Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (44 page)

Squinting against the dust buffeting his face, he spotted the hunched forms of two horsemen in front of him. Glancing to his right, he saw his column mate had his scarf drawn up. Zecus had yet to learn the man’s name.

Effectively alone due to the storm, Zecus raised the scarf over his face and contemplated the strange series of events that had placed him in this particular procession through this valley.

After leaving his mother, sisters, and younger brother in Demetus—a decision he regretted more as the days passed—Zecus had ridden west, back toward his home. His father had chosen to run from the Sudashian horde, to beg some distant eastern nobles for aid. Zecus wanted to stand and fight.

He had worked as a simple day laborer in Demetus for a time, wondering and worrying about what was happening in the Borderlands. Yet as more and more refugees poured into the city, work grew scarce. The little he could find paid almost nothing while, at the same time, prices for everything steadily increased. In short order, the Alsher family was scrounging for food. Zecus, his mother, two sisters, and brother had become beggars. The dishonor had stung deep. It still did.

Ultimately, Zecus resolved that the only way he could better his family’s plight was to go home to defend the Borderlands. Or at least die trying.

Leaving had been difficult. His mother begged him to stay but he would not listen. Neither her tears nor those of his youngest sister could persuade him. He left them with the remainder of the family’s meager coin and set out, doing his best to push their sorrowful faces from his mind.

As he went west, he passed countless families migrating east, forced from their homes by the Sudashian invaders. He asked what the Dust Men were doing about the invasion and received blank, defeated looks or bitter grumbles of “Nothing.”

Zecus rode through Gobas, the Borderlands’ capital, on his return home, and found it to be in even worse shape than Demetus. Bursting with people, Zecus had paused just long enough to determine the city was bare of supplies. His mother, sisters, and brother were actually slightly better off in Demetus.

He arrived in Drysa a few days ago and found their village nearly deserted. Most of the squat, tan sandstone and earth buildings were empty, shops and homes deserted with their stretched-hide doors hanging open. Of the few hundred who had lived in Drysa, only a handful remained, most of them too old or feeble to travel.

Besides the elderly and infirm, there had been one young man left with whom Zecus had grown up. Emiah had become a scavenger, collecting anything of value his former neighbors had left behind and claiming it as his own. Stepping into Emiah’s home, Zecus had spotted the hardwood table from the Alsher home, and bristled at the man’s boldness. Hardwood was precious in the Borderlands. Weak bulboa wood was readily available and used for small tools or utensils, but the porous wood easily broke. That table had been a point of pride for Zecus’ father.

That first night back in Drysa, Zecus had shared his frustrations with Emiah, his desire to fight back against the invaders. Emiah said men were gathering in the hills to the north, men who were doing whatever they could to slow the invasion. Zecus immediately offered to ride north with him, seek out these men, and join them. Emiah balked at first, but after some goading by Zecus, he reluctantly agreed to go. The pair had left the next morning on two of Emiah’s ‘newly acquired’ horses, heading north through the sweeping, dry grasslands.

As they had ridden, Emiah asked dozens of questions about what Zecus and his father had seen from the hilltop. Zecus answered Emiah’s queries plainly, sharing everything about the horde.

Oligurts.

Mongrels.

Razorfiends.

All led by what could only be described as men of the Nine Hells.

With each offered answer, Emiah grew quieter, his questions fewer. When Zecus awoke the next morning, he found himself alone. Emiah was gone. None too surprised, Zecus was grateful the coward had left him a horse.

Continuing north alone, ignoring the danger of being a sole traveler in a land at war, he plodded along for several more sweltering days, keeping a careful eye out for any sign of a resistance group, the Sudashians, or the water holes that spotted the region. The wells were the only year-round source of water in the Borderlands. Most villages were built around such water holes, and as he moved north, he had come across one abandoned settlement after another. There was plenty of water for himself and his horse.

For days, he searched for the resistance, but his efforts were futile. He was beginning to think no such group existed.

In the end, they found him.

