Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (78 page)

The group fell quiet, frowning at one another. Sabine tried to think of a solution around the problem and was sure everyone else was doing the same. The silence prompted Helene to twist in Kenders’ lap and stare at Sabine. She looked bored.

“Are more soldiers coming, Sabine?”

“We hope not,” muttered a preoccupied Sabine.

“Why not?”

“Because they’re not like these soldiers.” She waved a hand at the Red Sentinels still milling about and talking.

“Why not?”

Sabine sighed, struggling with how to explain the situation to a four-year-old. “Well…because they’re just different. Now, please be quiet!” Her words were harsher than she had intended. A lack of sleep had her on edge.

Helene dropped her chin to her chest.

“Sorry.”

Sabine eyed her little sister, sighed, and was a moment away from apologizing for snapping when Helene looked back up.

“Nik-lys said they wear blue and gold. I like gold.” She smiled wide. “It’s my new favorite color.”

Sabine could not help but grin.

“Since when, dear?”

“Since this morning,” giggled the little girl. It was difficult to keep Helene’s spirits down very long. “Are the soldiers different because they have different colors?”

Sabine gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “Well, yes. Their uniforms are different. But that’s not what…makes…” She trailed off as an idea wormed its way into her head. Her eyes opened wide as she stared at Nikalys and asked, “How many of them did you say there are?”

“A little over a hundred. Why?”

Sabine smiled wide at her little sister.

“You are the smartest little girl in the world, Helene.”

Her sister beamed at the compliment despite having no idea why she had received it.

Turning to stare at Broedi, Sabine said, “I have an idea.”

Beads of sweat dripped from Nundle’s brow, down his cheek and neck, rolling into his shirt collar. Today was warmer than the past few days had been, but he did not think the heat was responsible for his perspiring.

Glancing to his right, Nundle eyed the hillman walking beside him, easily keeping pace with Nundle’s chestnut horse.

“Exactly how far are we from Fernsford?”

Keeping his gaze straight ahead, the White Lion answered, “The city itself is not quite a day’s ride south of the bridge. From where we stand now, we are a half-day’s ride from the northern end of the bridge.”

“That’s close.”

Nodding, Broedi rumbled, “Agreed.”

Riding her horse, on the other side of the White Lion, Kenders said, “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” She wore a brave, resolute expression on her face, but her tense shoulders and rigid posture betrayed her. She was nervous.

Sighing, Nundle eyed Broedi again. “Cero couldn’t tell you anything about the Constables office in Fernsford? How many Trackers they have? Anything useful?”

Broedi shook his head. “He was…reticent to talk with me. The other Tracker was even less cooperative.”

Frowning, Nundle muttered, “Even if Cero had told you something, I am not sure I would believe it. If he told me the sky was up, I’d ask for proof. I still think we should send him away.”

Broedi rumbled, “I would rather have the Trackers with us. Where I can see them.”

“Nathan says the same thing,” replied Nundle. “It’s just that…whenever they’re nearby, I get an eerie feeling.” He shuddered. “I don’t like it.”

“You are letting your worries best you, little one.” Broedi eyed him, a slight smile on his face. “I believe you are more nervous than she is.”

Nundle and Kenders protested simultaneously, “I am not nervous!”

Turing his gaze straight ahead, the hillman chuckled quietly. “I apologize, then. I was mistaken.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Now, please, no more talking. I must listen.”

Kenders and Nundle complied and the trio continued moving through the trees in silence. As he had been doing for three days now, Nundle stole more than a few sidelong glances at Kenders. He could not decide what astonished him more, that he was riding beside the most powerful mage in all of Terrene, or that she did not understand just how talented she was.

Broedi had shared with him that Kenders was capable of touching each type of Strand that the White Lion knew: Life, Soul, Will, Air, Water, and Fire. From the night in the fort, Nundle knew she was also capable of touching Void. It had been her first unraveling of the moonlight Imperial soldier that had revealed to Nundle how to tear the pattern apart. Taking into account what she had done with Stone by the farmhouse, and her initial summoning of lighting using Charge, it reasoned that Kenders could touch all nine types of Strands. He had never heard of such a thing.

