Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (87 page)

As they passed a particularly giant specimen of the black-barked trees, he looked to Broedi and asked, “Great lion, what are—?”

Cutting him off, Broedi said, “Uori, I have asked you several times to stop calling me that. Please. Broedi will suffice.”

Zecus shook his head, protesting, “I cannot do that. People of high honor in the Borderlands are never called by their name. It is disrespectful.”

“I am aware of that. Yet for aki-mahet, the way to honor someone is to use his or her full name. Different customs for different people
.
”

Zecus frowned, trying to reconcile the conflicting mores. Thinking it might be better to honor the White Lion in his fashion, he asked, “What is your full name?”

Broedi looked over and, wearing a slight smile, said, “Broedikurja Kynsipitka.”

Zecus tried to wrap his mind and tongue around the unfamiliar sounds and syllables, but after a few incorrect attempts, he said with some amusement, “I see why people call you Broedi.”

“And I would be honored if you would call me that as well. Titles make me uncomfortable. Some of the Lions enjoyed such notoriety, but I was not one of them.”

“I will do as you ask,” said Zecus. “However, should we meet another from the Borderlands, do not be surprised if I begin calling you ‘great lion’ again.”

“Understood,” rumbled the hillman, a slight smile on his face. “Now, what were you going to say?”

After taking a moment to recall his question, Zecus said, “These giant trees. What are they called? I will need a name for them when I return home and tell my brother and sisters of this place. Not that they will believe me.”

Broedi eyed him for a few heartbeats, seemingly on the verge of asking something, but then turned his stare upward at the towering pines. “The people here call them ebonwoods. I have heard others names in the past, but ebonwoods seems most fitting. It a remarkable tree, to be honest. The timber, when treated with a certain resin, hardens to rival tempered steel. Locals carry weapons made of such.”

Yesterday, Zecus had seen a man carrying an odd-looking sword in one of the occasional settlements they came across. The homesteads were tiny, no more than a few families living together in homes of stacked logs.

“Why wooden swords?” asked Zecus.

“Iron is rare in the Southlands, expensive enough that only nobility can afford to purchase iron goods. Truth be told, most metals are scarce here.”

Over the next couple of miles, the White Lion shared a wealth of information about the area with Zecus: details about the wildlife and flora, a brief lesson on the history of nearby baronies, the geography of the region. Soon, Zecus suspected he knew more about the Southlands than anyone in their group besides Broedi.

The hillman was in the middle of explaining the medicinal properties of a particular purplish-green vine that grew up the sides of some of the ebonwoods, when he stopped talking in mid-sentence.

Zecus continued for another half-dozen horse-lengths before realizing the hillman was no longer beside him. Pulling on the reins, he halted Simiah and swiveled in his saddle. Broedi stood still as a statue, his nostrils flaring, his eyes shifting back-and-forth, wide and alert.

Laying the reins against Simiah’s neck, Zecus turned his horse around to face the hillman. Keeping his voice low, he murmured, “What is it?”

Broedi lifted his right hand, the request for silence was clear. He tilted his head one way, then the other. He was obviously listening for something.

Zecus scanned the mist and the trees, wondering what had alarmed the White Lion. The fog had lessened some since earlier, but in patches. Some stretches of the forest were clear, while others were still thick and opaque with gray mist. Ebonwood trunks rose from the haze like thick, black fingers clawing up from a blanket of smoke.

A dozen paces beyond where Broedi stood, a cloud of vapor curled and twisted, allowing Zecus a fortuitous glimpse through a break in the fog. At the furthest edge of his vision, he saw a quick blur of motion, moving left to right.

His heart stopped.

The fog thickened again and the gap was gone.

His heart started again, pounding twice as fast a moment ago.

Zecus whispered, “Broedi!”

The White Lion looked at him and Zecus pointed into the fog, indicating that he saw something. The giant man hurried toward him, reaching Zecus in four long and impossibly silent strides. Standing on Simiah’s right side, Broedi spoke, his voice hushed yet urgent.

“What did you see?”

Zecus hesitated.

“What was it?” demanded Broedi. His voice and eyes were insistent.

“A bullockboar,” murmured Zecus. He had only captured a glimpse—a pink, brown, and black streak dashing through the trees—but he was certain it had been the terrible, part-wolf, bear, and boar creature oligurts used as mounts. “And it was carrying an oligurt.”

