The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (102 page)

Nikalys’ eyes went round.

“Wait!”

His warning was a waste of a breath.

Rhohn attacked, stabbing at the back of the demon’s knee, just below the edge of the black armor. It was a glancing blow, painful for sure, but not debilitating. Baaldòk roared and swiveled to his right, whipping his massive sword around to meet his attacker. Rhohn ducked down and threw his blade up in a futile attempt to block the demon’s counter attack. Baaldòk’s sword chopped through Rhohn’s as a woodsman’s axe would split a dry twig, knocking the Dust Man to the ground in the process. Rhohn’s left arm flailed about like a wet rag. Without a doubt, it was broken.

Jak leapt forward, slashed at Baaldòk’s other leg, and sliced open the demon’s calf, which only served to enrage the Nine Hells’ spawn further. Baaldòk spun round, his left hand balled into a fist, and began to swing it at Jak.

Nikalys took one step, lifted the Blade of Horum high—

Shift.

—and slashed at the demon’s neck, using Okollu’s bite wound as a guide. The white metal sunk into Baaldòk’s flesh, but jammed as the edge got caught on the black armor’s collar. The scent of wildflowers washed over him.

Not expecting his blade to stop as it did, Nikalys lost his grip, slipped forward, and tumbled to the ground, leaving the Blade of Horum embedded in the demon’s neck. As he landed on his chest and stomach, his breath exploded from his lungs. Gasping for air, he started to push himself from the ground when something struck him in the right temple. Hard. Impossibly hard. It felt like a stone-filled burlap sack swung with the force of a hundred men.

He went tumbling, rolling through mud and grass, the world around him a mix of white flashes and swirling colors. The cold hand of unconsciousness wrapped around him, coaxing him to give in to its call. He shoved it away somehow, knowing that if he passed out, he was dead.

When he stopped moving, he was on his back, his head tilted to his right. Opening his eyes, he tried to focus on something, anything, but it was as if he were swimming underwater in the murky waters of Lake Hawthorne. An odd, metallic taste filled his mouth. A woman was calling his name, her voice echoing as if she were in a stone stairwell.

Rolling his head to the left, he was able to make out something moving toward him. Something blurry. Something big.

His left arm lay splayed out to his side, his right, draped over his chest. Summoning strength from somewhere deep inside him, Nikalys managed to turn onto his left side, draw his arm under his body, and push himself partway up. Blinking his eyes repeatedly, he eyed the massive figure moving toward him.

It was black and red.

Baaldòk.

Nikalys tried to stand, but slipped and fell to his knees. Looking back to the demon, he spotted an out-of-focus, black and white blur charging Baaldòk from behind.

The woman shouted, “Jak! No!” Nikalys realized the voice belonged to Kenders.

Nikalys tried to cry out a warning as well, but a garbled moan was all that came out. His tongue was thick, heavy, and currently useless. He spat out a mouthful of blood.

Baaldòk was nearly on top of him now, the long, dark shape over the demon’s head warning Nikalys that the demon’s sword was high and ready. Nikalys knew he needed to move. Now.

He stared at a blurry spot behind the demon and reached for Horum’s gift.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Panic gripped his gut, joining the already-there queasiness. He was weaponless, powerless, weak, and wobbly.

Jak’s voice shot out over the battlefield.

“Nooo!”

The blob of black and white did not slow as it reached Baaldòk, and rather than attack with his blade, Jak leapt into the air and grabbed the demon’s sword arm. Baaldòk still brought his massive sword crashing down, but Jak disrupted the demon’s aim. The dark metal blade slammed into the marsh, splattering mud and water over Nikalys’ face. Jak lost his grip on Baaldòk’s arm and went tumbling past Nikalys.

Baaldòk roared, ripped his sword from the ground, and lifted it high overhead again. Nikalys’ vision had cleared enough that he could see the demon’s wide, bloodthirsty eyes.

Glancing to another spot of open marsh grass, Nikalys again tried to move.

Nothing.

The blow to his head must have put his gift out of reach.

Hot air rushed over his head and the world grew suddenly bright. Something struck Baaldòk square in the chest, staggering the demon, knocking him backwards but not down. While the monster recovered, his black armor smoking, Nikalys managed to stand upright and struggled to remain so. The world would not hold still. He felt like he was on the Sapphire’s deck again.

