Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (97 page)

The throb of despair turned into a soul-aching misery. A scream of anger and anguish shot from the deepest depths of her soul, tearing at her throat as it burst forth.

“Aaaaaahhh!”

She was determined to fight until the moment Maeana claimed her soul. She clawed at the Strands, ripping at them, yanking them from Jhaell. She would not quit. She refused to quit.

Suddenly, Jhaell stopped weaving. The Strands stopped coming.

Lying in the mud on the hillside, Kenders reached into the unfinished pattern and pulled at the center of the Weave. The tangle of Strands fell apart and the Void and Air faded.

Shifting her gaze to Jhaell, she found the ijul’s eyes impossibly wide, his lips parted in a silent scream. Sticking from his chest was the shimmering Blade of Horum. Blood swelled from the wound, the crimson blooming over Jhaell’s tan shirt like a spring flower.

Jhaell dipped his chin and stared down at the tip of the white blade. He reached down, wrapped his long fingers around the sword, and tugged at it as though he could somehow pull it free. Instead, the clean, white metal retreated slowly, back into his chest, slicing open his hands and fingers as it went.

After the blade disappeared, a stumbling Jhaell turned to face his attacker.

Nikalys stood there, pointing the sword’s tip at Jhaell’s torso.

“Don’t move.”

Kenders barely recognized her brother. The hard glint in his eye. His readied and tense posture. The twitching muscles in his jawline.

Jhaell lurched forward a bit, no longer graceful, and reached out to Nikalys. “You don’t understand.” He reached to his hip, grabbed a dagger’s handle, and pulled it free. Nikalys did not see the knife as his eyes, burning with red-hot hatred, remained locked on the ijul’s face.

As Jhaell began to bring his arm up to plunge the dagger into Nikalys’ gut, Kenders shouted, “Nikalys!”

She had already had lost one brother today. She would not lose another.

She stared at the dagger and wanted it gone, anywhere but in Jhaell’s hand. A small Weave pure black and white popped into existence, surrounded the dagger, and, with a soft pop, the knife disappeared. The expected tiredness filled her but she did not care.

Jhaell’s empty hand struck Nikalys’ stomach and bounced off. He dropped his head to stare down at his bloody palm just as Nikalys plunged the Blade of Horum into his chest. The shining white blade ripped through the ijul’s back, paused briefly, and then retreated, twisting as it went.

The saeljul staggered a few steps down the hill before collapsing to the mud and leaves. He landed with a soft squish, his head turned toward Kenders. His eyes were vacant, still, lifeless.

From somewhere in the woods came the piercing shriek of the Soulwraith, carrying with it a tone of relief. As the cry faded away, she looked up to find Nikalys standing over her, the Blade of Horum at his side. He was staring into the western woods, listening to the final echoes of the Soulwraith’s call of deliverance.

As he turned to stare down at her, fear and concern filled his eyes. Crouching beside her, he asked, “Are you hurt?”

Her head throbbed, her stomach hurt, and she had yet to catch her breath, but she was alive. “I’m fine.” Blinking repeatedly, she stared into the heavens above. The clouds had completely broken up and were colored rose by early dusk. Rolling her head to the side, she looked at the lifeless body of Jhaell.

“You did it, Nik.”

“We did it.”

Beyond Jhaell’s corpse, further down the slope, she spotted the Sentinels’ blue and gold uninforms and tried to stand. Jhaell was dead, but there was still a battle going on. The Desert Fire mages were still out there somewhere and she needed to make sure they did not hurt anyone.

Nikalys placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, restraining her. “Relax. It’s over.”

“Over? What do you mean it’s over?” As he helped her to a sitting position, her eyes shot open. “Jak!” Pushing Nikalys aside, she scrambled to her feet. The moment she stood, her head felt thick and heavy, the forest began twirling around her. She shut her eyes and grabbed Nikalys’ shoulder for support. Her stomach lurched.

“The brave fool’s fine,” said Nikalys. “Zecus, too. They’re out there somewhere with Broedi.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Along with—if I had to guess—some of the Shadow Manes.”

After taking a steadying breath, Kenders opened her eyes and scanned the western slope. At least two hundred men and women on horseback filled the hillside, all in mismatched clothes and armor. A few of the Sentinels rode with the new arrivals, across the battlefield and down the hill, chasing down the fleeing oligurts and razorfiends.

