The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (100 page)

With its fearsome maw open wide, screeching its terrible cry, Talulot wrapped its long, branch-like fingers around an oligurt, picked the beast up, and tossed it westward. As Nundle watched the oligurt soar through the air with legs and arms flailing, he felt a brief moment of optimism. Perhaps the thorn alone might be capable of repelling this assault.

He should have known better.

Through the crackling hum of white, green, and gold, Nundle felt a sizzling flash of yellow. A ball of pure Charge burst from a Desert Fire mage, flew toward Talulot, and crashed into the thorn’s left leg, exploding in a shower of sparks. A half-dozen identical Weaves, along with small globes of fire, followed the first, all hurtling toward Talulot. Nundle was capable of stopping the Weaves of Charge, but to do so, he would need to drop the Weave of Air protecting the wall. As he wavered between helping Talulot or not, he watched in horror as one sphere after another smashed into the thorn’s legs and torso. In just a few heartbeats, Talulot burst into flame and began to thrash wildly about.

With Talulot incapacitated, the Desert Fire mages shifted targets, sending their globes of Charge and Fire toward a second thorn. Nundle watched helplessly as that one burst into flame as well. Should this continue, all five thorn would be burning within minutes.

Nundle was about to drop the Weave of Air when streams of water rushed from the marshy ground, climbing the legs of the thorn that were alight and extinguishing the fire. Somewhere along the wall, Shadow Mane Water mages were doing what they could to help the thorn. The Sudashians immediately resumed their assault with fire, and soon, a full out battle between mages was underway.

Nikalys leaned forward and bellowed into Nundle’s ear, “I need you to open a port!”

Nundle twisted his head around in surprise and immediately felt his grip on the Air Weave began to slip. Looking forward again, he quickly reinforced the pattern. Perhaps he had misheard the young longleg.

Holding Nundle tight with his right hand, Nikalys let go with his left and pointed to a group of oligurt mages currently loosing globules of fire.

“There! Open it there!”

Knowing what the young longleg intended to do, Nundle shouted over his shoulder, “Are you sure?!”

“Do it, Nundle! Now!”

While the shriek of the thorn had lost some of its intensity as the monsters succumbed to flames, if Nundle dropped the Weave of Air in order to craft a port, the screeching would be unbearable. Nevertheless, Nundle stared at the ground at a spot immediately behind the oligurt mages, fixed the image in his mind, and then turned his head to scream in Nikalys’ face.

“Put me down and get ready!”

As Nikalys lowered him to the wall, Nundle took a deep, bracing breath and dropped the protective Air Weave, letting the full force of the thorn’s cry wash over them. Throwing his hands over his ears, Nundle reached for the Strands of Void and Air, struggling to arrange them in the correct pattern for a port as the shriek clawed at his ears. Suddenly, the thorn’s audible attack cut off. They had other concerns for the moment.

Able to concentrate fully now, Nundle arranged the final few loops while envisioning the spot of ground behind the four mages. The ringing in his ears blocked out the typical ripping sound that accompanied the creation of a port, but he saw the familiar ripple of reality as the slit appeared.

Shifting his gaze to Nikalys, he called, “Hurry back!”

Jak turned his head at Nundle’s words, glanced at the port, and called, “What are you doing?” Looking to his brother, his eyes widened. Nikalys had the Blade of Horum drawn and at the ready, the white blade glimmering and glinting as though it were held in a pool of midday sun.

Jak repeated his question with a bit more urgency.

“Nik! What are you doing?!”

Nikalys stepped through the black tear without answering him.

Glaring at Nundle, Jak demanded, “Where’d he go?”

Nundle pointed over the battlements.

“Down there.”

Whipping his head around to face west, Jak stepped to the wall. Nathan was a step behind him, as both leaned over to scan the battle scene. Nundle moved beside them to look as well, forgetting he was too short to see over. As he stood there, cursing his stature, a pair of strong hands gripped him beneath his arms and lifted him from the ground. Thinking he was about to be tossed from the wall, he threw out his arms.

“Ah!”

“Hold still, please,” instructed Zecus as he propped Nundle on the foot wide ledge.