Trying not to fall back down, he looked for his sword. It had been jammed into the demon’s neck, but was gone now. Blinking, he spotted the white blade a dozen paces away, jutting up at an angle, its tip jammed into the soft earth. Lurching through the Marshlands’ muck, he stumbled toward it, praying the demon was not on his heels.

Hearing the unmistakable snarling of kur-surus, he glanced up and spotted two of the beasts rushing toward him. A moment later, both were soaring through the air.

Upon reaching his sword, he bent over to grab the hilt, grazed it instead, and fell over, splashing into a puddle of mud. He rolled over, extended his arm upward, and slipped his right palm around the golden hilt. Freeing the sword from the ground, he stared back in the direction of the demon. Baaldòk was lumbering towards him, eyes locked on Nikalys.

To Nikalys’ surprise, he spotted Okollu up and moving. He was twenty paces away, crawling toward Baaldòk, a viscous snarl rippling across his black lips as he growled something at the demon in the kur-surus tongue. Nikalys did not understand the words, but the tone was clear.

Rhohn, too, was up and advancing on Baaldòk, his maimed right hand gripping his shattered sword, the steel blade a third its normal length and ending in a jagged edge. He was behind Baaldòk, jogging toward the demon, his face twisted in pain as his left arm dangled limply at his side.

Beyond them, a black and white lump lay in the grass. It had to be Jak. Kenders was making her way to him while tossing any charging Drept back into the pack.

When Baaldòk was only a dozen paces away, he glared at Nikalys and bellowed, “I
will
kill you.”

Using his sword to push himself from the ground, Nikalys steadied himself before bringing the glowing white blade to the center of his body, pommel waist-high. Sergeant Trell called it the ‘ready position.’ Nikalys was anything but ready.

Baaldòk continued to advance, raising his sword, moments away from spiting Indrida’s prophecy.

Again, Nikalys tried to give himself over to his gift, to let the instinct take over, but he could not. He felt it there, but each time he reached for it, the gift slipped away. It was like trying to grab and hold onto a handful of water.

Right now, he was not the Progeny. He was not a child of White Lions. He was not leading any fight. He was nothing more than a farmer holding a glowing sword.

He began to backpedal, trying not to fall again. Behind Baaldòk, Rhohn continued his charge, his left arm flopping about like a fish pulled from the lake. Okollu, too, was half-running, half-limping to the demon. Both were utterly quiet now.

Nikalys opened his mouth, wanting to shout for the pair to back off, not to take the demon on alone. Yet before the first syllable could climb from his throat, he clamped his mouth shut.

The son of Thaddeus and Marie would have screamed a warning so loud that the First Council would have heard him in Freehaven. Yet the son of Aryn Atticus and Eliza Kap swallowed the shout whole. The only chance he had to survive right now was to let Rhohn and Okollu continue. A wretched, sick feeling gripped his insides as he watched the pair run toward their fate. Pressing his lips together, he offered a short, silent prayer for them both.

Rhohn was a half-dozen paces away when Baaldòk noticed the Dust Man’s approach. Glancing over his shoulder, the demon roared, spun, and brought his sword around to strike at the Dust Man. He would have easily hacked Rhohn in two, but Okollu snuck under the monster’s upraised arm and clamped his powerful jaws onto Baaldòk’s leg. The demon bellowed and bent over, kicking his leg and sending Okollu through the air. The kur-surus landed hard, collapsing in a heap of mud and fur.

The distraction gave Rhohn the opportunity to rush in and jam his broken blade into the demon’s neck, pressing the hilt deep into red flesh. Baaldòk’s roar grew even louder as he twisted around to grab at Rhohn. The Dust Man not only managed to hold onto the hilt with his maimed hand, but he twisted the ruined bladed, driving it even deeper into Baaldòk’s neck. His eyes were wide and wild, his face primal and distorted. A primitive, furious scream exploded from the soldier, rivaling the howls of the nearby kur-surus.

Baaldòk was able to grip Rhohn by the back of his tunic, ripped him away from the sword, and—in a wicked mimicry of the earlier assault on Okollu—threw the Dust Man to the ground. Grabbing Rhohn’s chest, he slammed him a second time.

With Baaldòk facing away from him, Nikalys ran forward, stumbling, and thrust at the demon’s lower back. Whether it was luck, chance, or remnant skill guiding his blow, the blade slipped between the demon’s torso armor and the waist of the greaves. Upon realizing he had struck his mark, Nikalys drove the sword forward with all his might. The Blade of Horum passed through the demon like a knife through a chicken’s egg. Whatever was affecting his ability to grasp Horum’s gift had no effect on his strength.