Shifting his gaze to Broedi, Nundle’s wonderment at his current position deepened. A half-dozen years ago, he was sitting in his trading office with his partner Bom, going over ledgers and discussing shipping routes. Now, he was with Thonda’s champion and the Progeny of Indrida’s prophecy. This was madness.

“Do not panic,” rumbled the hillman, his voice soft. “We are about to be stopped.”

Nundle’s head snapped up. He scanned the trees and grass, but did not see anyone.

“What do you—”

“Halt!”

The shout startled him, his mount, and Kenders’ horse apparently as the beast tossed her head and nickered. Broedi reached out and grabbed the bridles of both and in a low, quiet voice, said, “Remember. Neither of you are to say anything.”

Nundle nodded in silence, happy to let Broedi do the talking.

Three longlegs dressed in blue and gold stepped from behind the trees ahead. Nundle was surprised at how similar the uniforms were to the Red Sentinels livery. Where the Sentinels had black, the Arms had a deep blue, the same for red versus gold. The two large differences were the duchy crest and the helmet. The crest on the Southern Arms was a white, embroidered arm grasping a sword on a golden shield. And instead of the silver, domed helm of the Sentinels, these men had a golden, cylindrical helmet with a flat top. It looked as if they wore metallic ale mugs upside down on their heads.

The longleg in the center moved toward them, his right hand on the hilt of his still-sheathed sword. He had a bushy golden beard and deep blue eyes, absurdly matching his uniform. The two Southern Arms flanking him followed a few steps behind, one with his sword drawn while the other held a crossbow at the ready. Both had beards in the same style as the longleg in the center, although theirs were much darker; one solid black, one brown that flashed red when he stepped into the sunlight.

Several dozen paces from Nundle’s group, the soldiers stopped. The golden-bearded one in the middle stared at them, a confused expression upon his face. “A tomble, a giant, and a girl?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Were I a betting man, I would have lost a fair number of ducats just now.”

Broedi rumbled, “And were I a betting man, I would have made a fortune, as I more than expected to be stopped by soldiers of the Southlands.”

The longleg—Nundle dubbed him ‘Goldbeard’—lifted his hand away from his sword hilt, crossed his arms, and asked, “Did you now?” He ran his eyes over the three of them again. “I’m guessing that means you’re with those blasted Sentinels. I don’t suppose you’d like to share why there’s an entire company of them this far in the Southlands?”

Sounding as if it was no bother at all, Broedi rumbled, “I will be happy to share. However, my orders are to speak directly with your captain.”

“Orders?” Goldenbeard’s eyes narrowed. “Orders from who?”

Broedi shook his head.

“I am not permitted to share that with anyone but the captain.”

“You wish to speak with the captain, do you?”

“Correct.”

“Well, that will be difficult to do as we have none with us.
Lieutenant
Madric is in charge.”

Nundle winced. The soldier had called Broedi’s first bluff.

Sounding surprised, Broedi said, “The captain is not here?” A pensive frown spread over his lips. “That is unexpected.” The hillman went quiet for a long moment.

Goldbeard shot Nundle a suspicious stare. Nundle offered a tiny, nervous smile in return while swallowing the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.

With a sigh of resignation, Broedi said, “The lieutenant will have to suffice then. Why your captain did not see fit to come himself is no matter for the moment. Duchess Aleece will have words with his superiors.”

“What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?” asked Goldbeard. He ran his gaze over the three of them again. “The duchess sent you?”

Nundle could understand the man’s dubious expression. The claim that the sovereign of the Southlands Duchy would associate with the three of them was tougher to swallow than last week’s bread.

Nodding, Broedi rumbled, “She did. Now, please, take us to the lieutenant.”

Goldbeard looked as if he wished to challenge them further, but instead shrugged his shoulders.

“Fine, then. Let’s go. Madric can sort this all out. Follow me.”

He turned and began heading east. The two flanking soldiers moved aside, letting the trio pass and then falling in behind, trailing them through the wilderness. Nundle glanced at Kenders several times as they went, praying that the lone, rushed lesson he had given her would be enough if things went poorly. Kenders caught him staring and forced a smile. He could see that she was nervous. Nundle sighed and faced forward. So was he.