Relieved that he was not about to plummet to the ground, Nundle turned his attention below. The four mages near the other end of the port already lay dead on the ground. Two appeared to be missing their heads. Nikalys was heading south, cutting a swath through the oligurts on his way to the next group of mages. He dashed from enemy to enemy, slashing and stabbing with incredible speed, the Blade of Horum a blur of bright white.

On Nundle’s left, Jak asked, “Ports work both ways, don’t they?”

Nodding, Nundle said, “Yes, why do—” He cut off, looked back to the port, and watched in horror as an oligurt demon captain—an awful creature that reminded Nundle of an enraged bull—pointed towards the port and bellowed something unintelligible. Oligurts immediately began to lumber toward the slit.

Nundle felt ill.

He was about to ask if he should close it when Jak spun around to face the back two rows of Reed Men and shouted, “All of you! With me!” Drawing his sword, the young longleg leapt through the tear without waiting to see if anyone was coming with him.

Nathan ripped his sword from his hip scabbard and shouted, “Bows! Steady fire! Keep them away from the port!” Then, the sergeant ran through the port, too. A steady stream of Reed Men followed, pouring through the black slit, only steps behind Nathan and Jak.

Nundle looked below and watched the soldiers emerge on the other side, going wherever Jak and Nathan were pointing. Within moments, a crude ring formed around the port, protecting it from the onrushing oligurts.

“Up or down?” called Zecus.

Glancing back, Nundle asked, “What?”

“I am going down there, too. Do you want me to put you down? Or do you wish to stay on the wall?”

Bracing his arms and feet against the battlements’ stonework, Nundle called, “Go!”

Zecus released him, bent down to grab his staff, and leapt through the port.

Nundle stood alone, balanced on the wall’s precipice, watching more and more Reed Men rush to join the defense below. Those staying on the wall loosed arrow after arrow, their shafts whistling through the air to land amidst the oligurts. The aerial assault slowed the enemy’s advance, but did not stop it. The hulking grayskins reached the ring and began to pummel at the soldiers. The northern edge sagged inwards within moments.

Reaching for Strands of Charge, Nundle began to loose quick, small bursts of lightning at the attackers when he heard a great baying. Looking up, Nundle spotted a large mongrel pack rushing the port from the south. A demon man led them, towering over the pack. He had red, leathery skin, foot-long black horns spiraling from his head, and a massive sword resting on his shoulder.

Pressing his lips together, Nundle muttered, “Wondrous…”

If the soldiers below were overrun, Nundle would have no choice but to close the port, thereby sealing the fate of Jak, Nathan, Zecus, and all the Reed Men below. Glancing south, Nundle spotted Nikalys still cutting his way through the army, the gleaming Blade of Horum flashing bright.

“What in the Nine Hells is he doing?!”

Feeling a sudden rush of Void and Air, Nundle looked down to see a second port pop into existence beside his own. His eyes went wide as Khin stepped from the black flap and began loosing Weaves of Charge and Fire into the enemy, deftly directing the blasts around and over the soldiers. The aicenai’s speed and skill with the Strands was astounding. A second figure leapt through the new port, bow upraised and arrow nocked on the drawn string.

Nundle blinked in surprise.

“Sabine?”

She released the bowstring, sending the red-feathered arrow through the line of longlegs to strike an oligurt in its right eye. Thick, black blood squirted as the shaft sunk deep in its head and the monster dropped to the ground, limp and already dead.

Rhohn rushed through the port next, followed by his ragged collection of Dust Men and their mismatched armor and weapons. He started pointing and shouting, directing the Borderlanders to a pair of gaps in the soldiers’ ring.

A quick look to the north and south revealed that this was the only true fighting on the hillside. Most of the Sudashians seemed at a loss as to what to do. The thorn’s audible attack had disrupted whatever plan the invaders had for the assault.

A longleg’s pain-laden scream cut through the air. Looking over his shoulder, Nundle saw Reed Men emerging back through the port, dragging injured compatriots with them. The scream belonged to a young longleg with blonde hair. Something heavy had crushed the poor soldier’s hand into a bloody, mushy pulp. His eyes were wide, staring at what used to be his hand.

Nundle scooted backwards, hopped from the battlement, and took a step toward the poor soldier, intent on helping with the Reed Man’s injury. Yet he stopped short and glanced back to the port. He had a choice. He could stay here and help the injured, or go below and keep others from joining their ranks.

