Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (9 page)

Sighing, he said, “Gods, you’re stubborn.”

“Yes, I am.”

As she stood there in her brother’s arms, her head against his chest, his breathing changed, slowing at first then growing irregular. After a few small shudders and shakes from him, a drop of wetness struck her forehead. She closed her eyes, held him tight, and remained quiet as more tears followed the first.

In the distance, a lone wolf’s howl cut the night.

8th of the Turn of Sutri

The odor of moldy barley and rotten hops filled Jak’s nose, permeating each breath and turning his stomach sour. Letting out a low moan, Jak opened his eyes. Slowly. Utter blackness greeted him.

He was lying at a slight upwards slant, his right arm pinned beneath him, his legs curled up and painfully stiff. He could feel every heartbeat in his head, something incredibly sharp was sticking him in the right ribs, he had no room to move, and his clothes were soaked. His thoughts felt jumbled and slow, swimming around in his head like a fish in a vat of grape jam.

Pushing his body up with his left arm, he freed his right. It felt like a thousand tiny pins were stabbing at his arm and hand as blood rushed back into both. He lay there for a minute, waiting for his arm to stop throbbing and his muddled thoughts to begin making some sense.

He remembered getting into the barrel, but try as he might, he could not remember anything past that point.

Feeling the back of his head, he found a large knot, wet with either blood or water; he did not know which. As there was water sloshing in the bottom of the dark prison, it could reasonably be either.

Needing to do something about the sharp point sticking in his ribs, Jak felt around and grabbed the leather package his father had shoved in his arms. With a great deal of effort, he pried it loose and moved it around so it was not jammed into his side.

Lifting his head, he looked around the barrel and spotted the small hole near his left knee. A ray of soft, white light streamed through the cutout. His jumbled brain reasoned that it was the light of White Moon. “How long have I been in here?”

His throat was raw. He faintly recalled screaming as he rode the wave, holding the lid as tightly as he could. It was a miracle it had not fallen off.

Reaching over his head with his left hand, he felt the lid still in place above him. He found the handle he had grasped throughout his ordeal, and pushed.

It did not move.

He pushed again, slightly harder. The barrel lid still did not budge.

“Hells!”

Resting for a minute, he took a few deep breaths, braced his legs against the bottom of the barrel, and pushed upward. The exertion of trying to shove open the barrel made his head swim again. A wave of blackness washed over him.

* * *

The air in the barrel was warmer now, staler somehow. And heavy. Jak almost felt like he was breathing old beer.

His head still hurt, but now it felt only as though a single horse was riding a race from one temple to the other across the back of his head. Earlier, it had been an entire wagon team. Cracking open his eyes, he found the interior of the barrel much brighter than before. He had spent the night in here.

He was sweating profusely. Thirst demanded that he reach down to the water in the bottom of the barrel and cup handfuls of the foul stuff to his mouth. It tasted awful but he needed to drink something.

After swallowing as much as he could stomach, he assessed his situation.

He needed to get out of this barrel soon. If the heat today were anything like the past few weeks, he would roast in here. He was surprised he had survived yesterday.

He tried the lid again and found it as unyielding today as it had been last night. There was resistance on the other side, holding the lid shut.

“Blast it.”

Once, when he and Nikalys had accompanied his father to Smithshill, they had seen three merrymakers stuff themselves into an apple barrel. Their father had told them that the small men were tombles, but Nikalys and Jak had shared a knowing look. Thaddeus liked to tell stories.

Sighing, Jak mumbled, “I wish
I
was a tomble. I’d certainly fit better.”

Cramped and sore, he first tried screaming for help. He gave up in short order, however. It was a waste of time and energy hoping someone might hear and find him. He needed to get himself out of this situation.

A sudden, cool draft pushed its way into the barrel, giving Jak a brief respite from the hot, rank air he was breathing. A moment later, he felt the entire barrel begin to move gently to one side, accompanied by the sound of creaking wood. Jak and the barrel slowed to a stop and then moved slowly back in the other direction.

