performed an awkward bow of his own and said, “I am Nundle Babblebrook, um…of the village Deepwell. My pleasure is to meet you in peace today, too.” He paused and gave them a hopeful smile. “Did I say that right?”

Both longlegs chuckled, insisting he had done fine. Heriot arrived at that exact moment and, with one hand, placed three mugs on the table. She slid two in front of the Borderlanders—eliciting profuse thanks from them both—and the other one she placed opposite to where Nundle stood. In her other hand, Heriot held a small wooden crate that she placed on a chair by the mug.

Thanking her for her foresight, Nundle moved back around to the other side of the table, climbed the chair, and sat on the crate. Heriot stood by, making halting movements as if she intended to try to help Nundle up, but was unsure if she should. Nundle was glad the innkeeper did not try to lift him up and place him on the crate like a sack of potatoes.

Once situated on his crate, and after Heriot had moved away, Nundle smiled at the two longlegs across from him.

“Heriot mentioned the two of you are from the Borderlands. I was hoping in exchange for the drink, you might tell me more about your home as I had hope to visit the region one—”

“No! Gods, no!” interjected Boah, throwing up his hands and waving them back and forth. “A visit to the Nine Hells would be more enjoyable!”

The outburst earned him a few sidelong glances from the other patrons as well as a sharp look and murmured warning from Joshmuel.

“Boah! Lower your voice.”

Boah glanced around the room, pressed his lips together, and sighed.

Looking back to Nundle, Joshmuel explained, “Talk of home makes him upset.” He glared at Boah again. “Sometimes I wonder if it is wise for him to go to Freehaven. One outburst like that before the First Council and we will be thrown from the chambers.”

Boah nodded, grunted, grimaced, and sipped from his mug all at once. Nundle supposed there was an admittance of guilt in there somewhere.

“What he says is true, though,” said Joshmuel. “The Borderlands are not safe for visitors.” He lifted an eyebrow. “For anyone, truly.”

“Why? What is happening there?”

The two Borderlanders stared at each other for a long moment. Boah nodded and said, “I told the last man that asked. It’s your turn. Besides, you like the practice.”

Joshmuel took a long sip from his ale, set the mug down, and leaned forward, placing both arms on the table.

“For generations upon generations, those of us in the western Borderlands have lived under constant threat of oligurts, mongrels, and razorfiends raiding our lands and homes. Years might pass, generations even, without any sign of the Sudashians, but eventually some glory-hungry chieftain or pack leader would raid the duchy. Villages burned, people died, and the duke would respond, sending the Dust Men forth to repel the invaders.”

“Pardon me,” interrupted Nundle “Dust Men?”

“The Borderlands’ army,” said Boah.

Nodding, Joshmuel added, “The Southlands’ have the Southern Arms, the Great Lakes have the Red Sentinels, and Marshlands, the Reed Men. I have had no dealings with any of the others so I do not know what they are called. Perhaps they have no name. Who is to say?”

“You have had ‘dealings’ with them?” said Nundle, eyebrow raised. “That sounds ominous.”

Smiling, Joshmuel shook his head and said, “You misunderstand. I mean to say only that I have seen them, said good day in passing. That is all.”

As Joshmuel seemed a respectable sort, Nundle did not press the issue.

“So these…Dust Men fight the invaders?”

“Yes, they would,” said Joshmuel. “They would fight and they would win, driving the raiders back. Then our ancestors would rebuild, refusing to give up our lands, refusing to give in to fear.” Letting out a heavy sigh, he added, “Of course, the raiders would come again. And the Dust Men would drive them back. And we would rebuild.”

Wearing a sympathetic frown, Nundle asked, “And the raiders would come again?”

Nodding, Joshmuel said, “Such is life in the Borderlands.”

Nundle did not think that sounded like much of a life.

