The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (23 page)

Wondering from where the dagger had come, Rhohn whipped his sword around, hacking at Nimar’s wrist before the blade could reach his calf. His riposte was weak, but strong enough that the sharp blade slipped past Nimar’s flesh and grated across bone.

The Marshlander cried out and dropped the dagger to the ground, reaching up with his uninjured hand to cover his maimed right wrist. The slaver collapsed to the ground, cradling his injury and cursing loudly. Blood dripped to the ground, mixing with mud and rain.

A fury-ridden cry pulled Rhohn’s attention back to the tents.

“Blast you!”

The second man was running toward him, a twin to Nimar’s sword clasped in his right hand. Oddly enough, the blade was not the only thing the same. The man had the same overbite, bald head, and stringy hair. Beyond the charging man, two new faces were peering out from the second tent.

“Hells…”

As Rhohn scurried to rise, his right foot kicked something hard. Peering down, he saw Nimar’s knife resting in the mud. Laying his sword on the ground, Rhohn reached out to grip the dagger’s mucky handle, hopped to his feet and, with a quick, underhand flip, tossed the dagger at Nimar’s twin. For once in Rhohn’s life, Ketus was with him as the blade caught the man square in the chest.

The slaver’s angry charge abruptly morphed into a clumsy stumble. His eyes went wide as he dropped his chin to chest, staring down at the dagger’s handle. He dropped his sword to the grass and, after a few more lumbering steps, collapsed face first to the ground.

An angry, wordless roar arose from behind him. Wheeling around, he saw Nimar struggling to stand, his eyes fixed on the man Rhohn had just killed. After a moment, his furious glare shifted to Rhohn.

“I’ll kill you!”

The slaver moved toward the cart and his sword, still cradling his injured wrist. Rhohn bent down, retrieved his sword, and leapt forward, hamstringing the man’s left leg. His blade slid easy, smooth, and deep through the man’s breeches and pale skin. Nimar collapsed to the ground, loosing another cry. Should the slaver live past today, he would have a difficult time walking the rest of his life.

Discounting Nimar a second time, Rhohn turned around and stared back at the tents, waiting for the other two men to emerge. When neither did immediately, he eyed Nimar, rolling around in the mud, screaming like a wounded banshee and then looked to the four horses. Sheathing his sword, he knelt beside the woman in the sack, picked her up, and slung her over his right shoulder. At once, the woman began kicking her legs.

“Stop that!” hissed Rhohn.

“What are you doing?!” exclaimed the woman. “Put me down!”

“Hold still! I’m trying to free you!”

The woman stopped struggling.

Rhohn eyed the second tent. The flap remained shut, the men inside.

Hurrying to the side of the cart, he inspected the sacks to see if any others might contain people but they were all too small. Having already wasted too much time, he reached out, grabbed the nearest burlap sack, and jammed it in his belt, praying it held something valuable he could sell. Turning around, he jogged to where the four horses waited, heads down, all the while keeping an eye on the second tent.

Rhohn moved to the healthiest looking mount, a mare who was either dark brown or black. Her wet skin and the gloom of the storm hid the horse’s true colorings. He hefted the woman from his shoulder and dumped her on the mare, draping her body over the horse’s back.

“Don’t move.”

Pulling his sword free again, he slashed the picket rope tied to a stake in the ground. Grabbing the rope, he moved to the other three horses and sliced their ties. He went to smack one of the horses’ hindquarters with the flat side of his sword when the beast let out a sharp whinny and reared, tossing its head violently.

Rhohn backpedaled quickly and spotted an arrow with three hawk feathers sticking from the horse’s rear. Staring back to the tents, he found the two men from the second tent outside now, holding bows and in the midst of nocking their next arrows.

Sheathing his sword, he spun around, bounced on the balls of his feet once, and launched himself onto the mare, inadvertently kicking the woman in the process and prompting an indignant shout of pain. Reaching over the woman, Rhohn wrapped his two fingers and thumb of his right hand through the horse’s long mane, and used his left to grip the sack with the woman in it. He kicked his heels into the sides of the horse.

“Get on!”

The horse broke into a trot that quickly turned into a gallop, bolting straight ahead, running in whatever direction it was facing. Rhohn did not care where they headed now as long as it was away from the slavers’ camp.