Shutting out the man’s moans of pain, Nundle sprinted for the inky void. He leapt from the hard stone of the battlements, passed through the port, and landed on the soft, squishy ground of the marshes. For a moment, he stood in place, stunned by the battle’s volume. Everything was thrice as loud down here as it had sounded from the walls.

The sharp clangs of metal on metal.

Oligurts roaring.

Mongrels howling and barking.

Soldiers yelling and screaming.

Khin’s magic globes hissing and sizzling.

Through it all, two voices—Jak and Nathans’—lifted over the chaos, calmly shouting out orders.

Shaking himself from his stupor, Nundle hurried to stand beside the ever calm and collected Sabine. She did not even acknowledge his presence as she was too intent on the Sudashians, firing arrow after arrow into the enemy.

Nundle shifted some of his concentration from the port and mimicked the Weaves Khin was using, knitting patterns of Charge as quickly as he could and directing them at selected targets.

Soldiers were falling quickly. Some were injured. Some, without doubt, were dead.

Nundle did not know how long they could hold this position.

Shift.

Standing behind the oligurt mage, Nikalys drew his white blade across its neck, slicing open a black, bloody wound. Flailing, the monster began to spin around, opening its side to a secondary attack. Nikalys jammed the Blade of Horum through its exposed side, aiming for where he thought the beast’s heart might be. He wanted to kill the oligurt quickly both so he could move on and because, enemy or not, he did not want the mage to suffer needlessly.

His strike was true. The oligurt stiffened—its eyes round in shock—before it went limp. As the monster toppled over, Nikalys ripped his blade free, heard an angry roar behind him, and spun around. Three oligurt warriors were rushing him, their spiked clubs raised.

Shift.

He drew the blade over the left hamstring of the first and—

Shift.

—separated its head from its shoulders as it bent over, stumbling from the leg injury. Glancing at the patch of marshy ground beside the second oligurt—

Shift.

—Nikalys lopped off its left arm in a single, effortless stroke. The oligurt roared as its severed limb dropped to the ground, the spiked club absurdly still clasped in its hand.

Sensing something flying toward him from behind, Nikalys looked to his right—

Shift.

—and spun around. A massive spiked club was whipping through the air where his head had been moments ago. Staring to a spot of ground behind the now off-balance monster—

Shift.

—Nikalys jammed the point of his sword through the oligurt’s back, driving it forward until it burst free of the beast’s chest. After giving the hilt a quick twist, he ripped the weapon free. As always, the Blade of Horum emerged clean and unspoiled. Nikalys, however, was coated with black oligurt blood.

As the oligurt tumbled forward, Nikalys felt a flicker of guilt for taking yet another life. He had killed many today, more than he wished to count. All had been necessary, but he loathed every moment of it. To hear Okollu tell it, these Sudashians were as much victims in this war as any duchy man or woman. They were not the enemy. Tandyr was. And these oligurts were his unwilling weapons.

He twisted around, looking for the next group of mages and froze. Nothing but open marshland, distant hills, and pine trees awaited him. He stood at the southern edge of the battle. Spinning around, he stared back to the north. He might be over a mile from where he had started.

“Blast it!”

Nikalys looked to the mud-brick walls of the city and saw the southern gates were shut. During his progression across the battlefield, he had caught glimpses of green-and-white-clad soldiers rushing out to carry the injured, smoking thorn back into the city. Tandyr’s army had made short work of Alumon and his kind.

Suddenly, a very familiar—and unusually angry—voice rumbled beside him.

“Uori! What do you think you are doing?!”

Nikalys jumped and spun around, looking for Broedi, but found that he was still quite alone, his only company the corpses of oligurts, some marsh grass, and muddy puddles.

“I am on the walls!” bellowed Broedi. “Where you should be!”

Nikalys stared back to Demetus, scanning the long line of battlements running north. On the third tower from the southwestern corner of the city, Nikalys spotted the unmistakable form of Broedi standing at its edge, glaring at him.

“Get back to the port!” rumbled the hillman. “Quickly! They are holding it for you!”

Looking north, Nikalys muttered, “They’re what?”