Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (56 page)

Once in a sitting position, he scanned the tent and noticed a single, vertical line of light on the tent wall to his right. A skinny ray of sunlight slipped through the flaps and stretched across the trampled grass to illuminate a wooden bucket to his left. Zecus scooted on his rear to the bucket and peered inside. Ambient light reflecting off the liquid’s surface revealed the water a few inches below the lip of the bucket. Maneuvering himself onto his knees, he attempted to bend over to drink but without his hands to brace himself, he fell to the ground, only just avoiding knocking over the bucket.

The old man laughed.

“Well, that was foolish. There’s a ladle right there.”

Zecus twisted his head and spotted a wooden spoon behind the bucket. He had not seen it, but even if he had, he could not have used it. Moving his arms behind his back, he croaked, “My hands…”

“Ah, yes. Forgot about that,” muttered the old man. “They’ll stop doing that eventually. Here, let me help you.”

Zecus lay on the ground for a moment, listening as the man scuffled closer. Water sloshed, wood slid against wood.

“Sit up,” ordered the man.

With great effort, Zecus complied. The man held a ladle filled with water, offering it with a wicked smile.

“Drink up.”

Terribly thirsty, Zecus leaned forward, took a mouthful from the ladle, and immediately turned his head to spit the foul tasting water out, splattering it all over the side of the tent. It tasted like a dozen filthy men had taken a bath in it two weeks ago.

The man holding the ladle began to laugh hysterically.

The disgusting water had at least moistened Zecus’ mouth, allowing him to ask, “Gods…what is that?”

“They say it’s water. Not sure I believe them, though. I only drink it when I have to. And right now, stranger, you look like you have to. So, close your eyes and take a big swallow.”

Zecus eyed the man doubtfully and, for the first time, noticed the man’s condition. He was light-skinned with wild, stringy white hair and ripped rags for clothes. While Zecus could not make out the color of the man’s eyes, he was uneasy with the way they shifted about, never settling on one thing for more than a second or two.

“Go on,” urged the man. “Drink.”

Steeling himself, Zecus gulped down two large mouthfuls of the water and sat back, gagging. The man sniffed the water, made a disgusted face, and tossed the ladle back in the bucket.

“Just wait until it’s time to eat.”

Zecus coughed out, “Who are you?”

“Call me Paul.”

“Where am I?”

“You, young man, have the unfortunate luck to find yourself in one of the Nine Hells.”

The man began laughing as though he had just said something terribly funny, clapping his hands together as if he were applauding.

Peering at the man with narrowed eyes, Zecus muttered, “Pardon?”

Paul’s cackling abruptly cut off. He tilted his head side-to-side, his eyes darting about.

“Did you hear that?”

The sounds from outside had remained unchanged since Zecus had awoken. Shaking his head, Zecus murmured, “I heard nothing.”

Paul scuttled over to one side of the tent, sat with his legs pulled up to his chest, and began stroking his hair while mumbling to himself.

Zecus shook his head. The man was clearly mad.

Unnerved, Zecus turned his attention from the man and tried to puzzle out what he was going to do. His first thought was of escape. He scooted over to the stake in the ground and kicked it a few times, trying to knock it loose. The metal stake held fast. He shifted around until he could grip the handle with his hands and pulled. Still, the stake would not budge. After a few tugs, he quit trying. He was too weak.

Heavy footsteps approached the side of the tent with the slit of light splitting the canvas. Zecus stared at the flaps, listening to an exchange of gruff, guttural grunts outside.

In the darkness, Paul’s voice scratched, “Talk, stranger. And don’t stop.”

Looking over at the man, Zecus said, “Pardon?”

“If you don’t talk, they’ll kill you. If you stop talking, they’ll kill you. If you look at them wrong, they’ll kill you. Tell them what they want to hear, and you’ll live.” He cackled again, quieter now. “That’s why I’m still here.”

The slit of light on the canvas wall split open, flooding the tent with sunlight. Squinting against the sudden brightness, Zecus spotted the silhouette of a tall, wide figure stride toward where he lay on the ground. Without a doubt, the hulking monster was an oligurt.

Wary, Zecus stared at the beast, wondering if it was going to knock him out again. It did not. Instead, when the monster reached him, it reached down, grasped the handle of the stake, and yanked upwards, freeing the pinned ropes underneath. After pulling Zecus’ rope out, the oligurt slammed the stake back in the ground, pressing Paul’s length back into the ground.

