Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (94 page)

“Urazûd is going to be a problem,” mumbled Zecus.

Jak turned back around and stared at the Borderlander. “Pardon?”

“The demon-man. He is our biggest problem.”

With a snort, Jak responded, “Him and his three hundred of oligurts and razorfiends. Oh, and the mages that can call down lightning, the fifty bullockboars we have yet to see, and the blasted saeljul who destroyed my village.”

Ignoring Jak’s sarcasm, Zecus said, “All problems, yes. But, save the ijul, Urazûd is the leader. He drives the fiends and the grayskins.”

Sergeant Trell shouted an order to his line, drawing Jak’s attention back to the hillside. Soldiers moved down the hill and retrieved any loose arrow they could. The sergeant went with them, keeping a watchful eye on his men. As he stared through the blind, Jak could not help but note the stark contrast between Urazûd and Sergeant Trell. Shaking his head, he muttered, “I do not understand why the Sudashians follow a demon-man.”

“Fear, I suppose?” suggested Zecus.

“Must be. Hells, you saw what he did when they ran. He cut them down without thought.”

“I doubt they will run again as long as he lives.”

Jak’s eyes narrowed. Turning to Zecus, he said, “Pardon?”

The Borderlander met his gaze. “I said, ‘I doubt they will run again as long as he lives.’”

For a long moment, Jak stared at his new friend in silence. The Borderlander’s words had given birth to an idea. A very dangerous idea. Nodding slowly, he muttered, “You know, I think you’re right. Those beasts won’t run.” Giving Zecus a long, level stare, he added with purpose, “As long as Urazûd is
alive.
”

Zecus’ eyebrows drew together. “Are you suggesting we—?”

Jak cut him off, saying, “I am. What do you think?”

“That you are mad.”

“Perhaps a little.”

The Borderlander pressed his lips together before letting out a long, heavy sigh. “Mad or not, it is a worthy idea.” He gave Jak a slight grin. “It would be an honorable way to die.”

Wearing a thin smile of his own, Jak said, “I’d prefer to live.”

“Ketus himself will need to ride with us for that to happen.”

Zecus’ comment was not far from the truth. To survive what Jak had in mind would require every drop of luck the Shrewd Fox could spare. When Jak had promised his father to keep his brother and sister alive and safe, he never could have imagined it would lead to something like this.

After one last glance down the slope to ensure the slope was clear for now, Jak maneuvered his horse around in the grove’s close quarters to face the Sentinels. As his gaze met the eyes of the men behind him, he frowned. He was about to ask these soldiers to do something that was likely to get them killed. Jak set his jaw. Nikalys and Kenders must survive. If he, Zecus, and these men died and his siblings lived, so be it.

“Gentlemen, we are going to do something very brave, very necessary, and very,
very
brainless…” As he explained his plan, the men’s expressions turned as severe as Jak’s own. Nevertheless, the soldiers began to nod in agreement.

Nikalys scanned the hill below, searching for any movement whatsoever. The scene was unchanged. Oak and ebonwood trunks. Thick bushes and brambles. Moss-covered logs. Six muddy boulders lying atop dead or dying oligurts.

And nothing else.

Nothing at all.

After the oligurts’ retreat, the enemy had remained silent and unseen for what seemed an interminable amount of time. The only sound filling the woods had been the moans of the injured oligurts pinned to the ground by the blocks of stone. Most of them had gone quiet now.

Nikalys sighed, reached up, and ran a hand through his hair. He almost wished the blasted chanting would start again. At least he would know where the enemy was then.

“What are they waiting for?” he muttered, glancing at Broedi to his left. “Do you think they might have left?”

The hillman drew in a deep breath through his nose. A distasteful grimace spread over his lips. “They are still here.”

On the other side of Broedi, Sergeant Trell said, “Then I would like to reiterate Nikalys’ question. What are they waiting for?” Both he and Broedi were staring downhill, their eyes alert and faces taut.

“I suspect they are formulating a new plan,” replied Broedi. “Their first two were quite ineffective.”

At least forty dead or severely injured oligurts lay on the slope below them, crushed by Kenders’ boulders or felled by Sentinel arrows. Add to that the forty or so razorfiends they had repelled in the first attack, and they had dealt a severe blow to the enemy already while avoiding any casualties on their side.

“Things have gone well, haven’t they?” asked Nikalys.