Broedi peered at him, his eyes calm yet intense, and whispered, “You are sure?” He did not sound surprised

“I am.”

A soft crack of a stick drifted through the forest.

As one, Zecus and Broedi twisted their heads to their left, seeking the source. Zecus scanned the forest floor for any movement, but the mist drifting through the tree trunks played havoc with his vision. Every curl and wisp of haze looked like a bullockboar now.

Zecus suddenly noticed just how quiet the woods were. The birds that had been singing all morning had gone silent. Worry wrapped its fingers around him and squeezed tight as he realized the rest of the company was gone. The other soldiers had continued their march. He and Broedi were all alone.

Zecus drew his longsword—trying to be a quiet as he could—all the while looking to Broedi for guidance. The White Lion continuously sniffed the air while cocking his head in different directions. After a few agonizingly long and quiet moments, Broedi raised a hand and held up two fingers, pointing to the north first, then to the west. Gesturing with both hands, he indicated that whatever was out there was coming together, toward them.

A thick lump lodged itself in Zecus’ throat as the hillman crept away from Simiah, slinking into a clearing spotted with waist-high bushes. Broedi bent his knees, lowering himself into a crouch.

Knowing he would be wholly ineffective fighting in saddle, Zecus removed his right foot from the leather loop—which he now knew was called a stirrup—lifted his leg over the back of the horse, and lowered it to the ground. He half-expected Broedi to order him to stop, but the White Lion remained silent and alert.

A soft, nervous nicker slipped from Simiah.

Zecus froze—halfway dismounted—and patted his horse’s neck, trying to sooth him. The horse ignored his comforts and loosed a single, short snort of fear. Zecus’ worry deepened threefold. If the typically stalwart Simiah was bothered, whatever was coming was bad.

He began to remove his left foot from the other stirrup when a low growling rumbled through the mist behind him. Simiah spooked, sidestepping away from Zecus. His foot snagged in the stirrup and his left leg went with the horse, forcing him to hop along the ground twice on his right until he was able to free his foot. Off balance, he dropped his sword and fell into a mixture of fallen leaves, pine needles, and soft dirt. As he tumbled, a second growl shot across the glade, nearer to Broedi than him. Simiah whinnied, the cry sharp and loud. Zecus prayed the soldiers heard that.

Rolling over, he spotted a gray oligurt running toward him—on foot, without a bullockboar—nearly a hundred paces away.

The gray-skinned monster was just as he remembered from the camp in Midiah, bald and hideous with its yellowed tusks jutting up from its lower jaw. It carried a large, spiked club in its right hand as it ran toward him, thudding through the forest. Taking a quick glance to his left, through the prancing legs of Simiah, Zecus spotted another oligurt already on top of Broedi. The hillman was struggling with the beast, fighting hand-to-hand. Zecus wondered why the White Lion did not turn into the bear or lynx.

Spotting his sword a few paces away, partially covered with dried leaves and pine needles, he scrambled on hands and knees and grabbed the hilt along with a handful of needles. Despite a dozen sharp, pricks of pain stabbing his palm, he squeezed tight. He was not letting go of his sword again.

He hopped up, spun to face the oligurt, assumed the proper defensive position. As the beast thundered toward on him, it struck him just how unprepared he was for this. Two weeks ago, he had never held a sword. Now he was about to battle a giant, snarling oligurt carrying what looked like the trunk of a small tree. His slow, measured-pace lessons with Sergeant Trell had never covered this.

When the monster was a dozen paces away, it lifted its club high into the air and roared. Zecus raised his sword, thinking he would block the blow, but realized in an instant that the oligurt’s strength would drive through his parry as easily as if it Zecus were holding a fistful of Borderlands’ grass. Abandoning his attempt to block the assault, Zecus instead decided to attack.

As the massive monster began to bring the massive club downward, Zecus dashed forward and to his left—the creature’s right. He felt and heard the club whoosh past his back and thud into the ground where he had just been standing. Continuing past the off-balance oligurt, he lashed out with his sword, slashing wildly as he ran past the monster. The blade sliced deep into the oligurt’s meaty thigh and struck something solid within. Caught off-guard by the resistance of flesh and bone, the hilt flew from his hand as his momentum carried him past the oligurt. Trapped pine needles fell to the ground.

