The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (76 page)

“What is there to be proud of?” muttered Broedi. “Living a long time?”

With a bored sigh, Wren asked, “Would you like me to continue my tale? Or shall I pause a moment or two and give you leave to insult me?”

Broedi pressed his lips together tightly.

“Speak.”

With a wide, ingratiating smile, Wren said, “Thank you, Broedi. Ever so much.” Running his fingers through his hair, he muttered, “Now…where was I? Ah, yes! So, I was south of here when rumors reached me about the Chosen advancing north. Being the wondrous, kind soul I am, I decided to offer my assistance to the Provinces. Buhaylunsod was the nearest city of any size, so, I came here and showed how one buhanik could become a singular force against the self-righteous Chosen. Yet as few buhanik can touch the Strands, I enlisted the aid of the nearby aki-mahet.
I,
Broedi,
I
am the reason this—” he gestured at the city “—is still here! Were it not for me, the Chosen would have marched north, unchecked! So, as I said earlier—you should thank me for what I did!”

Nikalys noticed the White Lion used the word ‘I’ quite often.

Broedi remained quiet, staring at Wren. When he spoke, he was surprisingly calm. “Suppose I accept your tale as truth,” rumbled the hillman. His tone indicated he did not. “What is the complete nature of this agreement between buhanik and Titaani Kotiv-aki?”

Wren’s brazenness faltered as he dropped his glare and muttered, “Well…”

Alumon interjected, whistling, “After showing us of what we were capable with the right aid, friend Aembyr approached the aliipin and negotiated terms such that any who could work the flows of the ‘Strands’ became ours. In exchange, we guard the remainder of their tribe against the Chosen.”

Nikalys stared at the tijul in disbelief.

“You
bargained
them into slavery?”

“Slavery is a rather harsh word,” said Wren with a slight grimace. “I like to think that I gave a handful of Titaani Kotiv-aki the choice to protect their entire tribe.”

“Accept servitude or perish is
not
a choice!” exclaimed Nikalys.

“I considered reasoning with them,” said Wren. “But that would have taken too long. So I told them they could accept my terms or die.”

Nikalys could not believe what he was hearing. Glaring at Wren, he demanded, “How in the Nine Hells are you a White Lion?”

Rolling his eyes, Wren muttered, “Oh, please. There is
no
doubt you are Aryn’s son.” Turning his full attention to Broedi, he asked, “How is what I did
any
different than the things we did to defeat Norasim? ‘There are no sweet choices in war.’ Sound familiar, Broedi?”

Tensing, the hillman rumbled, “This is different, Wren.”

“How?!”

“These are of my blood!”

“So?! Presented with a sour situation, I made the sweetest choice available. I had hillmen who could touch the Strands and buhanik
that were perfectly suited for the Weave I had developed. The Chosen were on the horizon, ready to trounce us all. Because of what
I
did, when they attacked, we had hundreds of massive buhanik marching through the forests, shrieking like the banshees of Enstra. Battles ended before they began.”

Broedi glared at Wren, shaking his head.

“Justify it all you want, Wren. It was still wrong.”

“Should I have let everyone here die, then? Just to satisfy someone’s sense of idealistic morality?”

“Broedi’s right,” said Nikalys. “You stole their ability to choose their destiny.”

Wren glared at him and spat, “Yes, I did!” His eyes were bright and unrepentant. “Freedom for security and life. A
more
than worthy exchange from where I stand.”

Huffing, Nikalys shook his head, disgusted by the tijul’s defense.

Wren scoffed, “Well, then. I see that besides looks, abilities, and that blasted white sword, Aryn has passed along his self-righteousness.”

Nikalys glared at Wren, starting to wish he had not interrupted Broedi’s attack.

“Broedi? Are you sure we need him?”

“No,” rumbled the hillman. A moment later, he added begrudgingly, “However, I would rather have him with us than not.”

“Perhaps the prophecy is wrong?”

“Indrida’s words are rarely wrong,” said Broedi. “Muddled and confused, yes, but rarely wrong.”

“Prophecy?” repeated Wren, glancing between them both. “What prophecy?”

Neither Nikalys nor Broedi answered the tijul. Nikalys did not know Broedi’s reason for remaining silent, but he simply did not want to give Wren the satisfaction of a response. As he stood there, staring at the tijul and mulling over the recent revelation of Indrida’s visit to the buhanik, a tiny frown spread over his face.

