Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (13 page)

At the thought of food, Jak’s stomach rumbled even louder. He frowned. If he did not find sustenance today, he would grow weak and slow his pursuit. And he could not slow down. Not now.

Last night, as he lay against the trunk of a tree in the dark, he had used the teardrop pendant to check on his brother and sister. Expecting the calming feeling to which he had already grown accustomed, he instead was shocked when countless pricks of pain danced along his neck, back, and arms. The unexpected pain had ripped the breath from his lungs. Releasing the pendant, he had pulled back the sleeves of his tan shirt and inspected his arms. He found nothing.

Bracing himself, he grasped the silver teardrop again and pictured Nikalys and Kenders. He ignored the pain and focused on their faces. The muted ringing sound was still east, but noticeably louder than the previous evening. He figured that meant he was closer.

Worried that something might have happened to them, he had gotten up and continued walking in the dark, despite his weariness. He had traveled most of the night, taking only short breaks when he was afraid he might fall over.

Now, under the relentless heat of the sun, he trod along the Southern Road, fighting a war of wills with his stomach. The occasional, weak chirp of one bird or another flitted through the quiet forest.

His waterskin was almost empty, but Jak was not too worried as there was a creek a few miles ahead. He and his father had made the journey to Smithshill every harvest since his thirteenth summer, and he knew the route well by now.

When Jak had been young, Thaddeus had spoken as if the excursion to the city was a terrible chore. Once Jak was old enough, he went along, dreading the journey for weeks ahead of time. A day into that first trip, Jak discovered his father’s lamenting was nothing more than a ruse, a jest he had been setting up for years to play on Jak The actual four-day ride to Smithshill had been quiet, relaxing, and a welcome relief from Jak’s normal duties in Yellow Mud. His only task during the trip was to shoo the small bodflies that tried to land on the crates.

When they had arrived in Fallsbottom—the lower section of the dual city—Jak had been further surprised to discover that the men at the delivery point unloaded the crates while Jak and Thaddeus watched. He still remembered the smile and wink Thaddeus had given him as the men hauled the grapes and olives away. That evening, father and son had a large meal and played knuckles with the locals. It had been a very enjoyable trip.

When Jak returned home, he, too, had talked up the difficulties of the trip to Nikalys. Two years later, he had delighted in watching Nikalys go through the same series of revelations he had. To this day, Kenders still thought their trip was an onerous task.

Lost in happy memories, Jak did not hear the sound of a wagon coming down the road ahead of him until the rattle was impossible to ignore.

Looking down the road, Jak spotted a pair of horses pulling a small cart driven by a lone man. As bandit crimes were rare in the Great Lakes Duchy, it was commonplace for people to travel the Southern Road alone. Yet brigands were not nonexistent, which explained why the man in the wagon pulled his horses to a stop. Wearing a blue shirt and yellow straw hat, the man scanned the forest and edges of the road. He appeared to expect an ambush.

For a brief moment, Jak had the inkling to scream out “To arms, brothers!” and charge the man. Shaking his head, he muttered, “I’ve had too much sun.”

Instead of launching a one-man bandit assault, he held up his arms and called, “Peace, good man! Good days ahead!”

The cart’s driver hesitated a moment and—after taking one last glance at the trees lining the road—snapped his reins, urging the horses closer. The man looked to be the same age as his father and wore a beard, something rarely seen in the Great Lakes, but was favored by Southlanders. Summers here were too hot to have hair covering one’s face.

Stepping to the roadside to allow the horses and cart to stop, Jak reached up to his chin and felt some fledgling stubble. He needed to get a razor when he could.

The man stared down at Jak, still with a touch of wary, nodded once in greeting, and said, “Good memories behind, traveler. Haven’t seen too many people walking alone on the road.” His slight accent confirmed Jak’s suspicion the man was a Southlander; his “oh” sounds came out more like “ew.”

The man’s gaze left Jak, darting to every tree, large rock and bush nearby.

“Relax, good man,” said Jak reassuringly. “I’m no bandit.”

“So you say.”

Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, Jak peered up at the man and said, “Trust me, stranger. Look.” He lifted his other arm to give the man a clear look at his belt. “No sword. No knife.”