Suddenly weaponless, Zecus stumbled forward a few steps before whirling around to face his foe. The enormous oligurt let out a loud, bellowing roar of pain and reached for the sword that protruded from its upper thigh. The beast ripped the blade from its leg and glared at Zecus. Oily, black blood ran down its leg. The beast roared again—more in anger than in pain it seemed—and tossed Zecus’ sword blade away. The bloody blade soared through the air, spinning, and landed far away in the forest’s undergrowth.

Zecus reached down to retrieve the new boot-knife he had purchased in Fernsford. He had been an accomplished knife-thrower in Drysa, but the blades he had found at the Fernsford market were longer and thicker than those to which he was used. He had practiced a bit with the weapon in the evenings, but most of his time was spent on the sword now lying fifty paces away.

He held the unfamiliar dagger in his hand, squeezing the leather cord handle tightly, waiting for the oligurt to make a move. With a sneer and a growl, the beast began limping toward him. With a quick, underhand flick of his wrist, Zecus tossed the knife at the beast. The strange weight and shape of the dagger disrupted his throw, and he watched helplessly as the handle struck the oligurt in the chest and bounced off.

The bald oligurt slowed its approach, sneering and growling as it lurched closer. With Zecus defenseless, it seemed content to take its time.

Zecus scanned the ground around him for a stick or branch—anything that he could use as an improvised weapon. There was nothing but small stones, dead leaves, and pine needles. Looking across the clearing, he found Broedi—still as a hillman—atop the other oligurt, pinning the monster to the ground, pressing the giant club down on the creature’s neck.

Zecus stared back to his attacker. He was on his own.

The oligurt wore a terrible, sneering smile. At least Zecus assumed it was a smile, but the yellow fang-tusks jutting up from the lower jaw twisted it into a painful looking scowl.

“You lose, fleshling.”

Not wanting to die today, Zecus bent to the ground, grabbed a large stone, and heaved it at the oligurt. The stone smacked into the creature’s flat nose with a sickening thud and dropped to the ground. The oligurt growled in pain but continued its steady approach. Zecus thought he might have broken the oligurt’s nose, but there was no way to tell. It was the same misshapen hunk of flesh as it was a moment ago.

As he bent over to retrieve another rock, a soft whisper of air whistled past him, followed a moment later by a bellow of pain from the oligurt. Glancing up, he spotted a crow-feathered arrow embedded in the monster’s right shoulder. Clearly enraged, the oligurt threw back its head and clasped its left hand to where the shaft pierced its chest.

Another arrow whipped past Zecus and ripped through the back of the oligurt’s hand, pinning it to the beast’s chest. The monster roared again, dropped its club to the forest floor with a thud, and tried to grab the new arrow. While Zecus wondered from where the arrows were coming, he did waste time finding out. They were in the oligurt. That was good enough for him. Eyeing the oversized club lying the leaves and needles, he scurried forward, towards the oligurt’s weapon.

Preoccupied by the arrows, the oligurt paid no attention to Zecus as he ran up. Bending over, he tried to retrieve the spiked club but was unable to lift it with a single hand. It was much too heavy.

A third whistling sound, followed by a wet, squishy thunk, announced the arrival of another arrow. The oligurt screamed again, its deep, fury-filled cry swelling through the forest. The anxious shouts of soldiers drifted through the mist in reply. They were not close.

Using two hands, Zecus lifted the spiked club, grunting with the effort it required. He dropped the weapon as much as he swung it, but managed to slam it square atop the oligurt’s bare foot with a satisfying, solid crunch. He felt bones crack.

The oligurt roared louder as the metal hooks at the club’s end dug into its flesh. Black blood splattered into Zecus’ face, smelling of metal and sour milk.

Broedi shouted, “No, uora! No Strands!”

Sneaking a quick look behind him, Zecus found Kenders there, astride her horse, watching the battle with wide, anxious eyes. Sabine was beside her, sending yet another arrow in his direction. The shaft flew over his head, tearing into the oligurt’s cheek, turning the flesh into shredded meat. The monster’s black eyes swelled wide as it gave another gurgling roar.