Joshmuel leaned forward, lowered his voice, and said, “A year ago the cycle changed. Men, women, and families who lived closer to the border than we—” he indicated himself and Boah “—began to come east. Raiders had come again. Only instead of a few hundred, now there were thousands, tens of thousands. Oligurts, mongrels, razorfiends, and even men all banded together, fighting as one.”

“But they don’t do that,” said Nundle. “They hate one another.”

Both Borderlanders eyed him closely. Joshmuel asked, “How did you know that, little one?”

Nundle smiled and shrugged.

“I like to read.”

“A wondrous and worthy luxury,” said Joshmuel. “And informative, it would seem, for you are correct. Such cooperation amongst the Sudashians is unheard of. Their constant warring amongst each other was the one thing keeping the Borderlands truly safe.”

“What about your Dust Men?” asked Nundle. “Did they not fight back?”

A mirthless, derisive chuckle slipped from Boah.

“The blasted Dust Men are worthless.”

“Are they not up to the task to fight back?”

Joshmuel shook his head slowly.

“It would seem they are not.”

Boah eyed his countryman and with a bitter smirk, muttered, “That, or Duke Vanson chooses not to fight back.”

Nundle did not understand.

“Why would a duke do nothing while his lands are invaded?”

Staring at Boah yet answering Nundle, Joshmuel said, “That, my little friend, is the same question I ask Boah every time he makes such an outlandish statement.”

Boah leaned toward Joshmuel, his elbows resting on the tabletop.

“Then explain the actions he has taken. Or better yet, hasn’t taken!”

Joshmuel held his friend’s gaze for a moment before dropping his head to stare at the table. “I cannot, Boah.” He picked at the carved wooden handle of his mug. “As much as I wish I could.”

Looking between the pair, Nundle asked, “What has—or hasn’t—the duke done?”

Boah peered over at Joshmuel and raised his eyebrows expectantly, seemingly daring his companion to answer. Nundle sensed that he had stepped into the middle of a long-running debate.

Joshmuel reluctantly looked up from the mug in front of him.

“Every Sudashian attack, every single one, the Dust Men arrive too late to drive back the attack.”

“If they arrive at all,” grumbled Boah.

Nodding, Joshmuel said, “True. It seems rather improbable that their scouts could be so wrong so often, or the army so slow to respond, but I can think of no other logical explanation.”

“No other explanation?” asked Boah, his eyebrows arching high. “Are you not forgetting something?”

After a pause and a sidelong look at Boah, Joshmuel added, “In the past, duchies would aid one another against bandits, raids, and the like. Just today in fact, I saw a band of Red Sentinels moving through town, although I am not sure what they are doing here. We could use them in the west.”

Boah muttered, “Perhaps they would be there if Vanson would blasting ask.”

Looking between the Borderlanders, Nundle asked, “So the duke has not asked for aid?”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Joshmuel said, “If he has, none has been sent. No Reed Men. No Red Sentinels. And without help from the other duchies, the Borderlands will surely fall.”

“What do you hope to gain by going to Freehaven?”

Setting his now-empty mug on the table, Boah replied, “Duchy law says that any citizen may petition the First Council on the first day of each turn. We go there to ask that
someone
do something since Vanson seems content to sit on his rear in Gobas and wait for an oligurt to introduce himself in the Duke’s Hall.”

Joshmuel said, “We had hoped to make it there by the Turn of Thonda, but as that is but twelve days away, and we are here…” He shrugged. “We will have to wait until Rintira’s turn.”

“Surely the First Council know by now, don’t they?” asked Nundle. “People in the east have already heard rumors.” He told them about the stories shared by Pelter and his crew. When he was done, Boah shook his head, frowning.

“It’s nice to know word has reached this far east, but…if they hear much more, they’ll stop believing and start laughing.”

Confused, Nundle asked, “What does that mean?”

Both men were quiet, staring at one another for a few moments.

Eventually, Boah mumbled, “People are going to find out eventually.”

Joshmuel looked like he had swallowed something that did not agree with him. He studied Nundle for a few heartbeats, judging. With a definitive nod of his head, he spoke.

