Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (49 page)

“It’s not a demand, Master Sergeant. It’s a request.”

The remained quiet for a long moment, his gaze locked on Nundle’s face.

“As you ask something I would mostly likely do anyway, I see no reason not to give my word. I will hear you out.”

Nundle released a breath he had not recalled holding and peered up to the soldier.

“Do you trust your men, Master Sergeant?”

Without hesitation, the longleg answered, “With my life.”

“What about the Tracker with you?”

The large soldier crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

“Exactly how long have you been following us?”

“Truthfully? Since Lakeborough.”

Sergeant Trell’s gaze bored into him. Nundle forced himself to stare back, meeting the soldier’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the longleg sighed and motioned to the grass.

“Let’s sit down. I feel rude talking down to you.”

Nundle found a gnarled oak root jutting from the soil he upon which he sat. The sergeant settled across from him, flat on the grass so they were near eye-level with each other.

Once seated, the sergeant said, “To answer your question: no, I do not trust the Tracker. He seemed a decent man when we met. But now?” He glanced back to the camp, a perplexed expression on his face, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “Not so much.” Looking back to Nundle, he added, “His name is Cero. But perhaps you already knew that as well?”

“No, I did not.” He paused before adding, “Although I did know the name of another in your company. One who left last evening.”

“Who?”

Watching the sergeant’s face, Nundle said with emphasis, “Jhaell Myrr.” He expected anything from simple acknowledgement a passionate curse regarding the ijul. Instead, he received a blank expression.

“I’m sorry. Who?”

“Jhaell Myrr,” repeated Nundle, confused.

Sergeant Trell shook his head.

“I know of no man by that name. Was he in the Arms? ‘Jhaell’ does not sound like a Southlander name.”

Nundle was dumbfounded. Upon finding his tongue, he said, “I’ve watched you travel with him for days now. I’ve seen your disagreements with him. Hells—I saw you arguing with him at the fork last night. I thought he was going—”

“Hold a moment,” interrupted Sergeant Trell. “Are you speaking of Fenidar?”

Now it was Nundle’s turn to be confused.

“Fenidar? Who’s Fenidar? I’m talking about the saeljul, Jhaell Myrr.”

Sergeant Trell’s eyebrows drew together.

“I was told his name is Fenidar.”

“Fenidar?” repeated Nundle again. Bewildered, he stared at the ground, mumbling, “Why the false name? No one here would know him as a mage on name alone.”

The sergeant held up a quick hand.

“Hold. He’s a
mage
? Regent Alpert said nothing about that.”

Mystified, Nundle asked, “Who is Regent Alpert?”

Nundle had been hoping that his conversation with the Red Sentinels’ leader would provide some clarity to recent events. Instead, his list of questions was getting longer while his list of answers remained untouched. Judging by the look on the sergeant’s face, he was equally perplexed.

Waving his hands in front of him, Nundle said, “Let’s start with something simple. The saeljul you’ve been traveling with I know as Preceptor Jhaell Myrr of the Academy at Immylla in the Arcane Republic. I was a student of his.” He grimaced. “Briefly.”

Sergeant Trell’s eyebrows rose.

“
You’re
a mage?”

“I am,” said Nundle. Feeling it necessary considering his location, he added, “A nice one, though. Most of us are.”

Concern rippling over his face, the sergeant looked back to the camp.

“How is it the Tracker did not know?”

“From what I’ve observed, they are no different than any mage when it comes to detecting magic. I could be standing next to the most powerful mage in Terrene, and if he or she did not reach out to touch the Strands, I would never know.”

“The Strands?” muttered Sergeant Trell. “What are—” He cut off, lifted a hand, and paused a moment. “You had best start at the beginning. It seems we both hold different pieces to the same puzzle. Tell me what you know.”

Nundle smiled. That was his plan all along.

He told Sergeant Trell everything that had happened since the night he had found the parchment in the preceptor’s office, save for the contents of the letter. He was holding that for later. The sergeant listened to his story, interrupting only to ask the occasional intelligent question. By the time he reached the end of his tale, Sergeant Trell had dropped his head to his chest and was staring at the ground. Even after Nundle stopped talking, the soldier did not move.

Nundle waited, silent.