Not only were the Gods meddling again, now they were doing it from across centuries. He was tiring of being manipulated. If his entire life were already laid out for him, he wondered what the point was of living it. Nevertheless, it was clear what needed to be done.

Indrida had known he was going to be here, today, at this very moment. And she had arranged for him to direct the buhanik as he saw fit. With war against the horizon, he could only assume what the Goddess wanted him to do.

Glancing at Alumon, he asked, “How many buhanik and aliipin pairs are here? Ones who can do what Talulot and Fingard did at the beach?”

Without hesitation, the thorn answered, “There are but ten in Buhaylunsod. More are patrolling our lands. And still more in other cities.”

Broedi turned a hard eye on him and growled softly, “Do not consider it,
uori
!”

Ignoring Broedi entirely, he kept his gaze locked on Alumon.

“And, to be clear, you
must
do as I say?”

The thorn whistled, “We will uphold our promise.”

As he eyed the thorn and the slaves standing atop the platform, a tiny, confident smile pushed the frown off his lips. He wondered if Indrida foresaw what he was about to do. Standing tall, he spoke in a clear, loud voice.

“The buhanik agreement with the Titaani Kotiv-aki
is over. The aliipin are free and can leave at once.”

The announcement had a different effect on everyone gathered on the platform. While Alumon remained still and silent, the other thorn on the platform began to sway side-to-side, Puno and Talulot included. The four bald hillmen behind the Mataan gaped at Nikalys. Even Broedi seemed taken aback, staring at him with slightly widened eyes. Wren was the first to break the silence.

“But the Chosen will—”

Nikalys held up a hand toward the tijul, cutting him off, glared at him and said, “I
don’t
want your opinion on the matter. It is my decision, and nothing—
nothing—
you or anyone else can say will change it.”

Wren pressed his lips together and—surprisingly—remained quiet. Once Nikalys was content the tijul would stay silent, he turned his gaze to the tall hillman behind Alumon.

“You. What is your name?”

The hillman’s eyes widened and he shot a questioning look at Alumon. The thorn swiveled around slowly, its bark-like skin creaking. Upon meeting the hillman’s gaze, the thorn whistled, “You no longer need my permission to speak. Your actions are your own. Light-From-The-West has chosen our fate.”

Nikalys breathed a small sigh of relief, grateful and a little surprised the thorn had accepted his order.

The hillmen and hillwomen stared at one another in quiet shock. The one Nikalys had addressed said with wonder, “Truly?”

Alumon whistled, “The Mataan are bound by our promise to Indrida. Without her aid, we would not be here.” It turned to stare back at Nikalys. “We accept his guidance.”

The tattooed hillman shifted his wide-eyed gaze to Nikalys. All of the Titan Tribe members atop the platform did. They stared in silence, their expressions a combination of stunned disbelief and restrained joy. A few moments passed, filled only with the sound of the wind drifting through the treetops and the soft warbling of songbirds.

Breaking the quiet, Nikalys asked in a soft voice, “Your name?”

The hillman muttered, “Evaldersla Reigarja.” Then, raising his voice, he repeated with confidence, “My name is Evaldersla Reigarja.”

Knowing he would never get the name correct, Nikalys asked, “May I call you Evald?”

The hillman nodded once.

“Many already do.”

“Good,” said Nikalys. “Evald, you are free to go.”

“Truly?”

Nodding, Nikalys said, “Truly. You can go where you like.” He paused briefly before adding, “However, before you do, I have a story I would like to share with you.” He glanced at a sullen Wren. “One you must all hear.”

Broedi said softly, “Nikalys?”

Looking over, Nikalys found Broedi regarding him carefully. The hillman’s expression was a stoic one, but caution drifted through his eyes.

“What do you intend to share?”

“Everything.”

With a slight frown on his lips, Broedi rumbled, “Is that wise?”

Holding the hillman’s stare as he spoke, Nikalys said, “You once told me that knowledge is a weapon, did you not?”

Broedi paused, the skin around his eyes tightening a bit, before answering, “That I did.”

“While you like secrets, Broedi, I do not. And while you choose to keep your weapon sheathed, I am choosing to wield it. Now. If you wish to stop me, you had best use the Strands to do so.”

The hillman regarded him carefully for a moment before the familiar slight smile spread over his lips. He nodded once and, with a hint of pride in his voice, rumbled, “As you desire.”

