Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (62 page)

“What do you think, Simiah? Shall we take a closer look?”

Simiah did not make a sound. A moment later, Zecus shook his head and sighed.

“Why am I asking you?”

Perhaps some of the furry animals made a home in the ruins. If he could corner one, catch it, and somehow light a fire, he could fill his stomach with something other than water. Glancing at the afternoon sky, he figured sundown was still some time away. He could spend the rest of the day hunting then sleep here for the night.

The gray stone fortification loomed ahead, beckoning.

As Zecus kicked Simiah’s sides and rode toward the ruins, he smiled. Perhaps the goddess Greya had taken pity on him. It seemed his fate was taking a turn for the better.

Nundle decided that, most of the time, riding a horse was not awful. He certainly appreciated the distance one could cover compared to what his short legs could. Presently, however, he loathed it. Instead of the gentle back-and-forth rocking of a leisurely walk, he was in the midst of a jarring trot, bouncing up and down, his teeth clattering against each other. He felt like a dusty rug being beaten clean with a stick.

For two days straight, they had been moving in alternating bursts of trotting and walking in order to keep the horses fresh. Yesterday afternoon, the group reached the Erona River, which was a good thing as the horses needed the water.

After the horses had their fill and the soldiers topped off their waterskins, the bulk of the group returned to the top of the slope. To Nundle’s great relief, scouts picked up a trail by the river’s shore whose markers matched those they were following. Nathan’s gamble had worked.

Most of the Sentinels traveled on the plains, parallel to the river, while a few scouts stayed with the trail below to ensure it did not lead to the river’s edge and disappear. Nundle prayed that would not happen; his inability to touch Strands of Water would leave them with no way to follow.

The pace set by Nathan provided little opportunity for talking but plenty of time to think. And that was exactly what Nundle had done, puzzling through everything they knew about the ‘outlaws’ and how it might apply to the prophecy.

It was said that Indrida withheld most of what she foresaw from mortals in order to prevent people from trying to alter events to either fit or thwart her words. The few known prophecies of hers were notorious in their ambiguity, often only making sense after the events they mentioned had occurred. Even so, that never stopped some from trying to guess what the future held.

Nundle had assumed that when the Progeny would ‘rise and lead the fight’ that they would be as powerful as the White Lions had been, but the inept display with the Strands of Fire had given him doubts. He realized he had been making assumptions all along and chastised himself for doing so. Just last evening, Nathan had asked a brilliant, insightful question: how many Progeny were there? Nundle had stared at the soldier, his expression blank. He had no idea.

A quiet, subdued discussion had followed where the sergeant and Nundle took turns in pointing out how little they truly knew. Afterwards, Nundle had not slept well, tossing about in his bedroll as his mind raced. The two nearly full moons had not helped his attempt at slumber.

“To a walk!”

Nathan's voice startled Nundle. He glanced up, surprised. They had only started trotting a short while ago. As the company slowed, he turned to Nathan and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Nathan as he pointed south.

Swiveling his head, Nundle spotted two horsemen riding toward them, having just crested the slope that led to the river below. Feeling a flash of panic, he muttered, “Oh, gods. They must have crossed the river.”

“Look closer. Those aren’t the scouts from the river.”

Nundle peered across the plain and realized the sergeant was right. The pair riding toward them wore mismatched tan tunics and breeches, not the red and black of the Red Sentinels. Nundle cautioned himself again to stop making assumptions.

“It’s Hunsfin and Blainwood,” murmured Nathan, his voice betraying a hint of nervous excitement. “If they are returning, they’ll have something important to report.”

Nundle watched the pair approach, his heart thudding in anticipation.

“Important and ‘good?’ Or important and ‘bad?’”

Nathan never answered him.

When scouts were a hundred paces away, Nathan ordered the company of Sentinels to halt. The two longlegs pulled up their horses, stopping but paces from Nathan and Nundle. The soldier on the left was short for a longleg, with shaggy, dark brown hair that hung to his shoulders. His partner was years older with short black hair and a face that reminded Nundle of a crag of rocks sticking from a cliff, complete with a scar that started at his right ear, drew across his cheek, and ended at the corner of his mouth.