Turning to Zecus, the oligurt growled, “You will stay quiet.”

Zecus’ eyes widened a fraction. He did not know oligurts could speak Argot.

The beast grabbed him by his legs and lifted, slinging Zecus over its shoulder. His head slammed into the oligurt’s back, setting his head throbbing anew.

The gray-skinned monster wound up the rope attached to Zecus’ legs and lurched back toward the tent entrance. As they exited, Zecus caught Paul smiling a wide, toothless grin while waving one hand in silent farewell.

Once outside, bright light of day temporarily blinded Zecus. New smells—a rotten-sweet stench, acrid smoke, the aroma of roasting meat—assaulted his nose, the combination of which was not a pleasing one.

He cracked open his eyes—letting them adjust to the brightness—lifted his head, and looked around. Not too far from the tent he had just left—a tall brown canvas structure with two points atop it—a large bonfire roared. Two wooden crosses rose from the grass, just far enough from the fire that they would not catch. A man was on each, arms strung out to the sides, heads hanging limp.

Zecus’ stomach turned. Gagging, he shut his eyes tight and breathed through his mouth. After a time—and a few tentative breaths to check that the air was free of roasting-man smell—he re-opened his eyes.

Everywhere he looked, canvas tents covered the plain. Faded red and yellow pennants painted with strange symbols flew above most, flapping in the light breeze. Bonfires roared everywhere, their smoke responsible for the thick haze drifting through the camp. Ketus was with him as he did not see any more men roasting, although he did spot a few goats sizzling on spits.

Oligurts lounged about the tents and fires, every one huge, bald, and draped in animal hide tunics, their skin tones ranging from dark granite to a light, dusty gray. Each one that met Zecus’ eye sneered. The camp’s din was loud, but he was sure that they were growling at him.

As Zecus and his captor wound their way through the camp, they passed a makeshift wooden pen filled with hundreds of bullockboars, giving Zecus his first decent look at the animals other than when he was lying over the back of one.

The creatures were a time and a half larger than a horse and astoundingly ugly. Foot-long white tusks jutted forth from a long snout that looked more bear than boar. Thick, dark brown fur covered their heads but stopped halfway down their necks. Pink skin splotched with black patches covered the rest of their bodies. It was as if the head belonged to a different animal than the body. The legs were shaped like a wolf’s, only thicker and more muscular. Instead of paws, however, the legs ended in cloven hooves.

Zecus was still eyeing the pen when the oligurt carrying him let loose a low, angry growl that Zecus felt as much as he heard it. After a few more paces, the oligurt stopped.

Something—most definitely not an oligurt—hissed, “What do you want, gray-szzkin?”

The voice made Zecus’ skin crawl, reminding him of the nerve-stinging squeaks of rock grinding rock.

“Move aside,” grunted the oligurt. “The
Ohraeg
wants to speak to this fleshling.”

“You are aszz much a fleszzling as he iszz.”

“If I am late bringing the prisoner, I shall tell Urazûd you were the reason why.”

The chittering voice snapped, “
Stazsla mirtinz
!”

In response, the oligurt loosed a deep, threatening snarl. The other voice clicked and hissed a few times, turning shrill enough that Zecus could not help but wince. When the oligurt growled even louder, the hissing halted. A moment later, the oligurt went quiet, too.

“Passzz then. And szztay away from our burrowszz.”

The oligurt resumed walking. After a few steps, Zecus was able to get a clear look at the soul with whom the oligurt had been speaking.

Had Zecus been standing, the top of the creature’s head would have only come up to the middle of his chest. Thick, shiny quills ranging in color from black to a dark, iridescent blue covered the figure, as if knife blades had been bundled together and draped from its body. The quills on its long, pinched face were shorter and softer-looking than the ones hanging from its thick forearms and wiry legs. The creature wore brown leather breeches around its upper legs, but its chest was uncovered.

Beady, black-as-a-one-moon-night eyes remained fixed on Zecus’ face as he moved away on the oligurt’s shoulder. The creature raised its right arm as if to wave when, with startling suddenness, every quill on its hand and forearm sprang to attention, flaring out to create a thicket of sharp blades.

