Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (30 page)

After three generations of war with the monstrous races of Sudash, the dukes decided the Rathburns were not fit to rule, deposed the king, and withdrew the tired and withered army. Hostilities with Sudash ceased.

Upon returning to the capital, Port Royal, the dukes debated what path their war-torn country must take. Ultimately, they chose to keep the country intact and rule it by a council of sovereigns, one from each of the ten duchies. The Oaken Kingdom became the Oaken Duchies and Port Royal was renamed Freehaven.

Through the next fifty years, power struggles among the ruling dukes and duchesses were constant. It was simply a matter of time before war broke out.

An advisor to Duke Alistair of the Red Peaks, a divina named Norasim, persuaded the noble that it was his destiny to unite the land again under the single banner of King Alistair. Swayed by sweet words and promises, the duke launched an invasion of his neighbors. His armies won battle after battle with ease, slaughtering their enemies with ease. As time passed, the reason for their repeated victories became clear: the Red Peaks soldiers were no longer men.

In Nundle’s opinion, it was at that point the factual history turned to playman’s saga.

Duke Alistair’s army had slowly morphed into twisted, demonic beasts with claws, horns, and black, cracked skin. Battles grew ever more one-sided until—in only three short years—the Red Peaks army had conquered the Northlands and the Foothills. The Oaken Duchies was on the precipice of collapse.

At some point during the campaign, the duke disappeared and Norasim proclaimed himself king. According to the author, Norasim was not mortal, but rather the incarnation of the god of Chaos. Nundle had almost stopped reading at that point, finding such a claim to be ridiculous. Nevertheless, he had read on, too interested to quit.

Nelnora, the goddess of Civilization and Balance, concerned by what she saw, reached out to the other gods and goddesses and argued for intervention. She met resistance, though, as the official policy of the gods was to abstain from the affairs of mortal nations. Nelnora contended that this was different, that an army of demons led by the god of Chaos warranted their involvement. Eight agreed with her and offered aid, forming the Assembly of Nine.

Eight of the Assembly sent forth envoys to select individuals living in the Oaken Duchies. Each of the chosen, if they agreed, would be given a great gift of power from one who selected them. The ninth member of the Assembly, Sarphia, the Eternal Queen, would bestow near immortality upon them all.

Eight mortals came to the Seat of Nelnora and eight champions left, charged with driving back the demonic armies.

As the champions began their quest to defeat Norasim, Indrida, the Enlightened Oracle and Nelnora’s sister, had a vision. Alarmed by what she had foreseen, the goddess sent a single scribing of the prophecy to her sister. Indrida’s predictions so disturbed Nelnora that she ordered the parchment destroyed immediately, an order that was not carried out in its entirety.

A portion of the prophecy survived which the author of the history included in the book. The words remained etched in Nundle’s mind to this day.

The roar of the Lions will drive back the spawn,

And the lines of men, strong once again, will be redrawn.

Yet that which drives man’s soul will fray at the seams,

While the strength of the Lions will fade as do last night’s dreams.

Torn apart by deceit and distrust,

One will perish and One will be lost.

One will leave, while Another will stay.

And Two shall find each Other one day.

Against his will, one must fight,

While it falls upon the Half-man to unite.

Chaos will rise again, unraveling what has been made,

With Strife, Pain, and Deception in tow, lending aid.

Hidden, then found,

Willingly come around,

The Progeny must rise to lead the fight,

Along with new and old, seek to make it right.

The author believed the first portion of the prophecy had come to pass when the eight champions—known as the White Lions—rallied the armies of the duchies, drove back the demon spawn, and ultimately destroyed them. Norasim was captured and executed.

The people of the Northlands and Foothills duchies began their long march on the road to recovery, rebuilding cities and lives. Nobles and citizenry alike blamed the tortuous events of the Demonic War on all magic and not merely Norasim’s use of it.

A hundred years passed.