Kenders watched the scene for a few heartbeats before muttering, “I’m a little confused, Nik.” Her gaze settled on a one body in particular that lay on the hill. Two spiraling, black horns rose from the corpse’s head. Urazûd was dead. “Make that very confused.”

“Me, too,” said Nikalys as he stood.

“How did this happen? How did they find us?”

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. We’re alive and the Sudashians are on the run.” He stared at her. “Are you sure you’re feeling fine?”

“I said I am.”

“Well, if that’s the case…” He trailed off, his expression darkening as he peered downhill again. “Do you think you can help Nundle?”

Kenders looked down the hill again and spotted Nundle kneeling beside a blue and gold clad body amidst what was a pile of razorfiends, oligurts, and men. Injured soldiers up and down the line were crying out in pain. With the fog beginning to clear from her head, she realized that she could feel and see the verdant Strands of Life hovering near the tomble. Without saying a word, Kenders pushed away from Nikalys and scampered down the slope as quickly as her pounding head would allow.

The army of the White Lions needed her help.

As Kenders rushed down the slope, Nikalys took one last look down the hill, seeing if he was needed anywhere. The Sudashians, however, were clearly on the run, the Shadow Manes and Red Sentinels riding them down from behind using arrows, magic, and sword.

The battle was more or less over.

Nikalys shook his head and closed his eyes. Somehow, they had won, a miracle considering how poorly things had been going.

The Sudashians had been overrunning the Sentinels when Nikalys spotted Jak and Zecus leading the twenty Sentinels across the hill, thundering toward on the demon-man. Nikalys had wanted to help his brother, but if he left the soldiers to fight the Sudashians alone, they would have died.

He cut down as many of the beasts as he could while stealing quick glances down the hill to watch his brother. When Jak and his men reached the demon-man, Urazûd skewered Hunsfin with his massive sword, lifting the man from his saddle and tossing him aside like a sack of flour. Hunsfin’s sacrifice allowed Zecus to stab the demon’s neck, and Jak and the remaining men surrounded the spawn.

The piercing cry of a hawk pulled Nikalys’ attention to the sky as a colossal, golden-brown bird of prey swooped down to the field. As the hawk dove, it shifted to Broedi’s hillman form briefly before morphing into the hill lynx and landing softly on the hillside. Broedi joined the fight, leaping onto the back of an oligurt, clamping his jaws on the monster’s neck. A moment later, a water creature appeared in the midst of the remaining Desert Fire mages and began thrashing the oligurts.

Dozens of men and women—many with weapons, some without—rode forth from the northern woods and charged straight into the flank of the oligurts and razorfiends. In a matter of moments, the battle had turned from impending, hopeless defeat to resounding victory. Jak’s mad charge was impossibly successful. He and Zecus not only managed to kill Urazûd, but they survived, as well, although many of the other Sentinels did not.

When the demon-man fell, the remaining oligurts and razorfiends fled.

With the enemy in full retreat, Nikalys had stood on the hillside, sword at the ready but without an opponent to fight. He was starting down the slope, looking for Jhaell when a raw, knife-like scream cut the air. Recognizing the all-too-familiar voice, he spun around and found the saeljul standing over his sister.

A blink of an eye later, Nikalys was behind him.

Now, it was over.

Nikalys stared at the lifeless body of Jhaell. The deviant responsible for his parents’ death and Yellow Mud’s destruction was dead at last. One of the ijul’s long arms was splayed out, pointing downhill, the other one bent at an odd angle. Leaves and muck muddied his once-lustrous, white-blonde hair. His tunic was soaked red with blood, absurdly matching the bright crimson cord that lay next to the ijul. Peering downhill, Nikalys noted Kenders’ braid unraveling as she rushed about.

Looking back to Jhaell, he sighed and shook his head. It was hard to equate the harmless lump of flesh with the merciless monster that had destroyed Yellow Mud.

Nikalys lifted his sword and stared at it. Its metal gleamed and glowed as bright as the first time he had set eyes on it, not speck of grim or gore on it. He wished he could say the same for the rest him. The byproducts of death coated his arms, chest, and—by the foul taste in his mouth—his face.