After an uncomfortably quiet journey, Goldbeard led them into a clearing filled with a hundred Southern Arms, their horses picketed with saddles still on their backs, soldiers meandering about, ready to move at a moment’s notice. A lone tent had been raised on the far side of the group, amongst the trees and grass.

Like the three soldiers who had guided Nundle’s group to the camp, every longleg here sported a beard. Nundle found the idea of having fur on one’s face a horrid one. He inquired about its apparent itchiness to Nathan one evening, but the sergeant dismissed his concern, saying it was not a bother. A few moments later, Nundle spotted the sergeant scratching his face.

Goldbeard glanced back and held a hand up for them to halt.

“Wait here.”

He strode toward the tent, leaving the three alone in the middle of the camp, surrounded on all sides by ogling soldiers.

A quick glance at Kenders revealed the girl looking from one face to another. She appeared a touch paler than a little while ago. Broedi, on the other hand, appeared as though he were standing alone in a quiet forest glade somewhere, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the wilderness.

Goldbeard reached the tent, entered, and then emerged a moment later with a skinny longleg. The thin soldier pushed his way through the crowd with Goldbeard in tow. He had the same uniform as the rest, but also wore a white cloth mantle draped over his right shoulder. His hawkish nose, thinning brown hair, and sharp, darting eyes all contributed to the man resembling a common river crane.

He stopped before them and stared, his face a mask of bewilderment. In a chirping voice that farcically matched his birdish appearance, he said, “Who are you and why are you here?!”

Ignoring the soldier’s rudeness, Broedi said, “Good days ahead, Lieutenant Madric.”

“Forget the pleasantries and answer me.”

A slight frown touched Broedi’s lips.

“I am here on the behalf of Duchess Aleece and Duke Everett to oversee the commencement of the exercise. The Sentinels are ready to begin if you are.”

The lieutenant’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“Exercise? What exercise? What are you talking about?”

Nundle felt the golden crackling of Will and watched as Broedi knit the Strands together into the pattern with which Nundle was quite familiar. He glanced at Kenders to ensure she was paying close attention. She was indeed, alert and staring at the Weave.

Once it was complete, the hillman directed the pattern to settle over the lieutenant. As it melted into his body, Nundle scanned the surrounding soldiers and was relieved to see that none had reacted to the Weave. They had not expected there to be a mage here, but it had been a worry.

Broedi rumbled, “You are here for the joint exercise between the Arms and the Sentinels, Lieutenant, are you not?”

For a brief moment, the lieutenant struggled against Broedi’s suggestion before nodding.

“Of course. That is why we’re here.”

A low murmur spread among the soldiers, rippling outward through the assembled Southern Arms. Goldbeard, standing behind the lieutenant with a very surprised expression on his face, leaned toward his officer.

“Sir? What is he—Hells, what are
you
talking about?”

Lieutenant Madric’s eyes went blank and he began to stutter.

“Well, the joint exercise that is to be…there is a…”

Nundle frowned; the lieutenant could not possibly answer Goldbeard’s question without some guidance. Thankfully, Broedi provided it.

“Lieutenant Madric must be at a loss for words now that the time is at hand. It is certainly understandable. It is a great honor to have been chosen by the duchess.”

By now, a steady thrum of confusion filled the clearing. Nundle eyed the soldiers, a frown on his face. The Southern Arms carried themselves differently than Nathan’s soldiers. These longlegs looked to be of a rougher cut and not nearly as respectable.

A longleg on Nundle’s left shouted, “What’s he talking about, Lieutenant?”

Broedi took a step toward Lieutenant Madric and suggested, “Perhaps I should explain things? You should go to your command tent and begin preparations.”

The officer’s face was drawn taut. Tiny muscles twitched along his eyes and jawline as he fought against the Weave. Nundle had seen this dozens of times. Much longer, and the soldier might push aside the suggestion. Not wanting that to happen, Nundle whipped together a second Weave of Will, directed it over the longleg, and spoke.

“It sounds like a good idea to me, Lieutenant. Head to your tent now. We’ll explain everything to the soldiers.”

His Weave and his words earned him a sharp glare from Broedi. Nundle pretended he did not see it.