Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (60 page)

“Is it dangerous?”

“I doubt it. I merely wish to speak in private.”

Nathan nodded, turned to his detachment, and ordered a quick trot. He wanted to get to this campsite as quickly as possible.

Soon, an area of trampled grass broke the constant blanket of green ahead of them. Halting the men, he ordered them to hold back while he and Nundle inspected the camp. As he dismounted, he noted Cero off to the side, away from the rest of the men, staring at him with a strange intensity.

Nundle had already slid off his small horse was walking toward the campsite. Nathan followed, leaving his horse with Nundle’s. As he approached the campsite, he found the tomble strolling about the edges, stopping to inspect patches of charred ground spread about haphazardly. It looked as if a drunken, blind man with a lit torch had stumbled all over the camp, constantly falling down.

When Nundle dropped to his hands and knees and pressed his face near the ground to sniff one of the charred areas, Nathan’s curiosity got the best of him.

“Nundle?”

“Hmm?”

“I take it these patches mean something to you?”

“They do.” Nundle hopped up and brushed himself off. “You remember what I’ve shared with you about magic—how it is a weaving of one or more types of Strands?”

Nodding, Nathan muttered, “And?”

“Well, during my time at the Academy of Veduin, when I was trying my hand with Fire—and failing miserably at it—the first thing my preceptor did was have us attempt simple exercises. She wanted those of us attuned with Fire to have the utmost control possible. Fire Strands are….volatile. They bounce all over the place, dancing, flickering. At least that’s what the other acolytes said. I never felt even the smallest flash of orange. I was so disappointed! You see, I had found a book a while back on how to combine Will, Soul, and Fire to make these wondrous creatures called ‘fibríaals.’ Soul and Will I can do, but Fire? No matter what—”

“Nundle?” said Nathan, cutting the tomble off. When it came to magical topics, his new friend had a tendency to ramble. Nodding at the burnt grass, he said, “What are these?”

“Yes, well, even for those who
could
touch Fire, learning to control the Strands was a struggle. For the first few weeks, there would be…accidents when a Weave would go awry. The acolytes’ courtyard was covered with charred, black marks.” He looked around the trampled grass. “Similar to these.”

Nathan looked about the days-old camp, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re saying we’re following someone who is just learning how to control their abilities?”

Lines split Nundle’s brow, his eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips together. “Nathan, if this—” he gestured around him “—was the only thing we knew about them, I would have said that we are dealing with novices. Untrained mages, even.”

“If they’re only learning, how did they defeat the bandits at the farm so easily? We’re following three people here, and they stopped seven or eight marauders?”

“I was thinking the same thing, but then your young scout spoke about the missing wall and sand pile. Remember what he said? The sand was
identical
in color to the remaining walls! The grains uniform in size!”

“I remember, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t understand the significance.”

“The sand
used to be
the missing wall, Nathan. Pulverized into dust! How?”

Again, Nathan had no logical answer. Of course, with magic, logic no longer applied. “You said there was a type of Strand…earth or stone, right? Could some of those have been used to do it?” He felt uncomfortable even suggesting the possibility. Not thinking of magic as a tool of criminals was going to take some getting used to.

Nodding enthusiastically, Nundle said, “Exactly. Strands of Stone. Ah, but now here’s the problem with that. To rip apart a single wall, leaving the other three untouched, all without uprooting the earth itself takes a great deal of power
and
skill. Only a master of Stone could do something like that.”

Nathan frowned, imagining what would happen if an army had a mage like that. Stone fortresses would be useless. The tactical advantage could be tremendous. The idea excited him until he thought about being on the other side of such a maneuver.

Staring at the tomble, he asked, “So, then. Are they beginners, novices, or masters?”

Nundle peered up at him, his expression blank. With a shrug of his shoulders, he said, “I don’t know.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Nathan dropped his head, stared at his boots, and sighed, “Wondrous. Yet another unknown.”

Nathan did not like making decisions based on unknowns and assumptions. It often led to undesired results. Lifting his head, he peered at the little tomble.

“Is there anything you think you will gain from visiting the farm?”