Suddenly, something hard struck his right calf.

He drew in a quick, hissing breath, and glanced down. A wooden shaft stuck out from his leg, just above where his boot stopped. Almost immediately, his lower leg began to burn and throb. It felt like someone had jammed a smoldering ember into it.

Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he looked back at camp. Through the rain, he saw the two men had lowered their bows and were hurrying toward their fallen companions. Two of their horses were wandering away from the camp, the third was trotting in a ragged circle, whinnying in obvious pain.

“Are they following us?” called the woman.

“Not right now!”

“Good,” said the woman. Her voice grew louder as she demanded, “Then let me out of here!”

Rhohn glanced down at the sack before him.

“Are you mad?! I’m not stopping now! You’re going to have to wait until we have some distance between us and them!”

The woman remained quiet, apparently accepting his reasoning.

Looking up at the sky, he found the front edge of the storm and judged that they were heading south. He decided to continue in that direction until he could no longer see the camp behind him. The storm looked like it would rage a while longer, which, for now, was a blessing. If the slavers tried to follow, the hard rain would help obscure Rhohn’s trail.

His heart slowed as he rode and began beating at a more normal pace. Glancing back to the sack on the rear of the horse, he could not help but frown. All he had wanted was a bite or two to eat. Instead, he had her.

Rhohn shook his head, faced forward, and let out a long, weary sigh.

“Wondrous.”

Nundle blinked again.

“How is any of this possible?”

Sitting on his small chestnut horse beneath the boughs of an old oak tree, Nundle stared at the lush, hatch-patterned fields in the valley below. Based on the scene before him, he would have sworn that he was home in the Five Boroughs, overlooking a tomble farming community.

Gently rolling landscape of rich, muddy browns and vibrant, lush greens.

Tidy rows of crops forming perfect lines through the tilled fields.

Short, railed fences with -rock piles serving as posts surrounding the fields.

Winding paths that wove a regular web through the growing grounds.

Dozens of tombles roaming the fields and trails, carrying tools or leading beasts of burden pulling wooden carts laden with equipment and leg-dangling tombles.

“I cannot believe this,” muttered a wholly astonished Nundle. He pulled his wide-brimmed cloth hat from his head and ran his fingers through his wild red hair. “I mean…I believe it, of course, because it’s right there…but…” He trailed off, going silent.

“This is a first,” rumbled a deep voice.

Nundle turned to his left. Broedi was watching him, mild amusement on his face. Even though Broedi was standing on his own two feet, and Nundle was on the back of his horse, the tomble was forced to tilt his head up slightly to meet the hillman’s gaze.

The White Lion was a full seven feet tall with shaggy, golden-brown hair, deep brown eyes, and skin the color of a lightly roasted almond. A leather bag draped over his shoulder, its thick strap crossing his massive chest. Turquoise and ebony stones dangled from the leather string used to tie the bag shut.

“I have never seen you at a loss for words, Nundle.”

Facing the fields below again, Nundle shook his head, mumbling, “In my seventy years, I have never heard of a tomble settlement outside of the Five Boroughs.” With a wondering wave toward the pastoral scene below, he added, “Yet, there one is.” Pointing northeast, he insisted, “And
that
, Broedi,
that
is a tomble village if I’ve ever seen one.”

On the far sides of the fields, dozens of squat buildings made of stone and wood sat clumped together, each topped with a tidy, straw roof. Either a creek or small gulley separated the fields from the town.

The pair stared in silence for a time before Broedi broke the quiet, rumbling in a deep baritone, “You know, during the Demonic War, this entire region was an endless battlefield.” His gaze drifted to stare at the northern horizon. “The sky was dirty with the smoke of the burning homes and towns. The air smelled…unpleasant.”

Nundle had a tough time imagining such a desolate scene considering the green, fertile land below and sunny blue sky above.

Pulling his gaze back to the lush fields below, the hillman shook his head as if to rid the image from his memory. In a less-haunted tone, he said, “No Foothill citizen wanted this land after the war. To thank the tombles who helped us fight Norasim, Duke Calich offered it to them. They leapt at the offer. ”

Shaking his head, Nundle muttered, “Tombles do
not
fight, Broedi. It’s not in our nature.”