He was beginning to think he should say something when the soldier finally looked up.

“I tend to be a good judge of a man—or tomble, I suppose—and I do not think you are playing me for a fool. You say this ijul was a teacher of magic from the Arcane Republic and I believe you. It explains much.”

Nundle was relieved that the soldier believed him.

“But I have one question for you, tomble.”

“Ask away.”

Sergeant Trell leaned forward, draping his arms over his legs and clasping his hands in front of him.

“You took rather drastic action based on a single letter. A letter about which I’ve noticed you’ve been deliberately vague. What did the message say?”

Nodding, Nundle said, “Granted, I have been vague. But only because its words might be hard for you to accept.”

The soldier gave him a grim smile.

“I’ve accepted this much, haven’t I?”

Sighing, Nundle reached into his leather travel pack and retrieved the parchment from Preceptor Myrr’s desk. He handed the letter over to the longleg and watched the sergeant read by twilight. The soldier’s face went through a series of expressions as he read—curiosity, sadness, anger, confusion, betrayal, and finally shock and disbelief.

When he was done, the sergeant waved the parchment in his hand and asked in a quiet, yet harsh, voice, “Do you realize who this is from?”

“I do now,” said Nundle, his tone grave. “When I first saw the letter, I was focused on what it said rather than whom it was from. I only recently discovered your duke’s name. I thought perhaps it was a coincidence, but after seeing how you and your soldiers were placed under the preceptor’s command…” He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.

The sergeant did not reply. He was reading the letter a second time before the fading sunlight was completely gone.

When he was done, he muttered, “Too much of this rings true for me to discount it. This, for instance: ‘
claimed a giant flood had destroyed the town
.’” He stared at Nundle, his eyes intense. “Tomble,
I
stood in the ruins of Yellow Mud. I saw the destruction with my own eyes.”

Nundle thought that to be a rather surprising coincidence.

Looking back down, the soldier said, “And this? ‘
Killing everyone except a man he had met on the road to Smithshill.
’” He held up the parchment. “I met him. I
spoke
with him.”

Nundle’s eyebrows drew together. That just might cross the line dividing impossible coincidence and destiny.

Shaking his head in dismay, the sergeant said, “But if I accept all that as truth, I must believe the rest as well. Which is madness.”

“I can sympathize,” said Nundle. “When I discovered my teacher was involved with something as sinister as what that letter describes, I was shocked. I knew I needed to do something to warn them.”

“Warn who?” Tilting the parchment to catch the last rays of sunlight, the sergeant asked, “These…‘Progeny?’” He looked to Nundle. “Who are they?”

Lifting his eyebrows, Nundle murmured, “Oh my. That is a whole other story.” The wind shifted, bringing with it a waft of whatever the soldiers were cooking. Nundle’s stomach grumbled. “Could we get something to eat, perhaps? I’ve had nothing but blueberries for days.”

Sergeant Trell immediately called over to the camp for two bowls of stew. The soldier who brought them apologized to Nundle for the size of the wooden bowl and spoon, saying that they did not have anything smaller. Nundle insisted that the giant bowl was just fine and set to devouring the stew.

The sergeant did not pester him with questions as they ate, instead making idle conversation about how they were running out of vegetables and roots and would soon need to hunt for food or find a place to purchase supplies.

Nundle’s stomach filled before the bowl emptied. He set the remainder of the stew aside and let his food settle for a moment. Blue Moon had risen over the trees to the north, a pale blue oblong oval against a backdrop of stars, only the brightest of which were visible as the last vestiges of dusk lit the sky.

A quick examination of the camp revealed most of the soldiers sitting around their campfires, staring at Nundle and the sergeant. The Tracker stood off to the side by himself, his gaze locked on Nundle alone, the rather unsettling expression he wore lit by the campfires’ flickering. For reasons unknown, Nundle shuddered and looked back to Sergeant Trell.

“Thank you for the meal. Much better than a handful of blueberries.”

“You are quite welcome.” Putting down his own bowl, he picked up the preceptor’s letter and asked, “Do you suppose we can continue?”

“Of course,” said Nundle. He paused, gathering his thoughts while wondering how the longleg might take this next bit of information. “Have you ever heard of the White Lions?”

