The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (22 page)

He turned his gaze back to the west, following the road’s winding path to where it wrapped behind a hill. Rhohn tried to recall the land’s layout on the other side of the rise, but could not. He had just marched over that knoll, yet all he could remember was the constant, never-ending, brown grass and a few, random bulboa trees.

Rhohn sighed. He could not think straight. He needed food and clean water.

As he scanned the land for any sort of movement, he noticed a small plume of smoke on the eastern horizon, a grayish-white line meandering upward to where it disappeared against a backdrop of gray clouds.

Rhohn’s eyes narrowed.

“Hold a moment.”

Tilting his head back, he stared at the overcast heavens just as another deep, drawn-out rumble rolled over the hills and plains.

He shut his eyes.

“You are a fool, Rhohn Lurus.”

Standing tall, he turned around and eyed the southwestern sky. Thunderclouds filled the horizon, bulky and clumped together to form a towering dark gray wall. A muted flash of distant lightning briefly lit up the clouds. Rhohn cocked his lone eyebrow, surprised.

Outside of the Winter turns, rain in the Borderlands was a rare event. He tried to recall what day it was, but after a few moments, he realized he had no idea even what turn it was. Perhaps it was Winter.

Shaking his head, he sighed, “I was hiding from a rain storm.”

At least his water problem would be solved for a time. Once the storm reached him, he could fill his scavenged waterskin with puddled rainwater before the rock-hard land softened and eventually absorbed every drop. Content that he would not die of thirst, Rhohn swiveled to stare back to the eastern horizon and the plume of smoke.

“Fools.”

If refugees had built the fire, they were not very bright. The smoke curl was visible for miles, the scent of charred wood perhaps even further downwind. If the fire belonged to a camp of Sudashians, Rhohn wanted nothing to do with it.

He turned to the southeast, intent on making his way around the fire, took several steps, and then stopped. The day was warm—every day was warm in the Borderlands—meaning the fire’s only purpose could be for cooking something. The thought of meat roasting over flame set off a grumbling in Rhohn’s stomach.

Food had been incredibly difficult to come by on his journey. The few abandoned, burned-out villages he had come across had been raided, picked clean by the invaders.

He stood there for a long moment, a slight frown on his face. If they were refugees, perhaps he could beg a bite or two from them. He knew he was mad for even considering approaching the fire, but, in the end, his hunger overruled caution and common sense.

Turning north, he hurried to the dirt road, crossed it, and scampered back into the cover of the dry grass, planning to circle the fire and approach from downwind. If they were Sudashians, he would surely smell their rankness on the air.

The wind picked up as he walked north, shifting from gentle, sweeping gusts into a steady, driving blow. By the time he reached the far side of where the plume had been he was no longer able to see the smoke. The strong wind wiped any trace of it from the sky. He could smell charred wood, though, along with the undeniable aroma of roasting meat.

Crouching low and securing his sword against his body to prevent it from rattling, he began to creep up a slight slope, his boots crunching on the dry ground with each careful step. Strong wind gusts pressed large swaths of the prairie down, sporadically exposing Rhohn’s bent form. The clouds were closer now, the flashes of lightning brighter, and the thunder louder. The day was as dim as if it were past dusk.

Believing himself near the fire, Rhohn dropped to the ground and wriggled along, bits of broken grass shafts slipping down his shirt and pants. He sent a short, silent plea to Lamoth, praying no poisonous ran-ras snakes were nearby. He had spotted two sunning themselves on a boulder yesterday, but hoped they were an aberration. The venom of a ran-ras was like fire in the veins, paralyzing a man within minutes and killing him within the hour.

A flash of lightning lit the prairie bright as the air boomed loud enough that Rhohn swore his bones rattled. Moments later, a quick, steady rain began to fall, quickly soaking him. Grateful for the additional cover the rain provided, he continued shimmying along the ground until he caught a voice drifting along with the wind.

“—tied up good. I don’t want nothing blowing—”

The wind shifted and the voice disappeared.

From tone alone, Rhohn judged the gruff and rough voice as belonging to an older man. A moment later, a second deep voice responded to the first. Unfortunately, the wind and thunder obscured the words. Remaining motionless and silent, Rhohn strained, listening while the rain turned the top layer of the dry and dusty Borderlands dirt into a filmy mud. After a time of hearing nothing but the clamor of the storm, he resumed his careful approach, sliding through grass and muck.