Nundle considered the question before replying, “If you trust your scout’s report, no. Why? What are you thinking?”

“That we don’t waste any more time than is necessary,” said Nathan as he turned to walk back to his mount.

His horse looked up at him as he approached, staring at him while chewing a mouthful of grass. Placing a boot in the stirrup, he swung his other leg over, and settled in the saddle. Shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, he looked to the southeast, away from the trail that headed almost due south.

Nundle scampered over to his own small chestnut horse and started to pull himself up in the saddle. Nathan had stopped asking if he needed help after the first time had earned him a scathing look and a terse “No, thank you.”

Nathan looked over his shoulder and called, “Eadding!”

The young footman directed his horse forward, coming to stand alongside Nathan.

“Sergeant?”

“You said their path headed away from the farm and along the river, correct?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“And the river appeared to head southeast?”

“Yes, Sergeant. More east than south, though.”

Picking a single tree fortuitously placed among the grassy plains on the distant southeastern horizon, Nathan pointed and said, “We head that way. Wil, take a few men and ride ahead. Stay in view, though.”

The young footman nodded and moved back to the company of men, calling out a few names. Wil and three others began to trot ahead, over the plains and toward the lone tree, the sound of hooves thudding on the rain-softened ground filling the air.

By now, Nundle had made it up on his horse, breathing hard from the struggle.

“We’re going to leave the trail?”

“Yes, Nundle, we are.”

A moment passed. Nundle frowned.

“Is that wise?”

With a dry smile, Nathan replied, “I don’t know.” Turning so he was facing Nundle, he said, “I might not have read many books about distant lands, but I have studied maps and guides of our neighbors. The river ahead of us is the Erona. It is a very wide, very deep river. They will not be able to forge it.”

“You forget they may have other means at their disposal, Nathan.”

The sergeant knew exactly about what Nundle was talking. Magic.

Nathan pressed his lips together and said firmly, “I have not forgotten. I’m merely hoping that after what they had to do at the farm, they’re going to try to remain quiet and unobtrusive.”

Nundle said softly, “It’s a gamble.”

“It is,” admitted Nathan. “But it’s a small one compared to what you have proposed we do should we catch them.”

Nundle lifted an eyebrow and conceded, “That’s true.” Staring closely at Nathan, he asked, “Have you thought any more about my suggestion?”

“I have.”

“And?”

A few moments passed before Nathan replied, “I believe I am coming around.”

With a satisfied nod of his head, Nundle said, “Good.” The tomble turned his head to watch the retreating backs of the men riding across the prairie. “How are you going to tell your men?”

Nathan sighed and muttered, “Still working that out, Nundle.” Before Nundle could press him further, he looked behind him and called, “Quick march, trot!” The alternating periods of trotting with walking cover more ground while keeping the horses relatively fresh.

Within moments, the Red Sentinels were thundering across the plains of the Southlands.

Mu’s
Leisure Day

A turn ago, Jak found the idea of riding a horse unsettling. Now, however, despite the persistent soreness, the rhythmic shifting of Hal’s stride was relaxing, lulling him into a lazy, restful daze. He might have even fallen asleep in the saddle were it not for his uncomfortably damp clothes.

The weather was changing. A rainstorm had moved through a few days ago, bringing with it a fresh, cool breeze that had remained constant ever since. Another short squall blew through this morning, dropping fat, chilled raindrops that soaked the entire group to the skin. Everyone was still drying out.

Jak rode at the rear of their unusual procession, peering ahead at the horses and people ahead of him. When they had taken two of the bandit’s horses with them when leaving the Moiléne farm and turned the other five loose. The plan had been for Sabine and Helene to each have their own horse, but Helene most often rode with someone and, given the choice, she always chose Nikalys. The little girl had attached herself to him.

All day, every day, Helene sat in his lap, pestering him with question after question. At the moment, she was focused on the Isaacs’ life in Yellow Mud. Her innocent inquiries were unintentionally clever, and the arbitrary manner in which she asked them managed to keep most everyone smiling.

