The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (6 page)

“
What
did you say?”

“If you want to live, smooth-face, you will be quiet and listen to what I have to say.”

Rhohn blinked. This did not make any sense.

“Why haven’t you killed me?”

A low growl emanated from the beast.

“I still will if you do not be quiet! I have an offer for you.”

His confusion deepening, Rhohn muttered, “An offer? What are—”

“Quiet!” barked the mongrel. “I need you to carry a message for me. Far to the east. Say yes, and live. Say no, and die. Decide quickly.”

“Why in the Nine Hells would I help you!?”

The beast tightened its grip on Rhohn’s wrists and gave an exasperated growl.

“Because, if you do, we can be gone from your lands!”

Wincing from the pressure on his back and arms, Rhohn hissed, “You want to leave?”

“Yes!” snapped the mongrel.

“Then go!” hissed Rhohn. “Leave!”

“We cannot!”

“Why not?!”

The mongrel barked, “I do
not
have time to explain. The others are waiting for my signal. Make your choice, smooth-face!”

Rhohn lay in the dirt, a mongrel on his back and his fellow soldier dead in the corner. This situation did not favor him in the slightest. In a growl that nearly mimicked the mongrel’s, he said, “If you get off me, I will listen.”

Surprisingly, the mongrel immediately released his wrists and stood, alleviating the pressure on his back. As Rhohn scrambled to his feet, he whipped his head around, scanning the dirt for his sword.

“Looking for this?”

Whirling around, Rhohn found the mongrel standing a half-dozen paces away, glaring at him with alert, yellow eyes, the same brown and white beast that had stood in the road earlier, glaring at him. The mongrel’s typically white muzzle was red with Silas’ blood. Sharp canine teeth jutted down from its top jaw, pressing down on his black lips.

Rhohn’s gaze shot to the beast’s right hand. The mongrel held his sword, its tip pointed at the ground.

“Give me that.”

The fur around the mongrel’s eyes twitched.

“No.”

The beast tossed the sword behind him. Rhohn watched helplessly as the blade skidded through the dirt.

“You said you would listen, smooth-face.”

“I lied,” snapped Rhohn.

A low, angry growl arose from the beast’s throat as it said, “You
must
listen, smooth-face.” Its eyes widened a fraction. “
Please
.” The pleading note in its voice was entirely unexpected.

Before Rhohn could respond, a sharp yelp from outside pulled the mongrel’s attention to the windows. An impatient puff of air escaped from its nose.

“I must signal to the others. Do
not
raise an alarm. Do
not
run to fight. Do not do
anything
but stand and listen.”

“If you think I’m—”

“Silence!”

Ignoring the beast, Rhohn raised his voice and said, “I am not—”

The mongrel cut him off with a sharp, threatening growl. Scampering forward, its eyes flashing wide, it barked, “Are you fool? Listen to what I am offering you! This is a chance to end this war!”

Rhohn glared at the mongrel, unable to make sense of any of this. With less defiance than before, he said, “But the villagers—”

“Are going to die!” snapped the mongrel. “Today’s battle is already lost! Why are you still fighting it?!”

Rhohn frowned. The mongrel had a point.

Another sharp, quick yelp echoed outside. The mongrel’s black nostrils twitched.

“The time to choose is now, smooth-face.”

Rhohn stared long and hard into mongrel’s eyes. The beast could have easily killed him when he first rushed in—and still could right now—yet Rhohn was still breathing. There had to be a reason.

Eyeing the mongrel, he muttered, “What do you offer?”

The beast huffed once.

“Hope, smooth-face. The only hope your kind has. Are you interested or not?”

Cursing himself for what he was about to do, knowing that he was sentencing the ninety-four men of Ebel to die—horribly, painfully, and very alone—Rhohn gave a short nod.

“I’ll listen.”

The mongrel tilted back his head immediately, and let out a deep, ear-piercing howl. Rhohn winced and resisted covering his ears. As soon as the beast went silent, dozens of howls answered back. Jebedeh began shouting.

“Corporal! Corporal! They’re charging!”

As Rhohn glanced to the doorway, the mongrel stepped closer to him, growling lowly, “They are already dead.”

Grinding his teeth together, Rhohn demanded, “Talk, mongrel.”

The beast sneered, his thin black lips stretching against sharp, yellowed teeth.

“Do not insult me! I am kur-surus!”

