Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (73 page)

“Nundle is right,” said Broedi. “Their goal, whatever it is, must be important to bring them together. Trust and cooperation among the Cabal is rare.”

Jak ran a hand through his hair, muttering, “Nine Hells…”

A dry smile spread over Sergeant Trell’s face.

“Actually, only four of them, son.”

The four men, tomble, and White Lion all went silent, each of them trapped within their thoughts. Nikalys almost wished he had stayed with Kenders in the grass. Letting out a heavy sigh, he reached up and rubbed his eyes. The gentle plains breeze had dried them out as he had watched the soldiers practicing with the swords throughout the long conversation

Dropping his hands, he returned his attention to a particular pair of men. One soldier—not much older than Nikalys—was clearly the most talented of the bunch, even to Nikalys’ untrained eye. Every move the young man made appeared effortless, crisp, and half a breath faster than his opponent’s.

Breaking the group’s silence, Nikalys muttered, “Sergeant?”

The bearded soldier glanced up.

“Yes?”

Pointing to the young swordsman, Nikalys asked, “Who’s that?”

Sergeant Trell turned his head to see whom Nikalys meant.

“His name’s Wil Eadding. A footman. Why?”

“Do you think I could get a lesson from him?”

Facing Nikalys, the sergeant said, “You have a good eye. Wil is by far my best swordsman.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

Sergeant Trell nodded and said with a slight smile, “I believe that can be arranged.”

“Thank you,” replied Nikalys, turning back to watch the pair spar. “I’d appreciate it.”

Wil advanced on his opponent, thrusting his blade. The other Sentinel tried to parry, but Nikalys noticed his footing was all wrong. Wil easily got past the man’s guard, halting before seriously hurting his fellow soldier, but eliciting a disappointed curse from the other man nonetheless.

Nikalys shook his head. Wil’s opponent had set his feet wrong. Had he used the correct positioning, he would have easily been able to turn the blow aside.

Nikalys froze, blinking in surprise. He was more than confident in his assessment even though there was no possible way he could have known that.

Jak said, “You said you wanted more time, Broedi. Time for what?”

The question was a good one, good enough to draw Nikalys’ attention away from his confusion. Looking over to Broedi, he found the hillman staring straight at him, a thoughtful frown on his face that remained throughout his answer to Jak’s question.

“Your kaveli is not ready to face a challenge like the one that approaches. Neither is your iskoa.” Motioning toward where Kenders lay, he rumbled, “She is incredibly powerful, yes. But she is inconsistent, untrained, and rash. A danger to herself and those around her.” Gesturing at Nikalys, he continued, “And you may carry Aryn’s blade, uori, but when forced to fight you use a rock like any farmer would.”

“Hells, Broedi, I am a farmer.”

Displaying an unusual amount of agitation, Broedi said, “No, uori. You are not. Circumstance has merely permitted you to pretend you are a farmer for fifteen years.”

“And who created that circumstance? My blood parents—your friends!—put me there and ran off!”

“They were following the fate Greya laid out for them.”

“Blast Greya and blast fate! They
chose
to leave me, to leave us! Fate had nothing to do with this.” The passion with which he spoke surprised him. He had thought he had come to terms with all of this.

The hillman folded his arms over his massive chest.

“Fate has everything to do with this, uori. You cannot escape it.”

“I can try.”

“No,” rumbled Broedi. “You cannot. This—” he motioned to the soldiers, Kenders, Jak, the tomble, and the sergeant “—
this
is your fate. The sooner you accept it, the better.”

Nikalys shook his head. He no longer recognized his life. And each day that passed only twisted it further. Lowering his voice, he mumbled, “I just want everything back the way it used to be.”

Broedi’s eyes burned. Muscles rippled along his jawline.

“What you
want
does not matter.”

Nikalys scowled at the hillman for a few breaths before saying, “And neither does what you want, apparently. Because you’re right, Broedi. You’re right. I’m
not
ready. For any of this.”

He took a few steps forward and turned his full attention to the practicing soldiers. He felt the gaze of the others fixed on his back but he ignored them. Let them stare.

For a few moments, the prairie was quiet, other than the clanging of the Sentinel swords. As Nikalys watched, he noticed Wil’s opponent turn his wrist too late on a parry. A moment sooner and he would have been in the perfect position to strike back.

