The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (68 page)

“You know, if we leave now, we could—”

Rhohn and Okollu interrupted her as one.

“No.”

She turned to stare at them, a frown upon her lips.

“Why not?”

“We wait until the fog lifts,” replied Rhohn. “It is safer then.”

Tiliah’s frown deepened.

“I should just go now. By myself.”

Again, Rhohn and Okollu spoke in unison.

“No.”

“And why not?”

Rhohn shook his head and sighed.

“Must I truly explain why you going into Demetus alone is a bad idea?”

“Yes, Mud Man. Please enlighten me.”

“Smooth-face is right,” growled Okollu. “It is too dangerous for you to go alone.”

Grateful for the support, Rhohn looked over to stare into the dark gloom of Okollu’s hood. The mongrel’s yellow irises flashed in the early morning light. Rhohn gave a quick nod of thanks.

Tiliah, however, was not to be dissuaded.

“Need I remind you both that I made it all the way to Gobas
alone
?”

Rhohn swiveled his head and glared at Tiliah.

“And need I remind you what happened to you
after
you left Gobas alone?”

Her lips tightened and with a short, irritated huff, she spun around and marched back into the grove, kicking up bunches of the dead brown needles as she went. Moving to the fallen log where their gear rested, she sat down, her back to them.

Rhohn shared a look of mute exasperation with Okollu before they both turned to the north again. Tiliah was upset, but that did not matter. Having her safe and angry here was better than happy and tromping through the countryside alone.

Mongrel and man scanned the hillsides together. An ever-so-slight breeze blew from the northwest and Okollu took in a few short breaths through his nose, examining each the way a hunting dog would when tracking.

“Anything?” asked Rhohn quietly.

The cloth of Okollu’s hood rippled as he shook his head.

“Only the rank of the city.”

Rhohn nodded.

“Good.”

Okollu’s sense of smell had proven exceedingly useful in their travels east, allowing them to adjust their route to avoid most settlements or towns long before they came to them.

“I still cannot believe we made it here,” muttered Rhohn.

“Nurla inante de sate sunt gercer.”

Rhohn glanced over.

“You’re going to have to repeat that. In Argot, please.”

The mongrel swiveled his head to look over and said, “It means ‘Do not howl before the moons are in the sky.’” He stared back to the north. “We have a long way to go, smooth-face.”

Rhohn nodded, admitting to the wisdom in the mongrel’s words, and said, “That we do.”
He would not say he liked Okollu, but after the past few weeks, he respected him.

Days after Okollu had joined them in their journey east, the unlikely trio came across a still-populated village. Okollu hid in a shallow ravine some distance away while Rhohn and Tiliah entered the town. Following Tiliah’s plan, they sold Nimar’s bone-handle dagger and used the coin they received to purchase food, a waterskin, a traveling sack, and a simple hunting sling. Tiliah used some of the ducats—paired with a significant amount of flirtatious charm—to buy a large robe and hooded cloak off a young tailor for a third of what they were worth.

After leaving the village, they hurried back to the gorge, placing bets on whether Okollu would be awaiting them or not. Not only was the mongrel there, but he presented them with a tusked piglet he had killed. That night, they ate better than they had in weeks.

The newly purchased clothes were for Okollu, who, when he put them on, almost looked like a man. The gray cloak and brown robes were long, dragging on the ground as he walked, but they covered his fur and face. As long as he remained upright and walked on two limbs, no one would look twice unless standing within a few dozen paces. Still, to be safe, they traveled from evenings to early mornings, hoping to avoid encounters with strangers.

Early conversations between the three had been short and strained, but after a few days, an unusual, communal spirit emerged to overcome the instinctual acrimony borne by both races. Rhohn would never forgive Okollu for Silas’ death, but he was able to see the mongrel’s past actions for what they were: a desperate attempt to save his own kind. Were he in Okollu’s place, he would have done the same.

Their journey had not been without problems. While they were able to avoid most of the larger settlements without detection, they inadvertently stumbled across a few family farmsteads when the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Occasionally, Marshlanders would approach, drawn forth by rumors of the west. Rhohn and Tiliah extracted the group as quickly as possible from these unwanted situations while Okollu hovered far back, his hood drawn low over his face. All but one such encounter had ended without incident.