The man nodded to the bow casing on Jak’s back.

“An arrow in the heart is as deadly as any blade.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Jak said, “Ah, well. Yes, I suppose you have me there.” He looked back to the man and smiled. “I’m a rather poor shot, though. When deer see me coming, they lie down and take a nap.”

The man continued to study him. “So you say.”

Jak could claim he was not a bandit all day long and the man might never believe him. Rather than tell, he would have to show. With a kind smile, Jak said, “I do thank you for stopping, sir. Most people ride right on by.”

“If you are not a bandit, then it would seem they are ruder than I.” The man paused and then added, “However, if you
are
a brigand, then I am a fool.”

Jak’s grin widened. “At least you’re polite fool.”

Jak’s jest brought a smile to the man’s face. Visibly relaxing some, the man said, “The name’s Ropert. Ropert Paulson, from Hollowstone.”

Nodding as if he knew where Hollowstone was—he did not—Jak said, “I’m Jak. Jak Isaac of Yellow Mud.”

The moment the words were past he lips, he regretted saying them. Whatever had happened to Yellow Mud was magical in nature and he doubted the perpetrators would like discovering people had survived their treachery. Sharing his name and home was a sour idea.

Ropert leaned back in his seat, looped the reins around a wooden peg, and rested his hands in his lap.

“Convinced I’m no brigand?” asked Jak.

“Any respectable bandit would have sprung the trap by now,” said Ropert with a smile. “So, Jak Isaac of Yellow Mud, for what reason have you waved down an honest trader?”

Jak stared blankly at Ropert. “Well…”

He had kept such a singular focus, first to stay alive and then to find his brother and sister, that he had not even considered coming up with a plausible story for just such an occasion. He would need to work on that, but for the moment, he needed to come up with something on the spot. “You see, I…”

Ropert’s eyes narrowed a fraction as his suspicion returned for a repeat performance.

Taking advantage of his legitimate hesitation, Jak mumbled, “Truth be told, it’s a rather embarrassing story.”

Lying, Jak said he had gotten into an argument with his father, that he was tired of rural farm life and wanted to make his fortune in the city. After a nasty shouting match, Jak had left in the dead of night. He had not been thinking clearly, though, and had forgotten to bring proper supplies—namely food. However, he did have some coin with him, and would be happy to buy something to eat from Ropert if he could spare some.

As he finished his yarn, Ropert nodded and leaned forward. “Son, I’ll be happy to sell you a bite to eat. But my price isn’t a few copper ducats.”

Jak was hungry, but if this man was going to charge him silver for a meal, Ropert was the highwayman.

“Sir, I don’t have much to spare. I could only—”

“No,” interrupted Ropert, shaking his head. “I don’t want coin. The going rate for a young man in your position is to listen to some advice from a father with two sons himself.” With a hard glint in his eye, he said, “Jak, if you don’t want to be a farmer, so be it. But those harsh words with your father will haunt you. Go back and talk it out with him. If he’s any sort of a man, he’ll respect your decision. If not, well, then you’re a better sort than him and you can live your life free of regret.”

Ropert’s words caught Jak off guard. He stared at the Southlander and, for the first time since leaving his parents standing in the middle of Yellow Mud, he felt the permanence of their absence.

They were gone.

Forever.

After a few moments, Jak managed to mumble, “Actually, my father’s a very good man, sir.”

With a single nod, Ropert turned around and reached down into a compartment on the back of the seat. Pulling out a small parcel wrapped in a light tan cloth, he tossed it down.

“There’s some dried and salted Southlands boar side. Best in the duchies. Enough to tide you over for a few days.”

“Thank you,” murmured Jak. “I appreciate the generosity.”

“Thanks are not necessary,” said Ropert. “Now, I need to be going. Need to get to Redstone before my yellowberries turn brown.” Pausing, he eyed Jak carefully. “If you’d like, I can give you a ride back the way you came.”

Jak knew the Southlander was offering him the chance to reconcile with his father. Shaking his head, he replied, “I’m not able to talk to him, sir.”

Minor disappointment flickered over Ropert’s bearded face, but he smiled anyway.

“Perhaps you’ll come around one day, then, Jak Isaac of Yellow Mud. And when you do, I’m sure your father will welcome you back warmly.”