Jak finally broke the uneasy quiet.

“What exactly is at Storm Island, Broedi?”

Without looking back, Nikalys mumbled, “You’re wasting your time, Jak.”

Undeterred, Jak asked, “You aren’t just looking to keep them safe and hidden, are you?”

“No,” rumbled the hillman. “We are not.”

Curious, Nikalys turned to look at the hillman.

“We? Who is ‘we?’”

Broedi remained silent, his gaze shifting from face to face.

“What I am about to tell you must not leave this circle. Is that understood?”

Nikalys glanced around him. The practicing soldiers were a couple dozen paces away. Other than the six people here, no one would be able to hear Broedi’s words unless he shouted.

After securing quiet agreement from them all, Broedi eyed Nikalys and began to speak.

“After the magic was outlawed, your parents and I spent some fifty years away from the Oaken Duchies. When we returned, we came to the Southlands and lived along the coast for a time. Aryn and I were somewhat worried about being discovered for who and what we were, but Eliza was brazen. She would have walked into Old Royal Square in Freehaven had we let her. She was still quite upset with the First Council.”

Nikalys listened to the story, but his gaze kept returning to the soldiers’ sword practice. Wil was now practicing against two men at once, using different tactics and form from when he was facing a single opponent.

“We moved as the whim struck us,” rumbled Broedi. “Other than the odd looks I would receive for being aki-mahet, we were treated as nothing more than traveling strangers passing through. At some point, we came across the road that leads to Storm Island. After some discussion, the three of us headed out to the isle, hoping to find an old friend.”

With excitement in his voice, Nundle interrupted, saying, “You were looking for another of the White Lions, weren’t you? The Shadow of Ketus? Miriel Syncent?”

Broedi peered down at the tomble in front of him, admiration in his eyes.

“For one so small, you hold a great wealth of knowledge.”

The tomble gave a slight smile and shrugged. A touch of pink bloomed in his cheeks.

“Thank you.”

Broedi rumbled, “May I ask how you know that, little one?”

Nodding, Nundle answered, “The history I read had some details on a handful of the White Lions. It said Ketus’ champion was from the ‘isle of whipping wind and thrashing seas.’ A bit flowery, if you ask me. The author could have just said, ‘Miriel was from Storm Island.’”

“Regardless, you are correct. Once Eliza’s close friend, she and Miriel had a falling out some years before the outlawing of magic. Eliza desired to put the past behind them. She missed their friendship.” Shaking his head, he let out a long sigh. “Aryn and I argued it was a waste of time. Even if Miriel had returned to her homeland, we doubted we would find her.”

“Why is that?” asked Sergeant Trell.

“Ketus’ gift to Miriel,” rumbled Broedi. “She could hide in plain sight in an open field on a sunny day. During the Demonic War, she would walk straight into the thick of battle unnoticed and emerge unscathed. She was the best scout and the luckiest soul Terrene has ever seen.”

“I bet she was a lot of fun to play placards or dice with,” said Jak with a smile.

The jest brought a grimace to Broedi’s face.

“She was not. Many a merchant and nobleman lost tidy sums to her over the years.”

Pulling his attention from the practicing soldiers for a moment, Nikalys said, “It doesn’t seem to be a very honorable thing for a White Lion to do. Use your gift from a god to win at gambling?”

Broedi turned a steady eye to him and asked, “Have you lived your life without fault, uori?”

Confused by the question, Nikalys nonetheless answered honestly.

“No…”

“Neither have I,” rumbled the hillman. “We all have flaws. Even the White Lions.” He paused before quietly adding, “Especially the White Lions.”

Nikalys stared at Broedi in open surprise, realizing he had made a bad assumption. The White Lions may have been grand heroes who had stopped the god of Chaos, but beneath the power and mantle of responsibility, they were simply people.

The insistent ringing of sword meeting sword pulled Nikalys’ attention back to the soldiers. As he looked back to the men, he caught Sergeant Trell staring at him, eyes intent. Sergeant Trell held his stare for half a heartbeat, then looked to Broedi and asked, “So, did you find her? The other White Lion?”