Looking back to the Mataan and freed hillmen, Nikalys took a deep breath and began to share his story, starting from the beginning: the blazingly hot Summer day when Jhaell Myrr destroyed Yellow Mud. He withheld nothing.

After a time, Broedi joined in and helped tell the tale, sharing his role, the saga of the White Lions, the Demonic War, and the outlawing of magic in the Oaken Duchies. He told of Indrida’s prophecy, his recent journey to the Seat of Nelnora—finding Tobias in the process—and of the Sudashian army led by the God of Chaos. Occasionally, Nikalys glanced at Wren and was pleased to see a modicum of concern on the tijul’s face.

When their storytelling was nearly complete, Nikalys said, “So, that is why we are here.” He turned his gaze to Wren alone. “According to Nelnora, we were supposed to find you.”

Wren was quiet a moment before asking, “But why, exactly?”

“Because our task is not yet complete,” rumbled Broedi. “The Demonic War was the beginning, not the end.”

The tijul shifted his gaze to Broedi, but said nothing. He gnawed on his lip, remaining motionless and perfectly quiet. Nikalys liked him much better this way.

Alumon whistled, “Why have you told us this?”

Rather than answer the thorn, Nikalys turned to face Talulot and said, “On the beach, you said you sensed that the wind ‘carries a grim shadow.’”

“It does,” whistled Talulot. “A dark one.”

Turning back to Alumon and the other Mataan, Nikalys asked, “And do you sense that as well?”

With its grassy hair swishing in the wind, Alumon whistled, “It grows darker by the cycle.”

“The Gods of Chaos, Strife, Pain, and Deception march together,” said Nikalys. “They have destroyed hundreds of villages, toppled at least one great city, and murdered countless souls.
They
are your grim shadow, Alumon. And if we do not stop them, it will eventually reach your shores.”

Tilting its head, Alumon asked, “What do you require of us?”

“I
require
nothing,” answered Nikalys. “I will, however,
ask
for your aid. The buhanik—” he glanced at Evald “—and the Titaani Kotiv-aki.”

“There is no need to ask,” whistled Alumon. “We will do as you see fit. Our promise—”

“No!” interjected Nikalys with a firm shake of his head. “Consider that promise fulfilled. From this point forward,
you
choose your fate. If you aid us, it will be your choice to do so.” He shot a hard glare at Wren. “Every soul deserves free will.”

With a roll of his eyes, Wren shook his head and huffed, “You are choosing the rocky path for morality’s sake? Oh, you are Aryn’s son indeed.”

Nikalys ignored the tijul’s barb. No good could come from engaging him at the moment.

Evald rumbled, “What sort of aid do you require?”

Turning back to the Mataan and hillmen, Nikalys said, “We have no idea how many oligurts, razorfiends, mongrels, or demon-men the Cabal have in their ranks. Thousands, at least. Tens of thousands, perhaps. I pray no more than that. Yet even if we could manage to match them one-for-one with soldiers, they will no doubt have ten, fifty, a hundred times more mages than we will. And if that is the case, we
will
lose.”

He paused and looked around the platform, ensuring that he made eye contact with everyone.

“I
ask
you all to join us in our fight. I want you to come to the duchies and go to war.”

17
^th
of the Turn of Maeana, 4999

After spending the past turn in the open air of sea and forest, the stone-block walls surrounding Broedi felt oppressive and heavy, as though he stood in a Yutian tomb. He stared into the hearth, doing his best to maintain a sense of outward calm, but the heat radiating from his gaze outshone the roaring fire’s blaze.

From one of the chairs before Lady Vivienne’s desk, Nikalys muttered, “I can’t believe she would do this.” The young man’s hands were balled into fists. “Kenders is impulsive, yes. But to just leave? Now?!”

Broedi shook his head and let out a steadying sigh.

“If it is not one thing, it is another.”

Duchess Aleece reached over from her chair, patted Nikalys’ arm gently, and said. “I am sure she is fine. She has proven that she can handle herself, yes?”

“Only by Ketus’ providence is that the case,” rumbled Broedi. “Whenever skill and wisdom are absent with her, luck has filled the holes. That cannot continue forever.”

Shooting him a sharp look, the duchess said, “Nevertheless, she will be fine. Do you not agree, Broedi?”

Nikalys turned his gaze to Broedi’s face, waiting for a response. After a moment, Broedi gave one, rumbling, “Yes. I do.” Hope colored his words more than honest belief.