Zecus’ mouth fell open. He was staring at a razorfiend.

Turning his head in all directions, he found dozens upon dozens of the creatures surrounding him. Some were a mix of black and dark blue like the first, but there were other colors as well: dark grays, crimsons, and greens. Most were shirtless, although some wore a crisscrossing, leather harness. They all wore the same style of short breeches that stopped above what must be their knees.

The camp’s composition changed. Here, there were no tents, no fires, and no oligurts. There were still pennants though, hanging from sticks that jutted out from the large earthen mounds that filled the area. They reminded Zecus of colossal anthills.

The oligurt did not walk very long before stopping again and growling, “I have brought the fleshling for the
Ohraeg
.”

“Paszz, grayszzkin.”

With a flapping of canvas, he plunged back into darkness. He was in another tent, one much larger than his last. His eyes adjusted quickly and after glancing around, he saw why: a ring of torches illuminated the interior.

The oligurt took a few steps in before hefting Zecus off its shoulder and placing him on the ground. Bending over, the monster growled, “Behave, fleshling.” A damp and dank breath came with the warning, a palpable mixture of rotted meat and filth that Zecus tasted as much as smelled.

Trying not to grimace in disgust, he nodded his understanding of the instructions.

With a grunt of satisfaction, the oligurt turned him around, helping steady him as his feet were still bound together.

“As you commanded, Urazûd.”

Zecus’ eyes went round.

A dozen paces away, a bald man sat in a stout, wooden chair. At least, he was mostly a man. Thick, black, ridged horns jutted from the sides of his head, spiraling upward and coming to a point nearly a foot above his forehead. His eyes were blood red and fixed on Zecus, boring into him. He wore some sort of black metal armor on his chest and legs.

This was a demon-man, a spawn of the Nine Hells. He spoke, his voice trembling with a strange, throbbing power.

“Retreat to the entrance, Rorrargh.”

“But the rope will not reach,” rumbled the oligurt. The monster still held the length leading to Zecus’ feet.

“And where do you think he will go? Do as you are told. Leave the rope and step back.”

Grunting, the oligurt dropped the rope beside Zecus and backed up to the tent’s entrance.

Urazûd shifted his gaze back to Zecus and studied him. The diabolical glint in the demon-man’s eyes turned Zecus winter-rain cold, even in the hot tent. After a long stretch of quiet, he spoke, his voice deep and throbbing.

“What is your name?”

Having no desire whatsoever to converse with the demon-man, Zecus pressed his lips together and remained silent.

“Allow me to go first,” said the demon. “I am Urazûd, servant of Chaos.” He paused a moment, reached up, and scratched his face. It sounded like his nails were scraping rough wood. Large flakes of skin fell away as he scratched, reminding Zecus of a molting snake. “Now. As you know my name, it is only proper I should know yours.”

Zecus remained silent.

After a few moments, Urazûd leaned forward and said, “Your name is all I ask. What harm is there in sharing that?”

Still, Zecus did not respond.

The demon’s blood-red eyes narrowed. Red-hot anger flashed across his face, his lips curling into a vicious snarl. It might have been Zecus’ imagination, but the torches in the tent appeared to flare up for a brief moment.

“I have asked nicely. Twice. I will not ask a third time.”

The man in the tent had said that to stay alive, he needed to talk. So, Zecus squared his shoulders, stared into the creature’s eyes, and said with twice as much courage as he felt, “My name is Zecus Alsher of the village Drysa, demon, and I do not fear you.”

The anger faded in an instant as an expression of calm claimed the Urazûd’s face. “Zecus…Zecus…” He repeated the name as if tasting the first bite of a foreign food. “Of course you do not fear me. It takes a courageous man to oppose me. Or a foolish one.” His chair creaked as he leaned even further forward. “Which are you…Zecus?”

Zecus ignored the question and asked his own.

“Where are the men I rode with?”

“Dead,” replied Urazûd without hesitation. “Three survived the attack. One died on his way to me, the other refused to speak. So, I am left with you. I have been waiting for you to awake for some time now.”

Zecus held demon-man’s stare but said nothing. After a few heartbeats, Urazûd spoke.

“Tell me, Zecus, exactly how many of you are there? And where I can find your camp?”

Zecus’ eyes narrowed.