Sighing, he slipped the sword into its scabbard and dropped to the ground, not caring that he was sitting in mud. For a time, he simply sat there, entirely unsure of what to do with himself, alternating between staring at Jhaell’s corpse and the dead Sudashians littering the hill.

He wondered how many of them were by his hand. At the height of the battle, he had been keeping count but had stopped when he realized he was marking bodies, not crates of olives being delivered to the river warehouse. These were living, breathing creatures and he was slaughtering them. At that point, an icy numbness filled him and, so far, it had yet to go away. He had ended dozens of lives today.

Hearing soft footsteps approached from behind, his right hand drifted toward his sword’s hilt.

“Nikalys?”

Relaxing, he looked over his shoulder. Sabine stood a few paces away, cradling Helene in her arms. He locked eyes with the young woman. The grime of travel coated her, yet her beauty was such that it shone through.

A worried expression rested on her face as she asked, “Are you alright?”

Nikalys held her gaze a moment before turning to stare back downhill. “Go away, please.” He did not want to talk. Not now.

A few moments passed before she moved. He frowned when he realized she was drawing closer rather than walking away. Sabine placed Helene on the ground and kneeled beside him.

Without looking back, he said tersely, “Truly, Sabine. Just leave—”

He stopped as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and laid her head on his back, her soft hair brushing his neck. Helene moved around to his front, crawled into his lap, and curled up into a little ball. Neither sister said a word.

He wanted to scream at them both to go away. If he could clear this hill of everyone and be here alone right at this moment, he would do so. He longed for solitude.

Yet, he did not yell. He did not shout. Instead, he slowly draped his arms around Helene, rested his chin on her soft, black hair, and stared at a dead oak leaf on the ground, studying the little lines fanning out from the stem and through the yellowing foliage.

At some point, while sitting there, he began to cry. The numbness he felt revealed itself for what it truly was: a roiling, swirling mixture of relief, anguish, despair, and a multitude of other emotions he could not name nor understand. Sabine silently stroked his head as tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped on Helene’s head. The little girl did not seem to mind. Rather, she reached out with her tiny fingers, took his blood-covered hand, and held it, clutching tight.

The trio remained that way for a long time. No one approached them. No one asked for anything. Amidst the sea of post-battle chaos, Nikalys and the Moiléne sisters were a tiny island of calm.

When the tears stopped coming, Nikalys drew in a deep breath, reached his free hand over to Sabine, and gently patted her leg.

“Thank you.”

Sabine’s only response was to squeeze him tighter.

Helene tilted her head back and stared up at him with her big, brown eyes. She gave him a tiny, fragile smile and muttered, “We’re safe.” Nikalys tried to smile back, but failed. After a moment, she dropped her gaze and whispered, “For now.”

Nikalys stared at the dead bodies on the hill and sighed. He suspected Helene was right.

17
^th
of the Turn of Thonda

Nikalys stood alone on the hill, staring at the thick, black clouds of acrid smoke rising from the burning pile of corpses, billowing into the night to choke the stars from the sky. A constant, popping staccato exploded from the fire as razorfiends’ quills burst open due to the blaze’s heat. An awful mixture of roasting meat, charred filth, and death filled the air. The soft easterly breeze carried most of the stench from the ridge top, but it could not take it all.

A continuous succession of Shadow Manes moved past him, carrying Sudashian corpses to the inferno, tossing them into the pile, and then heading back down the hill to collect more. Too heavy for men to carry, dead oligurts were draped over horses’ backs and brought to the fire. Razorfiends, their blades too sharp to risk anyone picking them up, were maneuvered onto makeshift stretchers with sticks and then dragged to the blaze.

Most every person who passed Nikalys during their grim task stole a glance or two at him. At first, the staring had bothered him. Every one of their expectant gazes felt like another yoke dropped around his neck. Having so many look upon him with hope, awe, and respect was unnerving.

Until recently, his days were filled with chores in Yellow Mud’s groves and vineyards or afternoon swims in Lake Hawthorne. Life had been good. It had been simple. It had made sense.

These Manes knew nothing of that life, of that Nikalys. When they stared at him, they saw the Progeny of the White Lions. He was the son of Aryn Atticus and Eliza Kap, here to lead the fight against the god of Chaos and the Cabal, a hero whose return they had been anxiously awaiting for fifteen years.