Most of those who remembered the Demonic War traveled to Maeana’s realm, taking with them the memory of the White Lions’ contributions. An anti-magic movement sprouted in the Red Peaks and grew outward like creeping, poisonous ivy. Mages—once respected and trusted—were attacked as they walked down the street. The nation was primed for an uprising. Events near the port city of Carinius were the spark that lit the inferno.

Before the year 4748 after the Locking, Carinius was known for the abundance of fish and crab in its chilly waters. Afterwards, it became renowned for the thousands people found along its rocky beaches, burned or drowned. Those who had survived the tragedy claimed to have witnessed several White Lions in the area at the time.

Accusations flew. The populace called for action.

The First Council convened in Freehaven and debated a radical proposal to outlaw the use of the Strands. Anti-magic fervor had not permeated the entire nation, and the leaders of the Southlands, Marshlands, and the Colonial duchies all argued vociferously against the proposal. Nonetheless, fear and distrust ruled the day and the measure eventually passed.

Magic, in any form, was forbidden in the Oaken Duchies.

The newly enacted law created a national organization, the Constables, tasked with tracking any use of magic and arresting the offenders. Schools and colleges of magical study were torn down, texts were burned, teachers and students detained. Initially, mages peacefully submitted to the authority of the Constables, believing that reason and sanity would return and the law would be reversed.

They were wrong.

Rumors spread that those taken into custody were being executed. Remaining mages went into hiding or fled the duchies’ shores altogether, scattering across the whole of Terrene. Some even came to the Arcane Republic.

The previously venerated White Lions were not immune to the new law. The council stripped them of their titles, named them outlaws, and sent the Constables after them. Eventually, the mage-hunters reported they had captured all eight. As time passed, mindless hatred of magic faded, but fear and ignorance easily replaced the void.

Nundle had found the entire tale both troubling and fascinating. Which is why, when he had found the letter in Preceptor Myrr’s office three days ago, he knew he had to do something. He had to get to the duchies as quickly as possible.

After familiarizing himself with various maps of the Oaken Duchies, Nundle left the library and headed to the Bank of the Strands to retrieve his sizable wealth, having deposited it there when he had first arrived in the Arcane Republic. To him, such a concept was novel—an entire organization that existed only to hold people’s coin, keep it safe for a small fee, and then give it back when they asked for it. It seemed a rather lazy and dishonorable way to make coin.

Afterwards, he spent the day wandering the various taverns of the Candlelight District, trying to ferret out some very specific information: the name of any Oaken Duchies refugee able to weave a port. Late yesterday evening, he had succeeded.

The informant had not known from which region the refugee mage hailed, but Nundle did not care. The Oaken Duchies was a large country, ten times the size of his own, but porting to anywhere in the duchies was a better option than taking a ship. Nundle’s excitement was tempered when the rumormonger revealed that the refugee was now a magistrate of the republic. Gaining access to the longleg would be a challenge.

This morning, Nundle had woken with the sun, come to the House of Magistrates, and had requested to see Magistrate Ulius on a fabricated issue regarding an out-of-date permit for his non-existent pottery shop. The weasel-faced attendant had cursorily noted his presence and pointed to the bench on which Nundle had been sitting ever since.

Wincing, Nundle shifted—yet again—in an attempt to get comfortable. His bottom hurt.

The long wooden bench with a curved back would comfortably seat five or six longlegs, making it was ridiculously huge for a single tomble. His legs hung over the side, swinging freely, a solid foot from the ground. After four years living in the Arcane Republic, Nundle was weary of climbing atop things upon which everyone else could simply sit.

He glared at the weasel-faced attendant. The longleg’s ornate, cherry desk was large and impressive, but it seemed small in the cavernous hall. Towering, curved walls swept upwards to meet in a precise point high above the polished, black stone floor. Hanging from the peak was a large bronze chandelier ablaze with hundreds of candles.

The circular chamber was a lobby of sorts, with five identical desks sitting next to five identical doors arranged equidistant from each other. A single, tall entryway to the hall rested where the sixth door would be. The gentle, sweeping point atop of the wooden doors mimicked the shape of the room’s peak.

Three of the five desks were occupied, meaning that magistrate was still inside his or her office. Nundle sighed. He would need to work fast.

