Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (51 page)

Looking behind him, Nikalys found the young woman standing against the far wall of the cottage, holding the bandit’s bow and staring at the body on the sand. She had killed the murderous bandit with his own bow and arrow. Justice colored with irony.

She appeared to be near Nikalys’ age—or perhaps Jak’s—and wore a simple dress similar in color and style to that of the dead farmer. Her hair—long, glossy, and as black as a moonless night—framed a pretty face. At least Nikalys thought it would be pretty were it not a twisted mask of hatred and sorrow.

Nikalys took a step toward her. “Are you alright?”

She looked up at him and raised the bow up, holding it like a club. Her eyes, brown and large, burned with a cold fury.

Nikalys held his hands up. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to—”

“Nikalys!” cried Kenders.

Glancing to the front of the house, he saw Broedi—as a hillman again—kneeling on the ground beside Jak. Kenders was sitting with Jak’s head resting in her lap.

Forgetting the girl, Nikalys ran to the sand pile, leaped over it and dashed toward his brother. He passed the bodies of the four other brigands from outside, all of whom were most definitely dead, the chunks of flesh missing from their necks rather indicative of their condition.

Skidding to a halt, he dropped to a knee beside his brother.

“Oh, gods…”

Jak had clasped his blood soaked hands over his stomach where the arrow stuck out. He was coughing, each hack sending more frothy blood dribbling down his cheeks to drip on Kenders’ green dress. A frustrated Broedi was trying desperately to get Jak to let go of the arrow shaft.

“Uori! Please! I must take a look.”

Nikalys felt helpless. He placed his hands on his head, fingers interlocked.

Jak’s wide-open eyes repeatedly shifted between the arrow and the faces peering down at him. Kenders joined with Broedi, pleading for Jak to release the arrow and let the hillman look at the wound. Nikalys remained quiet, unable to find his tongue to speak.

Finally, Jak moved his hands aside. Broedi ripped open Jak’s shirt, wiped away the excess blood, and began probing the area around where the arrow was lodged. With each poke and prod, Jak let out a small, pain-filled gasp. After a few moments, the hillman relaxed.

“You will be fine
.
It looks worse than it is.”

Nikalys stared at the hillman and muttered, “Are you sure?” He wanted to be relieved, but was wary.

“Quite,” rumbled Broedi. He looked to Kenders. “Uora?”

She did not respond, her gaze remaining fixed on the bloody arrow wound.

“Uora!”

Startled, Kenders looked up, her eyes full of worry, which was to be expected. Yet what surprised Nikalys was the utter exhaustion paired with her anxiety. She appeared as if she was going to pass out at any moment.

“Your kaveli will be fine. I can help him heal this. Please, go find the little one that ran. And be gentle. She will be scared.”

Nikalys glanced to the grasslands southeast of the farm, having forgotten all about the toddler. Not seeing her anywhere, he figured she must be hiding in grass.

A woman’s voice called, “Hold a moment!”

Turning back to the house, he found the raven-haired young woman approaching them. Her gaze danced over each of them several times, cautious and judging. In a firm tone, she said, “You all stay where you are.”

“We mean you no harm,” rumbled Broedi, his tone gentle.

“Sweet words can hide sour intentions. Stay here. I’ll find my sister on my own.”

With that, the woman began to march toward the eastern grasslands.

Staring after her, Kenders muttered in disbelief, “Sour intentions? We risked our lives for them.”

Broedi said, “Imagine you are her, uora. She does not know us from the bandits who assaulted them. Trust is earned, not given.”

“We saved them,” insisted Kenders.

“And I saved you from three wolves, yet none of you trusted me for a week.”

Kenders’ mouth was open, some sort of protest ready, but Broedi’s rather salient point squashed it.

Jak said through hissing breaths, Can you please get the arrow out?”

“Of course, uori.”

Nikalys glanced back to the woman and noticed she was heading in the wrong direction. The little girl had ended up running more to the south.

Kenders saw the same thing, muttering, “She’s going to need help whether she likes it or not. That’s the wrong way.” Letting out a sigh, she bent over and gave Jak a small kiss on his forehead. “Don’t you die on me.”

Through gritted teeth, Jak hissed, “Wouldn’t consider it.”