Nodding to his soldiers, Nathan said, “I’m glad you were able to find us. I was afraid my change in direction would cause problems.”

The longleg on the left said, “We were a little surprised when we stumbled upon Bedwin and Erdswick down by the river. Hadn’t expected to see you for another day or so.”

“I decided to chance it,” said Nathan.

“It’s a good thing you did, Sergeant.” He paused and gave a confident, triumphant smile. “Hunsfin and I caught up to them.”

Excitement washed over Nundle like a burst of hot air from a just-opened baker’s oven.

Keeping his tone even, Nathan ordered, “Details, Blainwood. Keep it concise.”

Blainwood nodded and shifted in his saddle. Nundle could almost see the longleg gathering his thoughts.

“After leaving the farm, we pushed hard. The further east we went, the fresher the signs became. Based on the ground we made up, I’m guessing they only travel during daylight. Every so often, Hunsfin and I would ride up to the plains and see if we could spot anything in the valley. Not too long ago, we spotted a group on the horizon moving along the river. Four horses with riders—two women and two men—and a fifth led by a…uh…well…” He trailed off as his eyebrows drew together. He almost looked embarrassed.

“A what, Blainwood?” prompted Nathan.

The footman glanced at Hunsfin before saying, “Well, Sergeant. Let’s just say it was a
very
large man.”

Nundle sat straight in his saddle, his excitement tripling in an instant. Unable to restrain himself, he asked, “How large?”

The footman glanced toward his sergeant. After Nathan nodded, Blainwood said, “Blast the gods if he wasn’t seven feet tall.”

Nundle’s eyes went wide. This meeting was going to be even more thrilling than Nundle had thought.

The cragged-face Hunsfin spoke, his voice like gravel grinding under a boot heel.

“Taller.”

Blainwood looked at his fellow scout and said, “Right, well, Hunsfin keeps insisting he was taller, but…honestly—have you ever heard of a seven foot tall man?”

With a slight, knowing smile, Nundle murmured, “Not a man, no.”

An inquisitive look from Nathan told him the sergeant wanted an explanation, but Nundle would not share it now, he could not share it now. The two soldiers had no knowledge about the prophecy. None of the Red Sentinels did.

Moreover, Nundle was hesitant to make another assumption. It was possible that another hillman had just happened to stumble upon a handful of mages at the same time his ex-preceptor seemed intent on destroying the Progeny mentioned in Indrida’s prophecy. Nundle frowned. On second thought, that seemed unlikely.

Looking back to his men, Nathan asked, “What else? Anything?”

Nodding, Blainwood answered, “It looked as if the two men were armed, although the giant was not. We watched them for only a moment and then decided to return and find you.”

“How far ahead are they?” asked Nathan,

“If we ride hard, we could catch them by sunset,” answered Blainwood. He looked over at Hunsfin. “What do you think?”

“At least before the moons rise,” grated Hunsfin.

Sitting tall in his saddle, Nathan said, “Good job, men. Very good.” He nodded at the other Sentinels. “Fall in. And say nothing to anyone.”

The two longlegs complied with the order and directed their horses back to the main column. Nathan remained motionless for a few moments before turning his head to stare eastward, although he did not appear to be looking at anything in particular.

“Nathan? Are you all right?”

The sergeant drew in a long, deep breath, held it a moment, then exhaled slowly. In a quiet, cryptic tone, he asked, “These are strange times are they not?”

The odd response caught Nundle off guard. Before he could ask what Nathan meant, the sergeant called over his shoulder for Wil. Once the young longleg rode up, Nathan ordered him to retrieve the scouts along the river. As Wil galloped away, Nathan called out for a quick trot and headed east. The Red Sentinels followed.

Nundle expected a question or two from the sergeant about why the giant had interested him. Instead, Nathan rode in silence, wrapped in his own thoughts.

When Wil and the scouts returned, Nathan motioned for them to fall in without saying a word. Nundle was beginning to wonder if they were going to ride in quiet the rest of the day.

“Nathan?”

