Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (12 page)

Nikalys hesitated a moment, decided the answer was plausible, and started to nod, but stopped as his neck and back cried out. Holding very still, he answered, “Yes. Brother and sister.”

“Where are your parents?”

Nikalys glanced up at the odd question, hissing at the pain. “Pardon?”

The man’s brown eyes bore into Nikalys. “Your parents, uori? Where are they?”

Nikalys dropped his gaze. Droplets of blood dripped from his hands onto the dirt below. “Dead. They’re both dead.”

Broedi was silent long enough that Nikalys looked up, curious. He had thought he might get a bit of condolence. The large man’s face was a mask of restrained sorrow and confusion.

“You are sure?” asked Broedi.

These questions were beginning to irritate Nikalys. “I’m quite sure.” Glancing back to Kenders, Nikalys said, “Can we help her now?”

The Shapechanger shifted his gaze to Kenders. “Yes. Of course.”

Immediately, the large man moved toward her. Stopping at the brambles, he bent over her, paused, and then peered back to Nikalys.“You will be safe now. I promise.”

Nikalys stared at the man, befuddled. Anxious to get Kenders aid and in no condition to do it himself, he shrugged off the man’s words, muttering, “Wondrous.” He nodded to his sister. “Can you get her out of there?”

Broedi held his gaze a moment longer before turning to Kenders, pulling her from the fingerprick bushes, and laying her on the rocky dirt. Kneeling beside her, he inspected her scratches, cuts, and piercings closely before placing his massive hand over Kenders’ forehead and closing his eyes. His hand around her head looked like Nikalys’ around an egg.

Worried, Nikalys asked, “What are you doing?”

“Ensuring she sleeps peacefully for now,” murmured the Shapechanger. After a few more moments, he opened his eyes, and said firmly, “Stay here, uori.” Standing, the giant grabbed Nikalys’ waterskins and strode from the glow of the fire.

“You’re leaving us here?” called out Nikalys. “What about the wolves?”

After sniffing the air a few times, Broedi said, “They are gone.” With a few giant, loping strides, he disappeared into the forest making nary a sound, leaving Nikalys to stare in the dark after him.

For a brief moment, Nikalys considered running. He stared down at Kenders, took a step closer to her, and winced. He could barely move. There was no way he could carry her. And even if he could and they ran, the Shapechanger could track them down, something Nikalys suspected the stranger would do. The man seemed oddly interested in them.

Frowning, Nikalys let out a long, weary, pain-filled sigh. He had no choice but to wait. Grinding his teeth, Nikalys decided that he would take the man’s help only as long as necessary.

Ignoring his agony, Nikalys sat on the ground next to Kenders. She, like him, had countless scratches everywhere, along with dozens of puncture holes, some with broken-off thorns still in them. Despite her horrid condition, Kenders seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Nikalys was grateful she was not experiencing the same pain as he felt. “Lucky you.”

Waiting for Broedi to return, he wiped the excess blood from her face, marveling at the fate Greya had handed him.

His family was dead.

His home was gone.

His sister was a mage.

And now, they were at the mercy of another mage, this one a blasted Shapechanger. A weary, worried sigh slipped from his lips. “Gods…what else could go wrong?”

Using the sleeve of his shirt, he dabbed at a cut on her chin that would not stop bleeding. As he did, the Shapechanger’s deep voice filled the quiet campsite. “Do not worry. She will be well.”

Startled, Nikalys’ head snapped up, the thorns in his neck cruelly reminding him of his own condition. Broedi stood on the opposite side of the fire, holding two full waterskins. The giant had not made a sound during his return.

“You keep saying that,” said Nikalys. “How can you be sure she’ll be fine?”

“She will because she must.”

“What does that mean?”

Broedi stared at him, but did not respond as he moved around the fire. Crouched before Nikalys, he said, “I will treat you first, uori
.
”

“My name is Nikalys. And I can wait. Help her first.”

Broedi glanced at Kenders. “But she is asleep. She feels no pain.”

Nikalys shook his head.

“Her first.”

With a nod, Broedi said, “As you desire.”

Turning his attention to Kenders, the Shapechanger used water to clean away blood and dirt while searching for any place a thorn was stuck in flesh. Nikalys watched his ministrations closely, ensuring Broedi was truly helping.