Kenders rose and hurried away after the young woman, calling out and pointing in the direction that the toddler had run. The black-haired woman stopped and eyed Kenders for a moment, her stare wary. Soon, however, the pair was walking together through the waist-high grass. Gentle calls of “Helene” filled the air.

A gasp of pain pulled Nikalys’ his attention back to Jak. Reaching down, he patted his brother’s shoulder.

“You’re going to be fine.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Broedi rumbled, “I must get the arrow out.” He stared into Jak’s eyes. “Are you ready?”

“Is it going to hurt?”

“Very much so.”

Nikalys grabbed Jak’s right hand and held it. Jak squeezed back, shut his eyes, and clenched his teeth.

“Go.”

Rather than pull it out, Broedi placed his hands on both sides of the arrow. Moments later, the shaft began to wiggle and withdraw from Jak’s stomach seemingly on its own. Nikalys winced, gritting his own teeth as Jak’s grip grew so tight that he was afraid bones might break. In short order, the barbed triangular head of the arrow popped out and the shaft fell to the grass.

Jak let out a wheezing huff and exclaimed, “Blast the gods! That hurt more than getting shot!”

Staring at the hillman, Nikalys said, “It didn’t hurt me when you took the thorns out.”

“The thorns were not as deep,” replied Broedi as he probed around the wound again. “Nor did they have large, barbed arrowheads on them.”

Nikalys peered down at Jak’s face. His brother looked pale.

“He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

“He will be fine once I use the Strands of Life to help him heal.” A frown creased the hillman’s face. “Although, we will need to stay here while he sleeps.”

“I can sleep on a horse,” muttered Jak.

“No,” rumbled the hillman with a gentle shake of his head. “For the Weave to work, you must sleep soundly.” He glanced northward. “We will rest for a day. We should be safe that long.” The confidence with which he spoke did not reach his eyes.

Looking back to Jak, Broedi placed his hands over the wound and glanced at Nikalys.

“What did you find in the house, uori
?
”

Looking to the woman with Kenders, he said, “Her and two more men.” The dead farmer’s vacant stare flashed before him. “Actually, three. The third was dead, his throat slit.” His voice dropped to an angry whisper. “I think he was the girls’ father.”

He peered east, watching the young woman striding through the swishing grass, searching for her little sister. A massive wave of guilt flooded over him.

“If I hadn’t got off my blasted horse, we could have made it here in time to save him.”

Broedi rumbled, “Life is one long series of ‘ifs,’ uori. What is done is done.”

Nikalys glared at Broedi, disappointed in the hillman’s callousness.

“What’s done is done? Did you not hear me? If I hadn’t complained about a sore rear, their father might still be alive!”

Nodding, Broedi said, “Yes, and had I decided to let you sleep a moment longer this morning, the little girl would be dead, and the other
would be in worse shape.”

“Worse than dead?” asked Nikalys incredulously. “How is that exactly?”

Murmuring through his pain, Jak said, “Think, Nik. Seven brigands kill the father and try to kill the little girl. But the pretty young woman is alive and untouched?”

Disgust, pure and cold, welled up in Nikalys.

“You saved her from an awful ordeal, uori,” rumbled Broedi. “And saved the life of her iskoa. Take solace in the sweet. Do not dwell on the sour.”

Nikalys went quiet as Broedi worked on Jak’s wound. The girls’ cries for the toddler drifted on the air, mixing with Jak’s muted grunts of pain. After a few moments, Nikalys muttered, “Broedi, I think I killed a man.”

“A fate these men deserved.”

Knowing that their deaths were justified did nothing to cure the sick feeling inside Nikalys. Killing another man was a horrible experience, even if the man was a murderer. His gaze drifted over the four men who lay dead in the front of the remnants of the house. Blades of grass from the blown-off roof dusted their corpses.

“Broedi, how many men have you killed?”

The question had been more of a thought than actual inquiry, but the words slipped out, taking Nikalys by surprise.

Broedi removed his hands from Jak’s stomach and stared at the ground. A long, weary sigh slipped from his lips.

“I do not know.”

Nikalys did not know what to say to that.

The hillman lifted his eyes to stare up at him, saying, “Taking a life never gets easier, uori. And that is a good thing. Should it ever become something you do without thought or conscience—” his gaze shifted to the corpses of the four mutilated men “—then you are no better than them.”

Nodding, Nikalys glanced down at his brother and found Jak’s eyes shut. Panic rushed through him

“Broedi?”