A week prior, a farmer had stopped the trio to talk one sun-soaked morning. The man’s dog rushed Okollu’s shrouded form immediately, barking nonstop. Rhohn and Tiliah held their breath as Okollu bent over, leaning near the dog’s snapping jaws. The animal ceased its yapping, turned, and sprinted away into the marshes, its tail tucked between its legs. The farmer apologized profusely for the dog’s behavior and excused himself. Hurrying from the farm, Rhohn asked Okollu what he had done. The mongrel gave a wolfish grin and said, “We came to an understanding.”

Thinking on the moment now, Rhohn chuckled quietly.

“What is it?” asked Okollu, sounding alarmed. “What do you see?”

Peering over, Rhohn spotted the tip of Okollu’s white muzzle poking free from his hood.

“It’s nothing. I just thought of something amusing.”

Okollu swiveled his head to look at Rhohn.

“That was laughter?”

“It was.”

Okollu stared at him a moment longer before asking, “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” answered Rhohn. “If it makes you feel any better, I still have trouble marking your sounds as well.

“Why would that make me feel better? I am not ill.”

Shaking his head, Rhohn sighed and faced north again. Sometimes understanding one another was difficult.

“No matter.”

“Perhaps you require more rest,” suggested Okollu. “You are not making sense.” With a toss of his muzzle, he added, “Go and sit. I will watch.”

Rhohn looked over at Okollu, took a breath in preparation of explaining what he had meant, but stopped before uttering a word. It was not worth it. Pushing himself away from the tree, he began to walk away.

“Call us once the fog burns off.”

He retreated into the grove, heading to where Tiliah sat on the log. He glanced around at the trees as he walked, wondering at the strange contrast of forest and marsh. Lower elevations were swarthy, dank, and dismal places, yet the hills were full of vibrant pine trees. A heavy, fetid stench filled the lower marshes while a crisp, clean scent drifted amongst the trees. Even the fallen tree-needles upon which he trod were a contradiction, pointy and sharp on the end, yet a bed of them provided a soft and restful place to sleep. The region was at odds with itself.

He stopped a few paces behind Tiliah and remained standing, a frown upon his lips. The young woman sat rigid, her back as straight as a new staff. Her anxiety was understandable. Today was the lone day she was going to spend looking for her family.

Keeping his voice quiet, he said, “It won’t be much longer. We can leave soon.”

Tiliah nodded, her wiry black hair bouncing, and spoke in quiet tone.

“I know.”

Her soft response gave Rhohn pause. He had thought she was pouting, but perhaps that was not the case. Stepping over the log to stand before her, he dropped to a knee.

“What’s wrong?”

Keeping her head tilted down, she asked, “We’re not going to find them, are we?”

He pressed his lips together and sighed. Rhohn was confident they would not. One day would not be enough. Without the grace of Ketus, ten days might not be enough. He had seen the sea of humanity moving east. If only a third of them were in Demetus, there would still be too many souls to sort through. Yet, for some reason, he did not want to be that blunt with Tiliah. Not now. She would discover the truth soon enough.

Reaching out with his good hand, he patted her leg and said, “We will do our best to find them.” He tried to sound hopeful, but did not think he succeeded. Optimism was as foreign to him as boots were to a horse.

Tiliah extended her arm, took his hand in hers, and squeezed tight, never saying a word.

After a few moments, he said, “We could stay for a few days if need—”

She interrupted him with a firm and decisive, “No.” Lifting her head, she stared into his eyes. “
One
day, Mud Man. One day is all I get. Then we go east.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” said Tiliah. “I’m being selfish in taking today, I won’t take more. My family is important, yes, but no more so than everyone—” She cut off as the sound of a stick snapping shot through the grove.

Spotting a flash of movement behind her, Rhohn stared back to the grove’s edge and saw Okollu on all fours, facing them. With his robe and cloak still covering him, he appeared to be a man who had tripped and fallen to the ground.

Rhohn stood, drawing his sword from his scabbard as he did, and turned to face the direction Okollu was staring. Other than trees, fallen logs, and an infinite number of pine needles coating the ground, the grove was empty.

Keeping his voice calm and quiet, he whispered, “Get up.”