“Hells,” muttered Jak. “I’m in a blasted tree.”

Puzzling things out, he supposed the wave had deposited him in a tree, apparently in such a position where his lid was jammed against a branch or trunk.

As another gust of rare summer wind sent him swaying again, he sat there, thinking through his limited options. The air in the barrel was heating up quickly, and he had to make a decision soon. He was thirsty again, but his stomach ached. He might rather die than drink any more of the rancid water.

The thought of dying immediately dredged up that last, unusual exchange with his parents. He shook his head, trying to remain focused to his predicament. He did not want to think what might have become of his family.

Nikalys and Kenders.

The thought of his brother and sister jolted through him like a lightning bolt. Startled, he tried to sit up and cracked his head on the inside of the keg. A hollow thud filled the barrel. Wincing, he laid his head down and rubbed what was likely to become a bump in the front to match the one in the back.

Ashamed that he had not thought about his siblings’ well-being since awaking, he grabbed the silver teardrop pendant around his neck. Remembering his mother’s instructions, and with only a moment’s hesitation, he pictured Nikalys and Kenders in his mind.

A sense of perfect calm washed over him. Without knowing how, but knowing nonetheless, he sensed that they were alive and well.

A muted, musical tone danced just beyond his range of hearing, teasing him. He tilted his head trying to focus on it. Instantly, the tone faded.

He opened his eyes and stared at the silver pendant. “That was odd.”

Shutting his eyes, he tried again, reinforcing the image of Nikalys and Kenders in his mind. Immediately, the tone returned. The more he focused on his brother and sister, the louder the tone was. Turning his head, he searched for the sound’s origin. He found that if he looked to where his right elbow rested, the ringing was strongest. He released the pendant and the tone stopped.

Staring at the pendant in his hand, he muttered, “Wondrous.”

He assumed the feeling of wellness coupled with the sound meant that his brother and sister were alive and well, located in a general “right elbow” direction.

He looked around the stifling barrel and frowned.

“If I don’t get out of here, it doesn’t matter where they are.”

Jak retrieved the unusual leather package his father had given him and examined it, wondering if it was some sort of tool that could help him out of the barrel. There was enough light coming in from the tap hole for him to note that it was four feet at its longest, had a slight bulge at one end, and a tapered point at the other. Looking for a way to open it, he repeatedly turned the case over in his hands.

His face twisted in confusion, he muttered, “What in the Nine Hells?”

He could not find a seam anywhere. There were no laces, holes, or anything of the like. Other than the two leather strips that allowed someone to strap the case to his or her back, the leather appeared to be a single, unbroken piece.

Once he concluded that the package was not going to help him with his barrel problem, he released it, letting it plop into the water at the barrel’s bottom.

“Useless.”

Unfortunately, Jak could only think of a single way out of this situation. By rocking side-to-side, he might dislodge the barrel enough to open the lid. He was as scared that his idea might work as he was worried it might not. Too far, and the barrel might fall. If that fall was from ten feet, it might hurt a little. Any higher than that, and he would likely break something when he landed. The chances of his breaking a bone—or twenty—went up significantly if a boulder like those that frequented the hillsides around Yellow Mud rested beneath him.

“Or I can stay here and roast like a Year’s End lamb.”

Settling on his imperfect, potentially dangerous plan, he retrieved the leather package and placed it on his chest. Taking a deep breath, he muttered a short prayer to the Cold Twister of Fate. “Greya, I place myself in your hands.”

He found it ironic that he was invoking the name of the goddess of winter and Fate. The fate part seemed appropriate, but the sweltering barrel was nothing like winter.

Jak lurched left first, followed quickly by heaving right. Again, to the left and back to the right. He felt the barrel shift slightly, creaking. Stopping, he pushed the lid above, and found it still tight. He sighed.

“Because that would be too easy.”

He started again, rocking side to side, each jerk more violent than the last. After a forceful, strong shove to the right, the barrel began to roll.

Jak shouted with joy, “Ah-ha!”

His exuberance was cut short and when the barrel did not stop moving. A moment later, he felt weightless, like he was swimming.