“They have,” conceded Sergeant Trell. “Yet don’t forget they still have us outnumbered by more than three to one.” An icy frown split the man’s dark beard. “And based on the way the demon cut down his own, he doesn’t much care if his soldiers live or die. And
that
makes this a very dangerous situation for us.”

While the sergeant’s cool-headed assessment was accurate, it was not what Nikalys wanted to hear. Sighing, he asked, “What can we expect next?”

White Lion and soldier turned to stare at one another for a moment before they both faced downhill again without ever giving any sort of response.

A deep frown spread over Nikalys’ lips. “You don’t know, do you?”

“No,” rumbled Broedi.

“Sergeant?”

The soldier reached up to scratch his beard and sighed. “Were I leading that group down there, I’d attack with everything I have. Subterfuge did not work. A partial assault did not work. Any decent tactician would stop dallying and just attack with a full force. They certainly have the numbers.” He paused a moment. “Then again…” He trailed off and shrugged.

“‘Then again,’ what?”

“Well, son, I’m not leading that group, for which I am very grateful. A demon-man is. And as my experience facing demons, oligurts, and razorfiends is somewhat limited—as in this is my first skirmish—I am afraid to say I have no idea what in the Nine Hells comes next.”

Nikalys shut his eyes. “Wondrous.”

Broedi rumbled, “It troubles me that they have not used the Desert Fire Mages again. And I must wonder why Jhaell Myrr has not made his presence known.”

Nikalys suggested, “Perhaps he’s not here?”

“Oh, he’s here,” muttered Sergeant Trell. “He’s just a blasted bannockcat.” The odd comment caused both Nikalys and Broedi to turn and stare at the soldier. Meeting their inquisitive gaze, he asked, “Surely you know what a bannockcat is?”

Nodding, Nikalys replied, “Sure I do.”

Bannockcats were wild felines, thrice the size of a barncat, smart, quick, and incredibly cunning. Anyone who kept small livestock in Yellow Mud reviled the creatures.

“And how do they hunt?”

“They lurk for days around their prey, watching and waiting until they know exactly…how to…” He trailed off and nodded. “I see what you mean.”

Sergeant Trell stared back down the hill. “I suspect Jhaell is trying to discover everything we have at our disposal before he shows his face.”

Broedi eyed the soldier, gave a quiet sigh, and nodded. “I believe you are right, Sergeant.”

“It’s odd, though,” muttered the sergeant, a frown in his face. “He always struck me as the impatient type. I don’t understand the sudden caution he…seems…” He trailed off and stood a little taller, his gaze focusing on something in the forest below. “Hold a moment…”

A soft chattering arose from the Sentinel line as Nikalys faced downhill. A searing jolt of anger sizzled inside him as his hand slipped to his sword hilt.

When Nikalys had last seen Jhaell Myrr, the saeljul had been standing on a distant bluff overlooking the ruins of Yellow Mud. The crimson robes were gone, replaced with a simple tan traveling shirt, breeches and leather boots. Nevertheless, Nikalys recognized the white-blonde, long-limbed figure climbing the slope, alone. He stopped and stared up at their company, scanning, searching. His gaze flicked to where Nikalys stood with Sergeant Trell and Broedi, pausing for a moment on the tall White Lion before locking onto Nikalys. An anxious, excited grin spread over his wide, ijulan lips.

For a long moment, the two glared at each other across the battlefield.

Nikalys shifted his gaze a fraction, staring at a spot immediately beside the ijul. Perhaps he could move there and kill Jhaell right now. Nikalys drew the Blade of Horum, the sword flashing as bright as though it was a sun soaked day.

Broedi’s low voice rumbled, cautioning him. “Hold, uori
.
”

“I can end this now,” growled Nikalys, the muscles in his neck and face twitching.

“No, you cannot,” replied Broedi firmly. “You might—
might
—end Jhaell now. But there are over three hundred Sudashians in the forest. Killing him will not make them go away.”

Nikalys pressed his lips together. “You don’t know that. They might flee.”

“They might not. And should you fail, you have made it much more likely every man standing here will die today.”

Nikalys glared at the saeljul for another moment before forcing himself to relax.

“Fine.”

As he let the Blade of Horum drop, Jhaell’s gaze left him, danced over Broedi again for a moment, and then traveled up the hill to where Kenders and Nundle stood. The excitement in his face fled as an angry sneer spread his lips.

Sergeant Trell muttered, “Think he missed Nundle?”