Why do grapes grow on vines but olives grow on trees?

Why do you need a barn to store your wagons in when Papa just left his outside?

What is an ash tree and why is it called an ash tree? Did somebody burn it?

Nikalys bore the unending barrage with more grace and patience than Jak would have guessed he had, responding to each question as best as he was able. When he did not have the answer—or the question itself was unanswerable—he would make one up. Earlier, Helene had asked why a hoe was called a hoe. Nikalys, with a straight face, explained that whenever you struck the ground with it, you must yell “Hoe!” else the tool would not bite into the earth. Helene seemed dubious at first, but Nikalys insisted it was true. With a giggle and a shrug, the little girl seemed to accept it as fact.

Jak marveled at the little girl’s resilience. Perhaps she was still too young to understand fully what had happened at the farm. Truthfully, Jak was not entirely sure he understood everything about that day. He remembered very little after being shot by the arrow.

Three days ago, he awoke the morning following the attack, greeted by a pounding headache and a very sore stomach. Jak peered down and—to his amazement—all he saw was a bright red scar where the shaft had pierced his gut.

With a groan, he sat up and found the stunning, raven-haired woman from the farmhouse resting in the grass a few paces away, staring at him with cool yet curious eyes. Kenders introduced her as Sabine and Jak stumbled over himself while trying to offer a proper greeting. He started and stopped three times, before finally murmuring a simple, “I’m Jak.”

While Broedi saddled the horses and prepared to leave, Nikalys and Kenders shared everything that had happened while Jak had slept. He was stunned to discover that both Helene and Sabine—the Moiléne sisters—were also mages.

Before leaving the farm, Broedi called everyone to the cart and handed out equipment taken from the pile of the dead bandits’ items. For Jak’s part, he received a veritable duke’s arsenal: a beltknife, a steel longsword and leather scabbard, and a quiver of hawk-feather arrows. He strapped everything on, wondering all the while how soldiers maneuvered with so much stuff hanging from their bodies.

Broedi had tried to hand over one of the bandit’s bow and quiver to Sabine but she refused, wanting nothing to do with the brigands’ belongings. She acquiesced when he said she might need it to keep Helene safe and strapped it—and a quiver—to her saddle. Over the past three days, however, Jak had noticed she went out of her way to avoid touching it.

When Broedi had announced they were ready to go, Helene threw a small fit, upset that she had not received anything. While Broedi seemed at a loss as to what to do—the hillman tried pointing out the lack of wisdom in giving a child a weapon—Kenders came to the rescue giving Helene one of their remaining firesticks, handing the red-tipped stick to the girl and telling her it was a ‘secret stick of fire.’ Elated, the little girl proceeded to skip about the camp with the firestick, waving it in the air and singing.

Even now, three days later, Helene grasped the same firestick in her small hand, waving it about while bedeviling Nikalys with her questions. Jak shook his head and smiled. Helene was a welcome addition to their group. Then he shifted his attention to the elder Moiléne sister and his smile slipped away. As was often the case, the corners of Sabine’s mouth were curled downward. He thought it a shame that a girl as striking as Sabine spent so much time with some variation of a scowl on her face. The few times she flashed a smile—mostly in the evenings when she was sitting with Helene—it had been radiant. He wished she would do it more often.

“Oh, gods…”

Turning to his right, Jak was surprised to find Kenders riding beside him. “When did you get here?” Kenders typically rode beside Sabine. In fact, he would have sworn that was where she had been a short time ago.

“Perhaps if you weren’t gaping at Sabine, you might have noticed me.”

Jak’s neck and cheeks grew warm.

“I wasn’t gaping at her.”

Arching a single eyebrow, Kenders said, “Oh, come now…”

He could protest, but Kenders would see through it. Frowning, he leaned toward his sister and muttered, “Please don’t say anything?”

Kenders rolled her eyes, drove her heels into Smoke’s side, and rode ahead. She trotted past Nikalys and Helene, saying hello to both, fell in next to Sabine, and immediately leaned over and said something to the young woman.

His heart thudding in his chest, Jak mumbled, “You would not dare.”