Without a word, Tiliah scrambled to her feet. He reached out with his maimed hand, grabbed one of her wrists, and guided her back over the log, leaving their traveling gear where it was. With his gaze darting about the trees non-stop, they backpedaled the forty paces to where Okollu remained hunched and alert, a steady, subtle growl rumbling from deep within the mongrel’s throat.

As they settled beside Okollu, Rhohn muttered, “What is it?”

Okollu’s low growl cut off before he answered.

“I heard something.”

“Me too,” whispered Tiliah. “A stick or twig.”

The mongrel’s black lips drew back.

“No. That was me. I heard something before that.”

Squeezing his sword’s hilt tight, Rhohn asked, “What?”

“Voices,” growled Okollu.

“I didn’t hear anything,” muttered Rhohn.

“You would not have,” growled Okollu. “They were very quiet voices.”

“How close were they?” whispered Tiliah.

“I do not know,” said Okollu. “You two were making more noise than a wounded boar in a gravel pit. Hold still and stop asking questions! And do not breathe so loudly!”

After exchanging a quick, worried look, Rhohn and Tiliah followed Okollu’s direction and remained silent.

The grove was deathly quiet. The birds in the trees above had gone silent. Rhohn strained to listen, taking in tiny breaths and holding them as long as he could before letting them out as noiselessly as possible.

With two quick sniffs, followed immediately by a fierce growl, Okollu suddenly sprang forward and sprinted across the clearing, running on all fours while, kicking up needles.

A muffled voice of alarm—a woman’s, Rhohn thought—came from the middle of the still empty grove. Something was not right here. He squeezed the hilt of his sword tight, his palm moist against the leather.

Okollu was thirty paces away when he halted with an unnatural suddenness, stopping in mid-stride. The mongrel stood inexplicably perched on his back right paw while the rest of his limbs remained off in the ground, hanging as if from invisible twine. It reminded Rhohn of a doll he had seen used in a playman’s show when he was a boy in Dashti.

Alarmed and alert, Rhohn stared about, searching for what or whom had caused Okollu’s predicament while instinctively raising his sword. Tapping Tiliah’s arm, he whispered, “Get behind me.”

The young woman did not move.

“I said, get behind—”

“Put your sword down, Rhohn.”

Without looking over at her, he whispered, “Are you mad?”

“Just do it.”

“Why?”

Pointing to Okollu’s arrested form, Tiliah said, “Because whoever is doing that will have no problem in stopping you.”

A deep frown spread over Rhohn’s lips as he realized Tiliah must be right.

“Wait…whoever? Who’s doing that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Tiliah, her gaze dancing around the empty grove. “There’s a mage here somewhere.”

A second voice, deeper than the first, came from elsewhere in the clearing. It sounded as if the owner was talking with a pile of rags covering his or her face.

Rhohn was trying to distinguish what was being said when Tiliah started to march past him. Reaching out with his bad hand, he grabbed her arm, and hissed, “What are you doing?”

Tiliah whipped her head around to glare at him, her eyes burning. “I did
not
come this far to be stopped now!” She tried to yank free, but he managed to hold tight with only two fingers and a thumb. Glaring at him, she demanded, “Let go!”

“No! We don’t know what we’re dealing with!”

Raising her eyebrows, Tiliah said, “We don’t?” Using her free arm, she jabbed a finger in the air toward the suspended Okollu. “If the mage that did
that
to Okollu wanted us dead, we would already be introducing ourselves to Maeana. So as we are still here, alive and drawing breath, I am going to find out what the Nine Hells is going on.” She tugged her arm again, harder this time. “Now, let me go, blast it!”

Rhohn was staring at her, considering whether or not to grant her request, when a raspy voice filled the grove, startling them both.

“That was rather well thought out.”

As one, they turned back to the grove and found it was no longer empty.

Four horses—three with riders, one without—stood a dozen feet past where Okollu hung in the air. On Rhohn’s far right, a stunning woman—an easterner judging from her blonde hair and pale skin—sat on a tan horse with smoky black legs. An oddly short brown-haired man sat atop a small chestnut beside her. A third figure and horse were a few feet behind the others, shrouded in a hooded cloak. A bony hand gripped a pair of reins that led to a fourth, rider-less horse.