Once the wounds were wiped clean, Broedi placed his large hand over a hole on Kenders’ arm where one of the thorns had broken off, its woody nub buried deep below the surface. He hesitated, glanced at Nikalys, and seemed poised to say something. Instead, he pressed his lips together and stared back down to Kenders. After a long, quiet moment, he pulled his hand back. The thorn rested in Broedi’s palm.

Nikalys gaped at him. “How in the Nine Hells did you do that?”

Broedi stared at him, but remained silent.

Nikalys supposed the answer was obvious: more magic. More blasted magic.

Broedi continued to tend to Kenders’ wounds, removing one thorn after another, using magic to coax the thorns that could not be pried out with thumb and forefinger. Throughout the entire ordeal, a scowl rested on Nikalys’ face.

Once Broedi had removed all of the thorns, he retrieved his leather satchel from which he pulled a small pouch. Loosening the drawstring, he turned it over and dumped a few sprigs of a dried, green plant covered with small white flowers into his hand. He ripped a bit off and rubbed it between his fingers. A bitter, crisp scent tickled Nikalys’ nose.

Prying open Kenders’ lips, Broedi placed the crushed plant in her mouth.

Concerned, Nikalys asked, “Wait…what is that?”

“Mesingervo.” Broedi glanced up. “You might call it meadowsweet. It is to help blunt the headache she will have when she wakes.”

Nikalys had no idea what meadowsweet was. It surely did not smell sweet.

Holding up her head a little, Broedi poured water into her mouth. Kenders choked in her sleep, but swallowed the plant and water. Then, Broedi laid her on the ground and placed both of his large hands on the center of her chest. The mammoth man sat that way for a minute, not moving, eyes closed.

Nikalys was about to ask what he was doing when he noticed some of the superficial scratches on Kenders’ skin begin to smooth and heal. He stared in awe as new skin covered the wounds, sealing the cuts and scrapes. The more serious gashes and punctures faded, turning less red and angry, but they did not heal completely. After a few minutes, the Shapechanger pulled his hands back, peered up to Nikalys, and sighed. “Now it is your turn, uori
.
”

Nikalys eyed Broedi warily. While the idea of having the Shapechanger use magic on him was more than unpleasant, he could not travel in his current condition. He stared down to Kenders—she looked a hundred times better than a short while ago—then looked to his own bloody, thorn-strewn arms. After a long, drawn-out quiet, he muttered, “Fine.”

“Then give me your arm.”

Nikalys extended his right arm and endured the same inspection Kenders had undergone. When Broedi came across the first thorn that could not be removed by simply pulling it out, he placed his hand over the hole, and murmured, “This may feel strange.”

Strange was an inadequate term to describe what felt like his flesh pushing out the thorn while something else was gently tugging at it. A moment later, Broedi pulled back his hand, opened his hand, and dropped the inch-long thorn to the ground. Nikalys stared at the bloody barb in amazement. An exclamation of quiet surprise slipped from his lips. “Huh.”

Wearing a slight smile, Broedi resumed his examination. After a few more extractions, he glanced at Nikalys and asked, “This is unusual to you, then?”

Nikalys flinched as another thorn extruded itself. Broedi dropped it on the ground with the others.

“If you mean Shapechangers, summoned lightning, and…” He nodded to the giant’s hands over his arm. “Whatever you’re doing here? Yes. ‘Unusual’ is too mild a word.”

Broedi frowned and turned his attention back to Nikalys’ wounds. For the next hour, Nikalys patiently tolerated Broedi’s treatment. Neither of them said anything, although Broedi seemed on the verge of breaking the silence a number of times. Nikalys was glad he did not.

Once all of the thorns had been removed, Broedi said, “Lie down now, please.”

Nikalys complied.

A few moments after Broedi laid his hands on Nikalys’ chest, a slight warming sensation filled him and his heart began to beat faster, as if he had run from one end of Yellow Mud to the other and back again. He watched in pure wonderment as the shallow scratches on his arms sealed and faded. Wounds that should have taken more than a week to heal were soon gone. The deep punctures closed, but were not fully healed when Broedi withdrew his hands.

The Shapechanger said softly, “The rest you do on your own.”

Suddenly exhausted, Nikalys merely grunted.

Broedi reached back into his leather satchel and pulled a cloth pouch, different from the first. Opening it, he shook out a few green bundles that looked like small, soft pinecones. Handing one to Nikalys, he said, “Place this in your cheek. Do not swallow it.”