Yesterday evening, he had gone to sleep on a bare spot of dirt beneath the branches of a bulboa tree and awoke in the middle of the night, surrounded by a half-dozen men, a spear point pressed against his throat. They were a patrol for the elusive resistance.

After a few tense moments, Zecus persuaded them of his intention to join them. Grim-faced, the men welcomed him to their ranks and rode northeast, eventually meeting up with two larger groups that brought their number near thirty. Zecus prayed there were more than thirty men fighting the thousands of Sudashians he had seen.

He tried to ask questions, but was repeatedly shushed. The men traveled in complete silence, keeping careful watch on the hilltops. Zecus found himself staring up the rises, unable to see a thing in the dark, but staring nonetheless.

Just before dawn, a windstorm arrived, thrashing the group with sand and straw. The men, including Zecus, had all drawn their scarves over their faces, forced to ride blind.

An insistent gurgling from his stomach reminded Zecus that he had not eaten today. Reaching into the leather pouch hanging from his belt, he searched for the strip of canvas in which he had wrapped the remainder of last night’s eveningmeal, charred boa lizard tail.

Just as his fingers grazed the rough cloth, a strange, screeching shriek swirled amongst the wind’s howl.

Zecus sat straight in his saddle, gripping his knees tight as his horse danced sideways a couple of steps. The screech reminded him of a child’s terrified squeal, a possibility Zecus dismissed in an instant as it made no sense. The whipping wind twisted sounds, making them seem like things they were not.

He pulled his scarf from his face to peek out—the dust stung his eyes—but could not see anything beyond a dozen paces. His horse began moving forward again, prancing more than walking, apparently anxious to stay with the other horses of the double column.

Zecus was wondering if he had imagined the sound when another wailing cry, similar to the first, cut through the wind. He turned his head in all directions, searching for the source. Other men had also dropped their face scarves, braving the dust storm and scanning the hillsides. Zecus’ heart quickened. He was not imagining the cries.

A moment later, the muffled, alarmed shouts of men filtered through the sandstorm, only a few words here and there audible over the wind.

“—cut off from the—”

“—on the hill—”

“—trapped in and—”

The shrieks grew louder, closer, more frequent. New sounds, deep grunts and growls, joined in. Men drew swords, whipping their heads around in all directions, their colorful scarves flapping freely in the wind. Horses pranced and danced, tossing their heads. The man beside Zecus spun his mount in a stationary circle, peering up the hillside.

Zecus froze.

They were under attack, something for which he was not prepared in the slightest. He had no sword and even if he did, he did not know how to use one. He was a goat-herder. All he had was his throwing knife, a bow, and a dozen arrows rattling around in a quiver. His hope had been that when he arrived at the main camp, the men there would give him a sword or staff and teach him how to fight.

Shaking off his nerves, Zecus swiveled in his saddle and pulled his bow from its case. He bent the limbs together, stringing the weapon faster than he ever had. In this wind, a bow and arrow would be useless against anything more than a dozen paces away, but he was not going to just to sit here on his horse like a sack of grain. Something was coming, and he would be as ready as he could be.

Peering into the dusty gloom, he focused on the man next to him. His column mate sat in his saddle, a longsword upraised in his right hand, his left shielding his eyes from the wind and sand. Zecus was about to call out and ask for guidance when the rider abruptly turned to look in Zecus’ direction. His eyes widened.

“Grayskin!”

Zecus stared at the man, confused.

Loosing a sharp curse, the man drew a dagger from his belt with his free hand and flung it at Zecus.

Zecus bent down, over his horse’s neck, as the heavy dagger whizzed through the air. To his left, there was a wet thunk followed by a deep, bellowing roar.

Twisting his head, Zecus spotted a giant, gray-skinned figure but ten paces away. The monster was well over six and a half feet tall with a shorn head, deep set pitch-black eyes, an oversized flat nose, and two yellowed tusk-like teeth jutting up from between thick, gray-green lips. A shaggy-furred animal skin tunic draped over its massive chest and hung to its knees. A massive wooden club with spiked, metal cleats on one end lay on the ground, next to the creature, dropped so the beast could claw at the dagger jutting from its throat. Black blood squirted from the wound in the neck.