Rhohn forced himself to hold the mongrel’s intense glare, neither understanding how he had insulted the animal nor caring much if he had. The two stared one another down as the howls outside grew louder and men’s panicked screams bloomed into shouts of fear.

The mongrel tossed its muzzle, huffing in exasperation, “We don’t have time for this, man.” Pointing over Rhohn’s shoulder, it said, “Go there and sit down.”

Rhohn looked back to the far back corner.

“Why?”

“Blestem argel!” barked the mongrel. ”Just do as I ask!”

As Rhohn reluctantly shuffled to the corner, the mongrel strode to Silas’ body and rubbed its hands on the soldier’s bloody neck. Rhohn collapsed to the dirt, glaring at the mongrel while trying to shut out the screaming outside. The beast returned to Rhohn, squatted down, and stretched out its hands.

“Hold still. It must look real.”

Instantly understanding what the mongrel was doing, Rhohn allowed the beast to cover him in Silas’ blood, letting it smear his friend’s gore on his face, neck, and chest. Throughout, the cries of the villagers turned from cries of terror to shrieks of pain. Rhohn shut his eyes, praying their deaths were swift. This was not how he had wanted this to happen.

After a moment, he reopened his eyes, stared at the mongrel, and asked, “What happens when the others come to eat me? This won’t fool them.”

A short series of puffs and snorts burst from the mongrel’s snout. It almost sounded like laughter.

“You must have us confused with grayskins, smooth-face. Kur-surus do not eat men.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Then you have heard wrong,” growled the mongrel. It shifted its yellow-eyed gaze to his face as it applied the last of the blood in silence. Sitting back on his haunches, the beast studied Rhohn, and growled, “You were in a fire, yes?”

Rhohn nodded.

“As a boy.”

“And you survived,” said the mongrel gruffly. “That is good.” The beast paused, leaned in closer, and growled, “Now, remember every word I say.”

The mongrel proceeded to recite an unusual message, one given to it by a woman. Little of the missive made sense to the Dust Man, yet he listened intently, baffled and intrigued. The beast repeated it twice more, by which time Rhohn had it memorized. Once he recited it back, the mongrel nodded its approval and stood.

“After my pack is gone, head to the territory you call the Southlands and find a place named Storm Island.”

“The Southlands?” exclaimed Rhohn. “How am I to get there?”

“That is your problem, smooth-face,” snapped the mongrel. “When you get there, you are to ask whoever you see for Miriel Syncent. The people you must give the message to will find you.”

Confused, Rhohn said, “Did you not just say the message was from her?” The name sounded familiar, but he could not mark why.

A great cacophony of howls arose from outside. The mongrel swiveled around to face the door.

“The battle is over.”

The screams from the men had ceased. Ninety-four souls were on their way to visit Maeana. Rhohn’s gaze slipped over to where Silas lay slumped against the wall and he frowned. Ninety-five souls.

The mongrel allowed him a lone breath to mourn their passing.

“Lie down, smooth-face, and face the wall. Baaldòk will be here soon. No matter what, hold still, and pretend you are as dead as your pack-mate.”

Without waiting to see if he complied, the mongrel scampered to the doorway, stomping his bare paw on the torch along the way, extinguishing the flame. The room dipped into blackness.

Rhohn briefly considered retrieving his sword, but as it was on the far wall, it seemed a bad idea. Frowning, he lay down on the dirt floor, facing away from the door, and listened to the howls. Shortly thereafter, the mongrels were rushing about town, barking and yipping in what Rhohn could only assume was the mongrel tongue.

Suddenly, a deep voice bellowed, “Okollu!” The echo of power reverberating in the words made it impossible to deny to whom it belonged.

“Yes, tas-vilku?”

The response came from the doorway and matched the voice of the brown and white mongrel. However, all brazenness was gone from the beast’s tone. The mongrel almost sounded meek.

Heavy footsteps approached, stopping just outside the entryway. Oddly enough, the aroma of wildflowers drifted though the dark and abandoned building.

“The Dust Men are dead?”

“Yes,” replied Okollu.

“Were they any trouble?”

“No, tas-vilku,” growled the mongrel respectfully. “They were not.”

“What was the delay with the second one?”

“The first man died too quickly. I took my time with the second.

“Good, Okollu.
Very
good,” replied Baaldòk, a smile in his voice. “Move aside. I wish to see.”

There was a moment of hesitation prior to the mongrels’ response.