Hollering in alarm, he shoved the lid upwards. It opened easily and fell away. He willed his legs to extend but they refused to respond.

The barrel crashed into another lower branch, turning down. The fetid water spilled over him and the leather package slipped out, bashing him in the chin. It bounced off the branch he was perched on, and went spinning end-over-end to the ground. He and the barrel teetered in place for a moment, giving him a glimpse of tree and ground. He was still twenty feet in the air.

The barrel toppled, resuming its inevitable crash to the hillside. Reaching out with his left arm, he grabbed the branch in front of him, slicing his hand on a bit of sharp bark. As the barrel tipped, Jak tried to free his right arm to reach the branch as well, but his body’s position made such a move impossible.

Holding on with one arm only, Jak and the barrel swung downward like a door on a hinge. When the barrel was below him, it slipped off and fell, cracking on the soft muddy ground. Now free, he grabbed the branch with his right arm and hung from the tree.

The cooler air felt glorious and smelled impossibly clean. Extending his legs for the first time in a day was wonderful. Jak enjoyed the sensations for only a moment, though. He was not of out danger yet.

He tried to pull himself up, but after a single, feeble attempt, he realized he did not have the strength to do so. He was weak from not eating and woozy from hitting his head. Surveying the area below, he figured that his feet were only twelve to thirteen feet off the ground, a height from which Jak had made numerous jumps in his life. Of course, most of the time, they had been from a barn loft into a large pile of hay.

His strength ebbing with each ragged breath, he let go and fell to the mud below. His rubbery legs did not respond when he landed, and he collapsed in a heap, sinking into the muck with a soft squish.

He remained motionless for a few moments, taking a quick account of his body before concluding that nothing hurt any more than it had when he was folded in the barrel. Somehow, he had managed to avoid landing on the barrel or the leather bundle.

“Hah!” Jak laughed with shocked relief. He rolled on his back and looked up into the tree that had been his home for the past day. A redbird sat on the branch, staring down at him.

“It’s all yours.” With some effort, he sat up and looked around. His laughter ceased, his mood sobering in an instant. “Bless the gods…”

The destruction around him was unimaginable. Bodies, timbers, animals, furniture, carts, baskets, clothes, thatched straw, and all other sorts of remnants of the town lay strewn everywhere, some wedged in trees and bushes like he and his barrel had been.

A patient crunching drew his attention to his right. Swiveling his head, Jak spied a blood vulture standing on the chest of a body not thirty feet away. Two feet tall, black and mottled gray covered the carrion bird except for its neck and head which was bare, its bumpy skin a muddy green color.

The vulture’s beady yellow eyes stared at him. A moist, red piece of flesh hung from his hooked beak.

Jak abruptly realized the air was not as crisp and clean as he had first thought. A nauseating mixture of mud, stagnant water, and the sickly sweet odor of rotting flesh assaulted Jak’s nose. He rolled over to his hands and knees, retching, but nothing came up. He remained that way for a short time.

Regaining control of his stomach, he closed his eyes and took a few breaths to steady himself, making sure not to breathe too deeply.

Gathering his strength, he stood on wobbly legs and tried to fix his position. Based on the terrain around him, he figured he was a mile southwest of Yellow Mud. He thought of his parents, wondering if they had somehow miraculously escaped. He even considered heading back to see if anyone might still be alive, but he doubted it. The devastation was complete.

Jak gripped the muted silver teardrop necklace and thought of his brother and sister. Again, the calm sense of ease rushed over him, along with the faint ringing. He spun in a circle, listening. In the end, he felt it was strongest when he faced east.

“East it is.”

Jak stared north for a long moment, wondering if he should at least search for his parents’ bodies. When a person passed in Yellow Mud, their family took the body into the hills and buried the departed around the family’s burial tree. Even if Jak found his parents, he had no tree by which he could bury them. The Isaac family was but five people. Three, now. Himself and his siblings.

Pressing his lips together, he stared east, an expression of fierce determination on his face.