Shocked, Zecus realized he was staring at an oligurt, one who would have crushed him with the discarded club had it not been for the man beside him.

As Zecus gaped, the oligurt stumbled away, swallowed by the dust storm.

Zecus twisted to face his savior.

“Thank you!”

“You’re lucky! She almost got you!”

Zecus nodded his head in hasty agreement. It took a moment for the man’s words to register fully.

“She?”

He stared back into the storm, wondering what the males looked like. Swiveling around to face his column mate, he spotted a small figure rushing through the blowing dust toward the man.

“Behind you!”

As the man spun around, Zecus drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, pulled the string back, and shot at the sand-shrouded figure. The wind grabbed hold of the shaft and carried it away into the storm.

Before the man could raise his sword, the figure leaped from the ground and landed on the man and his horse. A half dozen small, dark blades burst through the man’s back. Blood squirted out, much of it whipped away by the wind. The man screamed, joining the cries of other men up and down the column.

He struggled with the creature, twisting and turning in his saddle, but it was pointless. In a few short moments, the man stopped thrashing and the blades retreated, sliding back into his body. Limp and lifeless, his corpse slid from the horse, falling to the ground in a heap.

Zecus stared at the man’s body, stunned. The man had saved his life moments ago. Now he was dead. Zecus did not even know his name.

A bone-rattling roar startled Zecus from his shock. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted another oligurt swinging a wooden club toward his head. Instinct took over.

He rolled out of the saddle—to his right and away from the oligurt—trying to avoid the impending blow. He was too slow, however. His left temple exploded in pain and the world went black.

21
^st
of the Turn of Sutri

The sound of voices in the streets greeted Nundle as he awoke, cracking open his eyes and staring at the sky out his open window. Based on the dim, nameless gray outside, he guessed dawn had yet to arrive. After rising from the straw mattress and stretching, he moved to the window, stood on the tips of his toes, and looked outside.

Even at this early hour, people filled the streets. Most longlegs he saw carried large canvas bags slung on their back or had baskets full of all sorts of goods—fruit, vegetables, clothes, rugs, and trinkets—balanced atop their heads. As the general flow of traffic was towards the merchant district through which he had come yesterday, Nundle assumed they were vendors on their way to set up their stalls.

Heading downstairs, he was surprised to find Heriot standing behind the counter considering the early hour. When he made such a remark, the longleg said that it was her job to be last to bed and first to rise.

Nundle accepted a loaf of soft, fresh bread and a few slices of a hard white cheese for his morningmeal, along with a cup of a sweet, weak wine. When he inquired about Joshmuel and Boah, Heriot informed him the pair had already left. Disappointed that he would not be able to say goodbye to the two Borderlanders, Nundle finished his meal and headed out of The Screaming Butcher with a word of thanks. Heriot tried to give Nundle back some coins saying that the food and the room had not cost nearly what he had paid, but Nundle refused. Heriot was an honest person, hard worker, and kind soul. Nundle was happy to have overpaid.

Deciding that he could use one more of those sticky buns before he left the city, he retraced his steps to the bakery. The people whom he passed in the streets stared at him with open curiosity, but were always polite, offering smiles and wishes of “Good days ahead.” Other than the ‘all magic is outlawed’ nonsense, he decided the Oaken Duchies was a pleasant enough place.

After finding his way back to the baker, he bought a single pastry—only one, having learned his limit—and asked the man for directions to where he could buy traveling supplies. The simple canvas bag he had brought from the academy was already beginning to fall apart.

The kindly baker gave him directions to a building around the corner, telling him to look for a forest green awning with bright, white stripes situated on a rooftop.

With a word of thanks, Nundle left, ducking and dodging his way through the increasingly crowded streets, trying to avoid being stepped on. Upon rounding a corner, he spotted the building the baker had described. Three stories tall, the first floor was made of smooth, light gray river rock while the upper two stories were a darkly stained oak. The building was one of the few he had seen that was so tall; most Lakeborough structures were only one or two floors.