Jak could only nod. Such a reunion was impossible.

Ropert said his goodbye, and with a snap of the reins, drove the horses into a quick trot down the road, seemingly glad the potential bandit had been just a wayward son.

Jak turned east, and started walking again, reminded anew of the reality of his deep loss. He shoved the package of dried meat into his sack. He was no longer hungry.

* * *

The remainder of the afternoon passed uneventfully.

Later in the day, after his sorrow had passed somewhat, he pulled the boar from his sack and ate a good portion, finding that Southlands’ boar tasted quite good. The saltiness of the dried meat made him extremely thirsty, but he drank his fill of water at a creek and filled his waterskin.

Now, when Jak encountered other travelers, he kept his head down until they passed. Beyond the meal, the advice, and sad memories gained from his meeting with Ropert, he learned he should be careful of what he said and to whom.

Twice more, he checked the teardrop pendant. Both times, he found he was getting closer to his brother and sister. While he was happy that was the case, he was puzzled how he was making up so much ground. Each time he checked, the prickling sensation of pain had lessened. Jak hoped that was a good thing.

Tired though he was, Jak walked into the early evening and was considering marching the night. There would certainly be plenty of light as White Moon was nearly full. However, a few wolf howls made him think he should stop and build a campfire. According to Nikalys, the flames would keep wolves away.

Mu’s orb had just dipped below the western treetops when Jak caught a whiff of wood smoke. The next breath brought with it the inviting aroma of something savory cooking. Rounding the next bend in the road, he spotted a large camp of men and instantly skidded to a halt.

“Uh-oh.”

Canvas tents perched on both sides of the road, little black and red pennants hanging from their peaks. Eight campfires roared, five on the left and three on the right. A few dozen horses were picketed with their heads down, trying to eat what little green grass still grew during the hottest, driest turn of the year.

The men were all dressed the same: red undershirts, black tabards that fell halfway to their knees, and dark gray cloth pants tucked into calf-high, black leather boots. Jak recognized the soldiers as Red Sentinels, the army of the Great Lakes Duchy. Were he any closer, he would see Duke Everett’s crest of a white and black, quartered shield with a red sword crossing the face, hilt to point squared on the tabard.

Jak stood in the road, wondering if he should attempt to pass through the soldiers’ camp or retrace his steps, go off path, and travel through the woods to avoid their scrutiny. A commanding shout removed the choice from his hands.

“Hold!”

A few hundred paces away, two soldiers were striding along the road toward him. Sunrays filtering through the trees glinted off smooth, rounded, silver helms atop each man’s head. Both soldiers approached with their hands resting on their sword hilts.

Jak whispered, “Hells.”

Presented with an opportunity to employ the story he had been working on since meeting Ropert, Jak forced a friendly, almost goofy smile on his face and stepped forward, stopping two paces later when the soldier on the right shouted at him.

“I said, hold! That means ‘don’t move!’”

Jak halted, put up his hand indicating he understood, and waited. The soldiers stopped in the middle of the road, fifteen paces away, and studied him. Jak reciprocated.

The man on his right looked exhausted. Scraggly blond hair stuck out from underneath his helm, matted with sweat and grime. The man on Jak’s left looked much more alert, his dark eyes wide and peering over a long, hooked nose.

Thickening what little rural accent he had, Jak said, “Good days ahead, good sirs.”

In a flat, uninterested voice, the tired man, “State your business, traveler.”

“Headed to Killis Post, good sirs,” said Jak, giving the name of a small town a day east from here. “My father sent me to pick up some things from there.”

“By yourself?” asked the more alert man. “With no cart?”

The other guard stared up into a tree and yawned. Perhaps he was bored, not tired.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Jak lied, “We’re too poor for a cart, good sirs.”

“Stop calling us that,” said the alert man. “We’re soldiers.”

The bored soldier spoke up, saying, “Speak for yourself, Holb.” He looked to Jak. “You may call me ‘sir.’”

Holb turned to companion and said, “As long as you are wearing that uniform,
Footman
Haynes, you will call me Corporal Holb. And no one will call you ‘sir’ or ‘my Lord’ or anything of the like. Do you understand?”