“No,” rumbled Broedi. “We found no sign of her, much to Eliza’s disappointment. We did, however, find something unexpected.” A slight smile spread over his lips. “Rather, the unexpected found us. We were spending an evening in small village when a man approached us, named us for whom we truly were, and said he was with an organization that both needed our help and was willing to offer theirs: the Shadow Manes.”

Nikalys muttered, “The Shadow Manes?” He turned to look at Broedi and stopped, noticing that the sergeant was staring at him again. The man’s gaze was unnerving. It felt like the man was taking him apart piece-by-piece, examining how he worked. Looking away from the soldier, Nikalys peered at Broedi. “What are the Shadow Manes?”

“At that time, they were a small group of men and women—other races as well—dedicated to keeping the true memory of the White Lions alive. Imagine our surprise when we learned their founder was Miriel, some thirty year prior.”

“I thought you said you didn’t find her,” mentioned Jak.

Shaking his head, Broedi said, “We did not. Shortly after the creation of the organization, Miriel disappeared and has never returned. It has been over two hundred years.”

Nundle asked, “What sort of help did they need?”

“And offer?” added Jak.

“Good questions,” rumbled Broedi. “Both of them.” Looking to Jak and Nikalys, he said, “You recall when I told you how we first came to be aware of Indrida’s prophecy? It was the Manes who shared it with us. Shortly after Miriel disappeared, they stumbled upon it and recognized that the fight against Chaos had not ended with the Demonic War. They sought mages as ardently as the Constables did, except their intent was to bring them to Storm Island to teach them the Strands as well as the true history of the duchies, preparing for when Chaos would rise again.”

With evident skepticism, Sergeant Trell muttered, “I cannot believe that I have never heard of such a group.”

Wearing a wry smile, Nundle said, “It would not be much of a secret organization if you had, Nathan.”

“That’s true, I suppose,” muttered the soldier.

Looking at Nikalys, Broedi said, “Your parents and I had a purpose again. We helped the Manes in any manner we could, scouring Terrene, looking for evidence that Chaos had resumed his or her plans, whatever they might be. Each time we returned, we would find the society larger than when we had left. A town sprouted around the enclave, filled with secret supporters of the Manes. To this day, they go about their lives as normal, remaining ever vigilant for signs of the prophecy, waiting for when they must rise and fight. A little over eighteen years ago, preparations were begun in earnest to gather people of different talents. A child was on the way. The time of the Progeny had come.”

Nikalys stared at Broedi, realizing what the hillman was saying.

“Is that where I was born, then?”

“Yes, uori. Eliza gave birth to both you and your iskoa in the keep.”

Nikalys supposed he was grateful to have a bit more of his true history.

“I thought you said when I was a baby, you were discovered and attacked.”

“We were. Agents of the Nine Hells attacked the enclave shortly before your iskoa was born, somehow breaking through the Weave that keeps the location hidden. Many good people died defending you that day, uori, believing their sacrifice would lead to a better day to come.”

Nikalys did not know what to say to that. The number of people who had died because of him was not limited to friends and neighbors of Yellow Mud. People he had never met had given their lives for him based on nothing more than the ancient words of a goddess.

“Shortly thereafter, your parents decided to leave the enclave. They did not want to put the people who had become our friends in any additional danger. While I did not agree with them, I understood their need to go.” Broedi frowned. “Many were upset with me when they discovered I knew of their intent to leave but did not stop them. To this day, some remain so.”

Jak spoke up, asking, “Do they have an army at the enclave?” A crooked smile spread over his lips. “Because that would be nice considering what Zecus has told us.”

“No, uori. There is no army. We have but two hundred fighting men at the most.” Turning his gaze to Nikalys, he continued, “But there are people waiting to teach you what I cannot. As time passed, and Aryn and Eliza did not return with you, preparations shifted. The Manes believed you would eventually return as Indrida’s prophecy said you must. They strove to find master mages, experts in the martial arts, teachers of history, literature, philosophy, military tactics, logic, and strategy. Truly, if it were not a secret, it would be one of the greatest centers of learning in the world.”

“But it’s not a secret anymore, is it?” asked Nikalys. “The Cabal found it already.”

“They did,” acknowledged Broedi. “We waited for another attack after the first, but it never came. As I said before, trust among the Cabal is rare. We concluded that those who attacked us had not shared the enclave’s location with others.”