“He is fine. Only sleeping,” rumbled the hillman as he rose from the ground. He patted Nikalys on the shoulder. “Come, we must clean this mess.” He moved off toward the ruined home.

Nikalys eyed Jak, ensuring that his brother was indeed merely asleep. The pain was gone from Jak’s face, replaced with a peaceful expression. His chest rose and fell at a slow, relaxed pace. Looking down to Jak’s stomach, Nikalys found new skin covering the arrow wound, pink and clean of blood. By no means was it fully healed, but the injury was weeks beyond where it should be.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Nikalys looked up and noticed Kenders and the woman were walking back toward the house now, side-by-side, the pretty, black-haired woman holding her sister in her arms. They were still a good distance off, but the little girl’s sobs were still audible.

Nikalys looked over at the dead bandits and frowned. The little girl should not see any of this. In all honestly, he would have preferred if he did not need to see any of it as well.

Catching Kenders’ eye, he motioned for them to stay where they were. She stared at him with plain curiosity, so he pointed to the clearing, then the little girl in her sister’s arms, and shook his head. Kenders nodded and reached out to stop the woman. Once he was sure they were not coming back right away, Nikalys turned toward the house.

Broedi was standing by the pile of sand that had once been the front wall, staring into the ruined cottage. As Nikalys approached from behind, the hillman flipped the man on the sand over with his boot. The bandit toppled over to his back to reveal the arrow sticking from his eye.

Glancing back to Nikalys, Broedi rumbled, “I did not realize you were so accurate with a bow.”

“That wasn’t me,” said Nikalys, stopping beside Broedi. He pointed to the man slumped against the wall. “That was.”

Broedi glanced at the man Nikalys indicated and then back at the arrow-pierced man at their feet.

“If not you?”

“The woman,” replied Nikalys. “She shot him as he charged me. Nearly took my ear off.”

Broedi raised an eyebrow, turned, and stared across to where Kenders and the two sisters stood.

“Impressive. It would seem you owe her thanks as much as she owes you.”

He studied the raven-haired girl from afar and muttered, “I suppose I do.” Pulling his attention from the woman, he gestured around at the ruined home. “That was a neat trick you did with the roof. And the wall.”

“That was not me.”

Nikalys turned his head to stare at the hillman, his eyes full of doubt.

“
Kenders
did this?”

Staring at the sand pile, Broedi nodded once.

“She did.”

Nikalys had yet to see her do anything so grand with magic since the first night with the lightning.

“Did you teach her how?”

“Yes and no. Mostly no. While the Weave of Air she used was a variation of something we have worked on, she used many more Strands today. Many, many more.” He bent over, scooped up a handful of sand, and, letting it fall through his fingers, rumbled, “But this?” He shook his head. “I cannot touch Strands of Stone, uori
.
Her gift allowed her to do this.” Tossing the remainder of the sand to the ground, he peered at Nikalys. “Speaking of the Celystiela’s gifts, I saw—rather did not see—the way you moved. You looked like Aryn. Do you know how you did it?”

“Not at all. I don’t know what I was doing. Or thinking, running down here like I did.” He paused, glanced at Broedi, and added, “To be honest, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Instinct is sometimes more valuable than days of thoughtful deliberation. Sometimes.”

Nikalys frowned, reached behind his right ear, and gingerly touched the large welt quickly forming there.

“Well, my instincts got me a nasty bump on the back of my head.”

A thoughtful expression came over Broedi’s face, accompanied by a quiet sigh.

“We must find you a teacher to help you master your father’s sword.”

As far as Nikalys was concerned, Aryn Atticus was his father in blood only. He did not bother correcting the hillman, thought, simply saying, “That would certainly be helpful.”

Broedi climbed the sand pile and moved to stand over the dead farmer. Crouching beside the body, he gently closed the man’s eyelids.

“We must bury him. For his daughters’ sake.”

Nikalys agreed wholeheartedly. Staring down at the two dead brigands in the home, he asked, “And them?”

“We bury them, too. Face down.”

Nikalys gave a silent, firm nod of approval. Within the Oaken Duchies, burying a person face down indicated that Maeana should not give the soul another chance to walk the world again. Nikalys did not know the reasoning behind the tradition, only that it was used for the worst of the worst, the unredeemable.