“What I tell you now I have seen with my own eyes, so do not doubt—no, do not laugh at my words.”

He paused to look around them, ostensibly to ensure that the only people capable of hearing what he was saying were sitting at their table.

“My eldest son, Zecus, and I were riding patrol around the lands near our village. There had been rumors of a group of oligurts nearby and Zecus and I went to see if they were true. Understand, little one, that the land where we live is harsh. Rain comes only during the winter turns, coloring the land green for a short time. When the rains stop, everything browns again, leaving dead, dry grasses everywhere as tall as a man. It is difficult to see much of anything unless you are on a hill or a horse.”

Nundle was beginning to wonder why anyone would want to live in the Borderlands.

“Zecus and I rode to a hill that overlooked where the Sudashians had been seen. Spread below us in a wide valley was a sight I still see in my sleep. Thousands of oligurts, mongrels, and razorfiends camped together. While each race stayed with its own, there was no fighting between them.”

“As unnatural as water flowing uphill,” muttered Boah.

Nodding, Joshmuel said, “What stabbed at my soul, however, was seeing men, both light and dark skinned, spread throughout the camp. At least I thought they were men.” He hesitated a moment, frowning. “Then I saw one with horns like a bull. Great wide horns, poking right out of the side of his head. Other men had horns as well, or the snouts of boars and legs like a goat. Or a horse!” Joshmuel’s brown eyes bore into Nundle. “Demon-men, little one. I am not afraid to say it. I saw men of the Nine Hells.”

Nundle suddenly felt quite ill.

Demon-men in the duchies. Just like the last time the god of Chaos marched.

The letter in his pocket seemed to weigh as much as a cartful of rocks.

Sitting tall in his chair, Joshmuel said, “Zecus and I rode back to Drysa as fast as we could. I packed my household. We tried to convince others we needed to run, but only a few listened. Boah here was one. We took our families east to Gobas.”

Nodding, Boah took over the story, saying, “We tried to gain an audience with Duke Vanson, but we were turned away at the gates. We tried to warn everyone we saw, but we were hailed as false prophets. Mocked. Spit upon. So, we continued east into the Marshlands. We left our families in Demetus and started our journey east.”

Their tale chilled Nundle to his soul. Any doubt that he had done the right thing by coming to the Oaken Duchies was gone.

He asked the Borderlanders a dozen questions, but neither man could give him more information than they had already shared.

Heriot came over and asked if they would like to eat anything. Nundle declined and excused himself, blaming road weariness, but offered to pay for the Borderlanders’ meal. They refused, claiming the drink was more charity than they should have taken. Nundle did not want to insult the men, so he wished them luck on their journey east and headed to his room. As he passed the bar, he handed Heriot another silver arcan and asked the innkeeper to give Joshmuel and Boah a platter of lamb and squash and claim it was on her.

He made his way upstairs to his room, settled on the straw mattress, and tried to fall asleep. He lay there for a long time in the dark before finally drifting off to a night full of unpleasant dreams.

20
^th
of the Turn of Sutri

The wind whistled in Zecus’ ears.

Sand and grit pelted the back of his hand as he lifted it to pull back the scarf covering his face. He peeked out only for a moment, ensuring that his horse was still on course and following the rest of the group. The wind’s howl was so loud that it masked the sound of the horsemen around him, prompting him to check occasionally that he had not wandered.

He was part of a double column of men and horses snaking through a gully between two hills. The men with whom he rode were dressed in drab tans and ivory with long, multi-colored scarves of reds, yellows, and oranges hanging from their heads, held in place by the tight cloth bands wrapped around their crowns. Like Zecus, most wore their scarves drawn up to shield their noses and eyes against the dust storm.

The morning sun might have broken the horizon to the east, illuminating the tips of the hills above them, but it had no hope of reaching the valley. The dust and bits of parched grass whipping through the air saw to that.