“Yes, tas-vilku.”

Rhohn heard the scuffling of the mongrel’s paws on dirt, followed by heavy footsteps crossing the threshold and entering the building. Wondering how the massive demon could fit through the door, he held his breath and prayed the demon could not hear the incessant thudding of his heart.

Baaldòk chortled softly.

“Vicious, Okollu. Especially this one…”

“He was the first.”

“I see why he perished so swiftly.”

Remembering Silas’ ripped-open throat, some of Rhohn’s original rage returned, quickly bubbling back to the surface.

Baaldòk shuffled a few steps closer to Rhohn, his boots grinding the dirt floor.

“And the one in the corner?”

Rhohn’s lungs were beginning to burn.

“He fought,” growled Okollu. “And he lost.”

The demon grunted wordlessly. His boots scuffled again, signaling the spawn was on the move and leaving the building. Okollu followed, the mongrel’s paws padding softly. The moment the pair were outside, Rhohn exhaled and drew in a long, silent breath of sweet air. The scent of wildflowers was thrice as strong now, heady and intoxicating.

Baaldòk continued walking after he exited, relaying a list of instructions as he went.

“Check to see if they have food stores hidden, then burn anything that…”

The commotion of the mongrels rushing about Ebel swallowed the rest of his words.

Rhohn remained in place, listening carefully should anything else step through the door. A short time later, he smelled smoke. Soon, the air was thick with it. For a horrific moment or two, he was a boy again, lying in the Lurus home as it burned. He shoved away the memories, focusing on his current nightmare.

Risking a bit of movement, Rhohn draped the collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose, doing his best to keep from coughing. He remained there as Ebel burned, waiting anxiously for the mongrels to leave, all the while searing Okollu’s strange message into his memory.

Indrida’s prophecy is upon us. The Eternal Anarchist is a saeljul who goes by the name Tandyr. The Borderlands have fallen, the Marshlands are next. Vanson and Everett are in his palm for reasons I still do not understand. Time grows short. The Shadow Manes must rise.

Chalchalu’s Day of Leisure, 4999

The smoke from the Yutian incense made Kenders’ head swim.

Sitting cross-legged on a faded-green reed mat in the dim, cold room, she stared at the items on the floor, arranged equidistant between her and her teacher.

Three tan incense sticks jutted up from a bulbous, cream-colored pottery bowl, one end jammed into white sand, the others lit and glowing orange. Wisps of smoke curled upward, filling the air with a thick, musky sweetness. Two shallow ebonwood saucers sat next to the bowl, one on either side. The plate to her left held a puddle of water, while a fist-sized chunk of limestone sat atop the other. She had yet to discern the purpose of the water or the stone.

She reached up to brush a few stray strands of blonde hair from her eyes and shifted her gaze to the figure sitting across from her. Khin, also on a mat and cross-legged, had his eyes closed and white, bony hands folded in his lap. His clasped, interlocked fingers reminded her of a rabbit’s sun-bleached ribcage she had once found along the shores of Lake Hawthorne. The rest of Khin was just as thin and skeletal. In private moments, Kenders had jested with her brothers that she thought Khin might shatter into a hundred pieces if he tripped and fell.

His pale skin stretched tight over his frail frame, thin and nearly translucent. A web of blackish-blue veins crisscrossed his bald head and face, reminding her of the maps stored in the enclave’s library. Most of his features were like her own, except where she expected a nose, he had only a pair of vertical slits. His eyelids were shut now, but she knew that beneath them lived two bright cerulean eyes, alive and sharp.

A turn ago, the day they had arrived at the enclave, Broedi had led her and her brothers up to this very room in the western tower. He opened the door, stepped into the room first, and asked the trio to follow him. When the three siblings entered, they stood, mouths agape, staring at the lone figure in the stone room.

Playmen’s tales told of the aicenai, a race that had walked Terrene eons before the Locking, their lives dedicated to study and knowledge. Blessed with extraordinary long life, aicenai were nonetheless a doomed people, rumored to be incapable of having children.

Once Broedi introduced the trio, he explained that Khin was to be Kenders’ primary teacher at the enclave. The aicenai could touch Fire, Water, Air, Stone, and Soul, making him one of the most powerful mages the Shadow Manes had. At first, the prospect of studying under Khin had seemed exciting, but a full turn of instruction with him, had tempered her enthusiasm dramatically.