A few breaths later, the ijul’s stare shifted to the front line of Sentinels. In a clear, crisp voice, he shouted, “Soldiers of the Great Lakes, drop your weapons now and give me the children—
and
the tomble—and I shall leave you unharmed. I give you my word.”

A flicker of worry ran through Nikalys that they might accept the ijul’s offer. Their situation was dire. As Broedi said, over three hundred oligurts and razorfiends were still waiting to kill them. Jhaell was offering them a way to be free. Nikalys eyed the soldiers carefully, running his gaze along the line. For a few moments, nobody moved or spoke.

The first sound from any of them was a soft snicker. Looking to the left side of the line, Nikalys spotted Wil chuckling. A few nearby soldiers joined in with the young swordsman and, soon, the entire hill of Red Sentinels was laughing outright.

Sergeant Trell called out, “Take your offer back to the Hell you came from, you demon-loving, son of a bullockboar!”

A raucous cheer arose from the men. Nikalys joined in, his anger at the ijul fueling his shouts. For a few moments, he forgot that they were facing a very dangerous mage. He remembered thought when Broedi drew a sharp, hissing breath and murmured a single word.

“Water.”

The soldiers’ cheering faded quickly as leftover rainwater leeched from the ground, trees, and bushes. Thousands of tiny water beads flew through the air and towards the saeljul, coalescing together. Within moments, a giant, roiling ball of water had formed, half as tall and wide as the fifty-man line.

Nikalys stared, stunned.

“Hells…”

The giant orb of water began to tumble up the hill toward them, but after only a dozen paces, the ball lost its shape and splashed to the ground, releasing a muddy torrent of water that rushed down the slope, back toward Jhaell, soaking the ijul’s boots and breeches.

Broedi whispered, “Excellent, uora
.
”

A grim smile touched Nikalys’ lips. He was proud of his sister.

The elongated features of Jhaell’s face twisted in anger. He lifted one of his long, willowy arms into the air, and waved his hand forward. Other figures began to appear, stepping from the tree trunks and bushes to stand beside Jhaell, stretched in a long line across the hill.

“Blasted bannockcat,” grumbled Sergeant Trell. “They’re all just out of bow range.”

The new arrivals were oligurts, but quite unlike the others who had charged earlier. These gray monsters were bare-chested and wore a long skirt of leather that dragged along the ground, collecting mud and dead leaves. Each had a large, red and yellow symbol either painted or tattooed on its bald head. Nikalys counted twenty in total, arranged ten and ten on either side of Jhaell. All twenty carried a lit torch in its right hand.

“Laurr-Othraul,” rumbled Broedi. “Desert Fire Mages.”

“What are they wearing?” asked Nikalys. The leather skirts were unusual, made of irregularly shaped patches of strange browns, tans, and sickly grays all stitched together.

“The skin of those they have killed,” answered Broedi. “Tanned and strung together.”

“Skin?” Fighting back the bubble of bile that rose in his throat, Nikalys asked, “Of people?”

“Mostly,” rumbled Broedi in his deep baritone. “Nascepel, kur-surus, and even other oligurts, too, though. They do not discriminate.”

Nikalys—and Sergeant Trell—looked to the hillman, baffled by the odd words.

Sensing his stare, Broedi explained, “The names ‘razorfiends’ and ‘mongrels’ call themselves. Your terms are considered slurs.”

“And why do they have torches with them?” asked Nikalys.

“The flames make it easier for them to weave with Fire. However, I do not feel—” His eyes narrowed sharply as he called out, “Be ready, uora!”

A sizzling, crackling sound washed over them, prompting Nikalys to stare upward, looking for lightning again. The sky was clear.

Confused, he dropped his head, peered back at the oligurt mages, and spotted dozens of fist-sized orbs of fire and lightning flying through the air. He watched as one crackling yellow ball pierced the trunk of a tree, blasting through the other side in a shower of splinters, and leave behind only a blackened, smoking hole. The cascade of spheres rushed up the hill, toward the soldiers. Yet before he could panic, the balls began to disappear, each one giving a soft, fizzing pop as it did.

Nikalys glanced over to Broedi and found the hillman staring down hill, his face lined deep in concentration. A look back to Kenders and Nundle revealed the same. The trio were tearing the balls of fire and lighting apart.

At first, it seemed that they were holding back the magical assault, but after a time, the balls began to get closer before dissipating. Nikalys stared downhill at the bare-chested oligurts. He needed to do something.