A deep furrow split the soldier’s brow.

“I’ve heard the legends.”

In a somewhat cryptic tone, Nundle asked, “What if I said that their epic was not legend?”

Sergeant Trell paused a moment before replying with newfound skepticism.

“I would say you have a great deal of talking to convince me you’re not mad ahead of you.”

As succinctly as he could, Nundle covered the history of the Oaken Duchies up to the inception of the White Lions. He explained what had happened with the Assembly of the Nine in the Celestial Empire, and how the White Lions had repelled the demon army of Norasim. The sergeant nodded at the parts that sounded familiar to him, and listened with patient interest at the new. When Nundle reached the tale of the scourging of the Carinius coast, the sergeant interrupted.

“That part always bothered me.”

“Why?”

“They were heroes, honored servants of the duchies. Then suddenly they kill thousands of people?” He shook his head. “It never made sense.”

“I would agree. And once you hear Indrida’s prophecy, I expect you will draw a different conclusion as to what happened at Carinius.”

A frown creased Sergeant Trell’s face.

“What prophecy?”

Nundle recited the three stanzas, word for word. Sergeant Trell listened, the frown on his face deepening into a full scowl by the time Nundle was finished.

“That’s a nice verse,” said the sergeant. “But what does it mean?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Nundle said, “I’m not entirely sure. But when I saw that letter, when I saw ‘the Progeny,’ I…I felt I had to act. So, I did.” With a start, he realized that the sergeant still held the parchment. “Speaking of which—I don’t suppose I could have that back now?” It was the only proof Nundle had that some sort of conspiracy was taking place.

The sergeant paused a moment, worrying Nundle that he might not give it back, but then reached over and handed the letter over.

“You have given me much to consider, tomble.”

“My name is Nundle. Nundle Babblebrook.”

There was little point in hiding his name now that he had told the sergeant everything else.

With a nod and a polite smile, the longleg said, “Good days ahead to you, Nundle Babblebrook.”

“You, as well, Sergeant.”

The sergeant’s smile widened.

“The expected response is ‘And good memories behind.’”

“Oh. My apologies. And good memories behind, Master Sergeant.”

“You aren’t in the army, Nundle. Feel free to call me Nathan. In private only, though. In front of the men, I remain Sergeant Trell. Is that understood?”

“Completely, Sergeant—ah, Nathan.”

With a satisfied nod, Nathan said, “Now, are there any other unbelievable tales you are going to ask me to accept as truth?”

Shaking his head, Nundle said with a smile, “Not tonight.”

“Good. Then let me tell you what I know of our riddle, and we’ll try to figure out what to do about it all.”

Nundle leaned forward, anxious.

“Please do.”

The pair talked deep into the night.

27
^th
of the Turn of Sutri

Nikalys was miserable.

Day after day of sitting in Goshen’s saddle, the horse’s jagged backbone digging into his rear, was enough to drive him mad. His muscles were sore, his skin raw, and his bones weary. He tried not to focus on his suffering, but as he spent his entire day staring at endless, uninterrupted fields of grass, he could not help it.

Growing up, he had never been a stranger to backbreaking work. Mornings after long, dawn-to-dusk days in the groves or vineyards would certainly find him sore. Yet his body had never ached like this. He twisted in his saddle—yet again—trying to stretch out his back but there was no relief to be had.

Before this journey, he had only sat on a horse to satisfy a dare from friends. If you wanted to travel somewhere, you hitched the horse to a cart and rode to your destination while sitting on a nice, comfortable, wooden seat. Nikalys missed that seat. Perched atop the back of a bony horse, being jarred, jumbled, and jostled all day long a horrible way to travel.

“That’s it,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve had enough.”

He pulled on Goshen’s reins, drawing the horse to a standstill. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his right leg over the horse’s rear. Bending his left leg—foot in stirrup—he stretched his right to the ground as every muscle in his legs screamed at him. Once both boots were on the ground, he sighed, relishing the sensation of not being on the horse. A tiny, relieved smile touched his lips.

Taking advantage of the pause in travel, Goshen bent his head to the ground, ripped a mouthful of Southlands grass, and looked back at him. If a horse could smile, Nikalys thought Goshen would be doing so right now.