As the sword sliced deep, it caught on Baaldòk’s spine. Nikalys jerked as hard as he could to the left and felt a soft pop ripple along the blade. The demon’s legs gave way and Baaldòk collapsed to the ground. Nikalys fell with him, still clasping the golden hilt of his blood father’s sword. Crashing to the ground as one, they separated when Nikalys lost the sword’s handle. He rolled over Baaldòk’s back and horns before tumbling through grass and mud again. Coming to a quick stop, he lifted his head to look to the demon, hoping his blow was as effective as it had seemed.

While Rhohn’s Dust Man hilt stuck out from Baaldòk’s neck at a haphazard angle, Nikalys’ blade rose straight up from the demon’s back, preposterously perpendicular to the ground. He tensed, waiting for Baaldòk to move, yet the spawn of the Nine Hells remained motionless as thick, red-black blood pumped from its neck, pooling on the ground. The demon’s eyes, while still burning with a hot, evil energy, were already beginning to glaze over. Death was near.

Nikalys risked a look around and spotted Jak several dozen paces away, sitting up in the grass, a dazed expression on his face. Kenders was crouched beside him, her gaze locked on Baaldòk.

Nikalys croaked, “Are you hurt?”

Jak glanced at Nikalys and gave a quick shake of his head. Kenders did the same. Neither said a word.

Looking back to the demon, Nikalys stood, his legs still incredibly unsteady. Once upright, he spotted two crumpled forms on either side of Baaldòk. Rhohn and Okollu. Neither of whom was moving. Stumbling to the nearest one—Okollu—he dropped to his knees and reached out a hesitant hand. He had only grazed the kur-surus’ fur when Okollu stirred, a low whimpering snarl emanating from his throat.

Nikalys mumbled, “Are you—”

“Go,” growled Okollu. “I will be fine.” He twisted his muzzle around, staring at Rhohn. “Attend to him.”

Nodding, Nikalys crawled to the Dust Man. Rhohn lay on his left side, his back to Nikalys.

“Rhohn?”

Grabbing the soldier’s right shoulder, Nikalys rolled him over on his back. The limp manner in which the soldier moved reminded Nikalys of a stricken, lifeless deer after a hunt. He called the Dust Man’s name again, slightly less insistent now.

“Rhohn…?”

One look at the man’s face and he knew there was no need to call a third time.

The Dust Man’s brown eyes were open and blank, staring sightlessly into the morning sky. Blood trickled from the hole where his right ear had once been. Another crimson line dripped from his right nostril.

To be sure, Nikalys reached a hand and placed it on Rhohn’s chest. There was no heartbeat.

Nikalys shut his eyes and ground his teeth. Corporal Rhohn Lurus, a good man and soldier, was dead. A single word slipped from Nikalys’ lips, quiet and filled with self-loathing.

“Hells.”

Rhohn had sacrificed himself, and Nikalys had allowed him to do so, treating both him and Okollu as if they were inanimate, wooden pegs on a radigan board, the same thing the Gods and Goddesses were doing to them all. He dropped his head to his chest and stared at the muck, angry and disgusted.

Hearing footsteps approach, he opened his eyes and looked up, sending his head swimming from the sudden movement. For the first time, he noticed a slight ringing in his ears. Pushing the dizziness aside as best he could, he focused on the figure walking toward him. It was Jak, walking slowly, his sword at his side with its tip pointed down. He was staring all around them, a confused, wary expression on his face.

Curious, Nikalys lifted his gaze, stared at the surrounding Drept pack, and was surprised to find every kur-surus standing motionless. No longer were they charging him and his siblings. Their aggressiveness was gone. Those closest were glaring at the demon’s body, hate burning in their yellow eyes.

Despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear that the sounds of battle had shifted. Oligurts’ grunts and men’s shouting were still present, but the Marshlands air was free of kur-surus’ snarls and growls. To the north, Sergeant Trell was yelling for the men to disengage the kur-surus pack and turn north, to the oligurts.

Hearing another set of hurried footsteps, Nikalys looked up and spotted Kenders rushing toward them, her eyes locked on Rhohn. She reached Nikalys’ side, crouched down, and ordered, “Move, Nik.”

Nikalys knew she was going to try to heal him. He also knew it was pointless.

“He’s already gone, sis.”

Her hazel-eyed gaze flicked to his face.

“Are you sure?”