The sergeant looked over, his face drawn tight, and said, “Not now, Nundle.” He used a tone normally reserved for when he gave orders to the soldiers. Nundle shut his mouth.

With hooves thudding on prairie ground, Nathan led the group toward a pair of old oaks rising from the grassy plains. Trees were becoming more common as they moved southeast, and Nundle expected they would soon leave the grassy plains behind.

One of the oaks was mature and vibrant with thick, expansive branches coated with countless summer-green leaves. The other tree was obviously diseased with spotty foliage covering only a quarter of its branches. It was more a mass of jumbled sticks than a tree.

When they were a hundred paces from the oaks, Nathan halted the men with a raised hand. The sounds of fifty men commanding their horses to stop rang out over the plains.

Nundle stared at the bearded longleg, intensely curious.

“Nathan? What are we doing?”

The sergeant looked over to Nundle, a shrewd, sly smile on his face. Saying nothing, he spun his horse around and faced the assembled Sentinels. Nundle did the same, staring anxiously at Nathan the entire time.

Raising his voice, Nathan commanded, “Draw up! I have something to say, and I don’t want to shout!”

The Sentinels nudged their horses closer, edging between one another until there was a two-row semicircle of horses and soldiers. Nundle spotted Cero, the Tracker, hanging back behind both rows, all by himself. Suspicion hung heavy in the longleg’s eyes. Something about the Tracker made Nundle very uneasy.

Once the soldiers had settled, Nathan sat tall in his saddle and addressed the Red Sentinels, his tone confident and firm.

“You are good soldiers.”

He paused a moment, letting the lone sentence hang in the air before continuing.

“You are tough. You do your duty. You follow orders without question.”

He scanned the two rows, seemingly staring every soldier in the eyes.

“For weeks now, we have been trailing a group of individuals because we were ordered to do so. We were told these people were mages, outlaws. That they had to be captured. That they were a threat.”

Without a doubt, this had the markings of a carefully considered speech. Nundle now understood why Nathan had been so quiet earlier.

“Men!” said Nathan, his voice clear and crisp. “Like you, I grew up listening to the stories about magic. How it hurts people, tricks them. That those who use it cannot be trusted, that instead, they should be feared.”

Nundle eyed his new friend, wondering what Nathan was doing. This was not how he would have gone about things.

“Yet, despite our personal fears about magic and mages, we accepted our assignment with dignity and resolve. We have been executing our orders to the best of our ability, pressing on with hardly any evidence that we
might
be on the right trail.
Now
, however, based on what Blainwood and Hunsfin have seen, we have solid evidence that not only are we on the right track, but that we have nearly caught up to our prey.”

The announcement prompted an excited murmuring from the longlegs. Cero seemed especially tense, sitting tall in his saddle.

Nathan held up his hand, quieting the men.

“Now, beyond being good soldiers, I judge you all to be good men. Honest. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Because of this, I feel comfortable asking you do something that goes against everything I‘ve ever taught you, against every instinct you have as a soldier.” He paused, took a deep breath, and while staring at his men, spoke clearly and without reservation. “Men, I want you to ignore our orders.”

Again, the soldiers began talking amongst themselves, although louder this time and while wearing confused expressions.

Pressing on, Nathan yelled over the soldiers, “I expect you to hear me out!”

It took a few moments, but the Sentinels quieted and stared at their sergeant, more than a few with suspicion in their eyes. Nundle eyed the soldiers, swallowing a lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. He hoped Nathan knew what he was doing.

“Thank you,” said Nathan. “Now, since we began our pursuit, a number of things have bothered me about our task. Why were we—soldiers—sent to hunt mages? Is that not the role of the Constables?”

Most of the soldiers nodded agreement. A few glanced back at a stone-faced Cero.

Rushing ahead, Nathan offered a one question after another to his soldiers.

“And Fenidar? Who is he and why did the regent give him command? And what of Lakeborough? Not only did we march straight through a Southlands’ city, but a contingent of Southern Arms joined us! Arms and Sentinels, side-by-side, traipsing about the countryside, looking for mages? When have any of you heard of something like that happening?”

The longlegs shook their heads, agreeing with Nathan as he paused and scanned the double rows again.