A shift in the wind parted the grass ahead of Rhohn for a moment, allowing him a quick glimpse into a camp. Four saddle-less horses were picketed to the ground, heads down, hindquarters into the wind. To the right of the horses, two dirty tents struggled to stand, flapping in the gale. A charred area in a stretch of flattened grass was all that was left of the fire. Rhohn frowned. He did not see any meat.

Looking back to the horse, his frown shifted into a wary grimace. Four mounts most likely meant four people, at least two of them men.

To the left of the horses, a small four-wheeled cart rested, its open, uncovered bed holding a few dirty cloth sacks in the back. Sticks rose from the four corners of the cart, topped with red and yellow pennants whipping in the wind. Rhohn’s eyes locked on the flags.

“Traders? Here?”

The wind’s direction changed again, and his view of the camp vanished as the grass stood tall. Rhohn lay in the mud, wondering why peddlers would still be here. Most of the Borderlands were abandoned. No one was left to buy anything.

He inched closer to the camp on his stomach, wanting to get a better look at whatever was in the exposed cart. Perhaps he could find something of value that he could sell if he ever found a village with people in it again. Peering through the driving rain, he studied the open wagon. Cloth sacks and bags of varying sizes littered the cart, their tops bunched together and tied off with a length of rope. As Rhohn reached up to wipe rainwater from his eyes, he stopped—hand frozen in midair—and stared.

One of the bags had moved.

Moving his hand over his brow to hold back the rain, Rhohn squinted, wondering if a wayward raindrop in his eye had fooled him into thinking that he had seen movement.

The tan cloth bag moved again. Rhohn’s eyes narrowed. He wondered exactly what these traders were peddling.

“What in the…?”

As he watched, the sack scooted to the back of the wagon’s edge, tumbled over, and fell, landing hard on the ground. Moments later, the flap of the tent closest to the cart opened. A short, slightly overweight man emerged and stepped into the rain. His skin was pale, unlike a Borderlander, as was the long, stringy dark hair hanging from under a wide-brimmed hat. His left hand pressed the hat tight on his head, holding it against the wind, while his right grasped a style of sword Rhohn had not seen since his days in Gobas. Its blade started skinny at the hilt, widening as it swept upwards in a curved line before ending in a hooked point. Without a doubt, these men were Marshlanders.

The man glared in the direction of the cart and began to stride toward where the large bag had fallen. Upon reaching the cart, he stopped and stared at the sack on the ground, his back to Rhohn. After a few moments, the man—still holding his hat on his head with his left hand—tossed his sword on the back of the cart, the muffled clang of metal striking wood loud enough to be heard over the blowing wind and rain.

With his now-free hand, the man bent over and struggled with the sack, finally hoisting it from the ground. When he released the muddy canvas, the large sack remained upright. Without a doubt, there was a person inside.

Rhohn’s hissed, “Blasted slavers.”

He had first heard the slaving rumors when he and Silas were in Midiah. Men were supposedly roaming the countryside, kidnapping refugees and stealing them away for sale. At the time, Rhohn had discounted the whisperings, believing the chaotic exodus east responsible for missing friends and family members. Apparently, he had been wrong.

He watched the man struggle with the person in the bag, trying to force them back onto the cart. The captive fought back, however, wiggling and thrashing, trying to pull away.

A white-hot flame of anger flared inside of Rhohn. He was on his feet, sword drawn, and ten quick paces away from his hiding spot before he realized what he was doing and stopped in his tracks. This was a bad idea.

He had no way of knowing for sure how many men were in the tents, nor how skilled they might be with a blade. Rhohn was sure that he could handle the single slaver, but three or four would quickly overwhelm him.

He stood in the driving rain, fifty paces from the man’s back. His gaze flicked to the two tents. For the moment, the flaps remained shut. Digging his boots into the new mud, Rhohn began to backpedal. Slavers or not, this was not his business. The message he carried was infinitely more important than this one person’s fate.

He had nearly managed to make it back to the prairie’s cover when the slaver, frustrated with the captive’s struggling, reached back with his free hand and struck the sack hard. A woman’s sharp cry of pain pierced the storm’s roar.