Nikalys stared at the herb, shook his head, and muttered, “Why?”

“It will help you sleep better.”

Fighting back a yawn, Nikalys said, “I don’t want to sleep.” He was not about to pass out in front of the Shapechanger, leaving himself and his sister helpless.

Broedi sighed. “Take it, uori. Please.”

Nikalys glared at the giant, frowning and fighting off another yawn.

The Shapechanger said, “If I meant to hurt you, I would have done so already. I am here to help you. Truly.”

Nikalys reluctantly took the soft, green pinecone, jammed it between his gum and cheek, and immediately twisted his face in disgust.

“Gods, that tastes awful.”

“Its taste is irrelevant,” rumbled Broedi. “Now, please, sleep. I will watch over you both.”

Nikalys closed his eyes, swearing he was just going to pretend to sleep.

Within minutes, he was snoring.

10th of the Turn of Sutri, 4999

The dust cloud kicked up by the wagon train as it rolled past stuck in Jak’s eyes and coated his tongue. The dirt choked him and crunched between his teeth. Coughing, Jak tried to draw spit to clear his mouth but failed, forcing him to take a sip from his nearly empty waterskin. He sloshed the water around, turned his head, and spat it on the road.

Six wagons rattled past him, varying in size from a small two-wheeled cocking cart with a single horse to a four-wheeled carriage pulled by a team of four bays. Crates and barrels filled the back of every wagon, the sides of which bore faded green script letters spelling out
Southern Porters Company
. Not a single man glanced in Jak’s direction as they rattled past.

Under his breath, Jak mumbled, “Blasted Porters.”

The Southern Porters Company had a reputation for being dependable but ruthless. The merchants that contracted them to transport goods were happy to pay the Porters’ high fees as the company always delivered on schedule and without incident. The Porters’ competitors had fewer kind things to say about them. None, in fact.

On Jak’s last trip to Smithshill with his father and brother, he had sat at a table in the inn where they were staying the night. A local merchant had awarded a large contract to the Southern Porters Company over rival Hayle and Son, the company for whom the men at Jak’s table worked. Bitter and drunk, they were happy to share tales of the Porters.

One in particular was when men from both companies had stayed overnight at the same crossroads inn. That evening, all of the Hayle horses came down with colic, yet, not a single Porters’ horse took ill. As the Porters drove off the next morning, they laughed uproariously at the “misfortune” of the Hayle men.

During the Isaacs’ return journey to Yellow Mud, Jak had gone on and on about the Porters’ wickedness. Eventually, his father had interrupted him, cautioning Jak—and Nikalys—to be careful about rushing to judgment and trusting the words of the slighted. Jak had known his father to be right, but he had already formed his opinion of the Porters, and strong opinions were no match for logic and careful thought.

As the last wagon rolled past, Jak watched it go bouncing down the way, hoping the jostling from the uneven road would dislodge a crate or barrel. By the time the carts rounded a forest bend, nothing had fallen off, prompting Jak’s frown to deepen.

“Well, Hells.”

Sighing, he turned east and resumed plodding down the road.

The sun was near its high point in the sky and the sweat was flowing freely. He had made a simple head covering from a scavenged rag but it had soaked through and Jak was too tired to wring it. If sweat dripped into his eyes, so be it.

After escaping the barrel yesterday, he had made his way south, forcing himself to search the dead but only approaching the bodies that were face down. Not knowing which neighbor’s corpse he was foraging from made the morbid task a little easier. Not much, but a little.

He had collected some more coin—not much—a large waterskin, a rucksack, and a spare change of clothes. His prize find had been an unstrung ash bow, arrows, and dry sinew inside a watertight case.. He had strapped the case to his back, next to the curious leather package his father had given him.

The sun seemed determined to roast Jak under its relentless rays. Whenever the Southern Road turned north or south for a stretch, Jak rejoiced, welcoming the brief respite of shade provided by the oaks lining the roadside.

“One foot in front of the other, Jak. One foot in front of the other.”

His stomach grumbled loudly. He glanced down. “Quiet, you.”

He had not eaten since the day of the attack. He had fasted that morning, planning to catch and eat halock at the lake in the afternoon. When roasted with just a little salt and hillsage, the fish turned into a delectable, flaky, white treat. The meat simply fell from the bones.