Broedi’s brown-eyed gaze returned to Nundle.

“Atop Shorn Rise, you fought when you had to, did you not?”

“That was different. We had no choice. We either fought or we died.”

Raising a single eyebrow, Broedi said solemnly, “That is the case for one side in every war.”

Nundle sighed and turned away from Broedi, mumbling, “Perhaps.” His eyes fixed on the vaguely homelike vista, he asked, “Are you sure we don’t have time to stay? Just a day?”

The hillman shook his head and said firmly, “No, we do not. We discussed this.”

The tomble sighed, disappointed. It was worth asking one last time.

“I know, but—”

“No. It will take us over two turns to reach the Seat of Nelnora from here—perhaps longer depending on the weather in the Red Peaks.” With a slight frown, he added, “I only agreed to come this way to let you see that the villages do indeed exist. Remember your promise.”

Nundle let out a wistful sigh and nodded.

Just over a turn ago, the pair had left the enclave and ported to Huntersfield, a large village on the western edge of the Stunted Forest. One of the mages at the enclave—the very Magistrate Ulius that Nundle had tricked into bringing him to the Oaken Duchies in the first place—had crafted the Void and Air Weave to bring them to the border of the Freeland Duchy. Apparently, the Arcane Republic bureaucrat was a member of the Shadow Manes.

Shortly after arriving at the enclave, Nundle had been on his way to find something to eat when a port opened in the middle of the castle’s courtyard and the magistrate stepped out. Both had been rather shocked to see one another. After an amused Broedi explained the situation to them both—Nundle apologized profusely to the magistrate—the longleg had set to teaching him the Weave for a port. Every evening for three weeks, the magistrate would secretly return from his offices in the City of the Strands and guide Nundle as the tomble attempted to master the intricate pattern.

The moment the magistrate was confident in Nundle’s ability to get the pattern correct, Broedi announced his desire to begin their journey the next day. The hillman was anxious to speak with the Goddess Nelnora in order to ask a number of questions about recent events. Nundle was along to provide a quick return to the enclave.

Their journey west started in Huntersfield as it was the closest to the Celestial Empire that Magistrate Ulius had ever been. From day one of their travels, Nundle begged Broedi to take a route that would bring them near the tomble villages. A reluctant Broedi had agreed, only if Nundle promised that they would not stop. At the time, he had readily accepted the condition.

However, now that he was here, staring at the vista below, he wanted nothing more than to stop and investigate the village. Perhaps he could find braised lamb leg, mint jam, and a side of spiced turnip. His stomach gurgled at the thought of the roots. He had not had a properly spiced turnip since leaving Deepwell. A wave of homesickness swept over him.

“Broedi?” mumbled Nundle absentmindedly. “Did you ever return home? After the war?” When there was no response for a few breaths, Nundle glanced at Broedi and was surprised to find the hillman’s face taut, the muscles in his jaw and neck rippling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Broedi did not meet his gaze, instead keeping his eyes on the fields of crops. After a few moments, the hillman visibly relaxed and his expression softened. He drew in a deep breath and let it out, slow and steady.

“I know. It is still a painful memory that I—”

He cut off in mid-sentence, His eyes narrowed abruptly, focusing on something in the green valley below. The hillman took an instinctual, quick step forward as if to get a better look and drew in a sharp, soft breath of surprise.

“It cannot be.”

Turning to look in the same direction as Broedi, Nundle scanned the valley for what had elicited such a stunned response. Nundle, however, saw nothing out of the ordinary, other than a tomble village in the middle of the Oaken Duchies, of course.

“What is it? What do you see?”

For a long moment, Broedi remained as still and silent as a marble statue. Finally, he crossed his thick arms over his massive chest, a pensive expression resting upon his face. He spoke, his voice not much louder than the oak leaves rustling overhead in the light breeze.

“You know more than most about the White Lions, little one. What can you tell me about Nelnora’s champion?”

The question took Nundle by surprise. It was an odd thing to ask now.

With a shrug, Nundle replied, “Surprisingly little.” He paused, trying to recall anything he had read about Nelnora’s White Lion. “His name was Tobias. And he was a mage of some sort. Known as the Eye of Nelnora, yes?”