Throughout the day, a half-dozen other officials had gone in the magistrate’s office and came out again, yet still Nundle sat. He wished the magistrate would hurry and admit him. Every moment wasted was a moment Preceptor Myrr might walk through the chamber’s entryway.

Suddenly, Nundle’s stomach growled. Loudly.

The weasel-faced attendant behind the cherry desk looked up and gave him a disapproving stare.

Glaring at the man, Nundle said, “Pardon me, but sitting around and waiting
all
day has made me hungry.”

Smirking, the attendant said, “I would think one meal per day would suffice for you.”

Nundle returned the smirk but refrained from any additional sarcasm. If he had any hope of seeing the magistrate, he had to keep the gatekeeper happy.

A loud creak echoed through the room as Magistrate Ulius’ door opened. An older longleg with thick bushy gray hair encircling his bald pate stuck out his head and stared at the attendant. Flabby jowls hung from the side of his neck and an additional chin indicated that the longleg was large and quite overweight.

“Are we finished, Marcus?”

“Yes, Magistrate, there are no—”

Nundle cleared his throat. In the quiet of the giant room where the loudest sound was the gentle scratching of quill on parchment, the sound reverberated, bouncing off granite. Magistrate Ulius jumped and turned his head all around, staring about the room and trying to discover from where the sound had come.

Nundle coughed again and the magistrate’s eyes settled on the little tomble. As Nundle hopped off the bench and moved over to the door, the magistrate looked toward his assistant.

“Ah…Marcus?”

The weasel-faced man’s smirk returned. Even though Nundle had a name for the longleg, he would remain “Weasel Face” to Nundle in perpetuity.

“I am sorry, sir. But this tomble—” the smirk deepened “—requested a few moments of your time.”

Nundle felt it necessary to add, “Which I did
very
early this morning.”

The magistrate bristled. It was apparent he wished to be done for the day.

“Please, sir,” pled Nundle. “I do not need much of your time.”

Frowning, the magistrate mumbled, “I wish I could, but I have an appointment I must—”

“It’s very important, sir,” interrupted Nundle. He shook his traveling pack, filling the chamber with the sounds of coins clinking.

Magistrate Ulius’ face changed in an instant. With a wide smile, he opened the door and said, “Please come in. I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.” He turned and went back inside the room.

Nundle hopped from the bench gave a smug smile to Weasel Face as strode into the magistrate’s office. Two steps into the room, he stopped and stared.

“Oh, my…”

Colorful cloth hangings covered the walls. Carved statues littered the desk and shelves. Oversized books sat open on ornate metal stands. Dozens of gaudy, expensive-looking items filled every nook and cranny of the room. Staring out the glass windows that overlooked the city, Nundle spotted three of the monuments to the Strands—Air, Fire, and Soul. The grand spires towered over the city, sparkling white, orange, and silver in the late afternoon sun.

Nundle eyed the magistrate as the longleg moved behind his desk and sat in a throne of a chair. The longleg’s love for food clearly matched his appetite for expensive objects.

“Close the door behind you if you don’t mind.”

Nundle was happy to comply, eyeing the lock as he did so. He was relieved to see it set by simply dropping a latch into a slot.

Magistrate Ulius asked, “Now, how can I help you, Mister…?”

“Tweetlewood,” replied Nundle, turning around. “Harlon Tweetlewood.”

Nundle had used a series of false names since leaving Immylla, hoping they might him some time if anyone were tracking him. Namely, the preceptor.

“What a fun name to say!” boomed the magistrate. “Harlon Tweetlewood! It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tweetlewood.” He eyed Nundle’s traveling satchel. “You mentioned you have something important you wish to discuss?” The greed in his eyes shone nearly as bright as the spires outside.

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

Striding across the office, Nundle reached into his travel pack, pulled out a handful of coins, and dumped them on the desk. The magistrate’s eyes opened wide. “Mr. Tweetlewood, you have my full attention.”

He pulled the pile of coin close and started to count. It seemed the gold had his full attention.