Rhohn halted in place, glaring at the coward’s back. He clamped his jaw together, grinding his teeth and tried to swallow his anger. He could attempt to save this one woman, or—assuming Okollu was not mad—he could go and end a war.

The woman in the sack continued to struggle, undeterred by the blow.

The slaver bellowed, “Hold still!” reached back, and pummeled the woman a second time, doubling her over. Along with eliciting another shout of pain from the woman, the slaver’s blow destroyed Rhohn’s restraint.

The Dust Man strode toward the cart, squeezing the hilt of his sword with his left hand, ensuring he had a secure hold. Mud had made the leather handle slippery. Trying to clean the muck from the grip, he ran the two fingers of his right hand down the hilt and flung the collected mud to the ground.

As he neared, he heard the stocky slaver threaten the woman again.

“Blast it! Hold still or I’ll hit you again!”

Rhohn scowled. That would not happen.

The woman’s captor gave up trying to corral her with one hand, released the grip he had on his hat, and reached out to grab the sack with both arms. Moments after letting go of his hat, an ill-timed gust of wind ripped it free. The man reached up quickly, but the hat sailed away, straight toward Rhohn. The slaver whipped around to follow its flight, spotted Rhohn, and froze.

Twenty-five paces still separated them.

Rhohn began to sprint, bringing up his sword into a ready position. The slaver reached behind him, his right arm flailing wildly as he searched the cart bed for his sword. His eyes, as round as copper ducats, remained locked on Rhohn.

The woman, still struggling in the sack, barreled into the man, sending them both slamming to the ground. The slaver rolled on the ground, preparing to leap up just as Rhohn reached the pair. Laying the flat side of his thin blade against the man’s neck, Rhohn pressed the steel into the man’s pale skin and spoke, just loud enough for the man to hear.

“Do not move. Do not speak. In fact, do nothing at all. Understand?”

Drops of rain fell on the sword and flowed down the length of the blade, rinsing away any remaining mud.

Close up, the slaver was even more absurd looking than he had appeared from afar. He had an impossibly large overbite, to the point where his lower lip was nearly hidden by the yellowed buckteeth jutting from his upper palate. Now without his hat, Rhohn discovered that the front of the man’s head was completely bald. The long, stringy brown hair started at the temples and only lined the sides and back of his head.

Angry, defiant eyes stared up at Rhohn before flicking to the sword.

“You are a Dust Man.”

Rhohn was surprised the man had been able to discern that fact from sword alone. Before leaving Ebel, Rhohn had discarded the brown soldier’s uniform—he did not want to wear Silas’ blood—and replaced it with unsoiled clothing from the dead villagers.

Rhohn pressed the thin blade deeper into the man’s flesh, stopping just short of the point where he would draw blood.

“I did say ‘do not speak,’ did I not?”

The man pressed his lips together, at least as much as he could with his overbite interfering.

Rhohn risked a quick glance toward the sack. The woman had not moved or made a sound since crashing into the ground. Keeping the sword pressed against the man’s neck, he circled closer to the sack and crouched low.

He whispered, “Are you alright?”

There was a long pause before the woman spoke.

“Well, I’m tied up and stuffed in a bag. Other than that, I’m fine. Who in the Nine Hells are you?”

The defiance in the woman’s voice was surprising. He had expected fear or despondency. While he admired her spirit, he wished she would keep her voice lower. He was about to request that she soften her tone when a man’s voice yelled out from the tents.

“Nimar!”

Rhohn’s head snapped up.

The flap on the closest tent opened, pushed outward from the inside. A man’s head poked from the tent.

“Just knock her out and—”

The Marshlander cut off, his gaze dancing over Rhohn and the man—apparently named Nimar—sprawled in the mud. An instant later, he disappeared back into the tent, shouting, “Father! Golt! Get up!”

Rhohn needed to get out of here quickly.

The sound of mud sloshing drew his attention back to Nimar just as the man swept one of his boots into Rhohn’s ankle. From his crouched position, Rhohn lost his balance, tilted to the right, and fell to the ground, landing in the muck and grass. He pushed himself back up with his right arm, ensuring he held tightly to his sword with his left. Nimar had already scampered to his knees, and was driving a dagger down toward Rhohn’s lower right leg.