The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (25 page)

“I will speak from now on.”

“Wondrous idea. Thank you.”

After a few more quick exchanges with his partner, the black-haired tomble stood tall and called, “You aren’t merrymakers, are you?”

While Nundle’s face scrunched up in confusion, Broedi began to chuckle, a rare occurrence to say the least. The sound reminded Nundle of a cat purring. A very large cat.

Bewildered, Nundle murmured, “What’s a merrymaker?”

Broedi ignored his quiet question and called out, “No, friend tomble. We are not.”

Nundle asked again, “What is a merrymaker?”

Lowering his voice, Broedi said, “A moment, please, Nundle.” Eyeing the tombles on the bridge, he asked, “Why would you ask them such a question?”

The black-haired tomble said, “Because Toby just hobbled down the street, screaming that the merrymakers were coming.”

The hillman began to chuckle again.

“Broedi?” muttered Nundle. “What is a—” Cutting off, he turned to the pair on the bridge and called, “What is a ‘merrymaker?’”

The tombles stared at him as if he had asked what color the sky was.

Frustrated, Nundle asked, “Will somebody please explain what is going on?”

“They are performers,” rumbled Broedi. “From fairs that travel the countryside, stopping near large towns or cities for a week or so at a time. They juggle, perform tricks, tell stories, sing ballads, dance. All for coin. Think playmen, but with more jumping about.”

“They are wicked sorts!” shouted the redheaded tomble from the bridge. “They make fools of us, packing us in barrels like apples! Just to make the longlegs laugh!”

The black-haired tomble reached out and grabbed his upset companion’s arm. After muttering something to him, he directed the redheaded tomble around and gave him a gentle shove. The admonished tomble strode quickly off the bridge, heading back into town. The remaining individual faced Broedi and Nundle, approached them, and stepped from the bridge onto the path. Stopping a few paces away, he nodded and said, “I am Hanno Mudgup. Good days ahead to you both.”

Broedi gave a small bow and said, “And good memories behind, Hanno. I am Broedi. And my friend here is Nundle.”

Hanno jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and said, “I apologize for Peldi’s outburst. The lofty promises of easy coin and fame lured his youngest sister away the last time a fair was in the area. We haven’t seen her in nearly a year. Little love is held for merrymakers here.”

Broedi rumbled, “I assure you we are not with a fair.”

The tomble looked them over, examining every detail of their person, and said, “Perhaps not, but that does not make you any less strange.” Staring up at Broedi, Hanno cocked an eyebrow. “You are the tallest soul I have ever seen.” Shifting his gaze to peer at Nundle, he continued, “And you…well, I’m sure you are the first tomble I’ve ever seen on a horse.” Tilting his head, he peered around the sides of the chestnut. “How do you even get up there?”

Nundle gave Hanno a friendly smile and said, “With a great amount of difficulty, I assure you.”

“So, which of the Four Towns are you from, Nundle?” asked Hanno. “I usually have a good memory for faces, but I cannot seem to place yours.”

Nundle was hesitant to answer, unsure what he should share. He glanced at Broedi and received a reassuring nod. Turning back to Hanno tomble, he said, “Well…I’m not from the Four Towns.”

“You’re not?”

“No,” said Nundle. “I am from Deepwell, a town within the Thimbletoe Principal of the Five Boroughs.”

With an unexpected haughty note in his voice, Hanno asked, “Are you now?” A tiny frown of disgust spread over his lips. “I thought Boroughs’ tombles were too afraid to step beyond their doorstep.”

Taken aback by Hanno’s rudeness, Nundle replied tersely, “Now, hold one moment—”

Broedi stepped forward quickly, interjecting, “Pardon me, Hanno, but we’re here looking for an old friend.” He shot Nundle a quick look, urging him to be quiet. Nundle complied.

Hanno’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Nundle before shifting up to the hillman.

“You’re here to speak with Toby, then, aren’t you?”

“We are,” replied Broedi cautiously. “How did you know?”

Hanno stared between Nundle and Broedi, mulling over something. With a deliberate tone, he said, “He’s the only tomble here that hails from the Boroughs. I don’t see what other old friend you could have here.”

“I am curious,” began Broedi. “How long has ‘Toby’ lived here?”

Hanno shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh…thirty years or so.”

Broedi’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.

“He has lived here for thirty years?”

Hanno eyed the hillman carefully.

“You must be
very
old friends of his if you did not know that.”

Nundle hid a tiny smile at the tomble’s inadvertently ironic statement.

“Circumstances have prevented us from keeping in touch,” said Broedi. “May we pass then, Hanno? It is important we see ‘Toby.’”

The tomble was quiet for a few moments before saying, “Fine, you can enter.” He tilted his head back to stare up at Broedi. “I’m quite sure I could not stop you even if I wanted.”

Broedi nodded graciously, rumbling, “Thank you.”

Hanno nodded and turned to face Nundle.

“Might I make a suggestion? Hop off your horse before you come into town. You two will surely draw attention, but less so if you aren’t all the way up there. Honestly. A tomble riding a horse? It’s absurd.”

A few turns ago, Nundle would have agreed with Hanno. Yet lately, he had grown to appreciate the incredible distances that the beasts could cover. Besides, in present company, the horse was indispensable as one of Broedi’s strides matched six of Nundle’s.

Taking Hanno’s advice, Nundle began the process of dismounting. Swiveling his right leg over the back of the horse, he slid on his belly down the side, grasping a pair of metal rings he had a leatherworker in Claw add to his saddle. Hanging in the air for a moment, Nundle dropped nimbly to his feet and turned to grab his horse’s reins, ready to go.

Hanno was staring at him with admiration.

“I would have bet you were going to fall and break your neck,” said the tomble.

“It is still a concern of my own,” admitted Nundle.

Hanno stepped backward, beckoning the pair to follow him, and said, “Come, I’ll take you to Toby’s home.
And
I’ll point out the Joyful Bear.” With a wink at Nundle, he added, “The best spiced turnips in the Four Towns.” He smiled, spun around, and began walking over the bridge, calling over his shoulder, “Welcome to Tinfiddle!”

Broedi, Nundle, and Nundle’s horse followed. The straw-topped buildings of Tinfiddle beckoned.

Allowing his stolen horse to slow to a walk, Rhohn swiveled around to check behind them. The long, brown northwestern horizon was clear. Still, there was no sign of pursuit.

The worst of the storm had passed, the rain slowing to a steady trickle. The thunder had changed, no longer sudden claps and crashes, but rather distant booms that rolled over the soaked prairie.

A sudden, sharp bite of pain shot through his calf. Wincing, he stared down at his leg, a deep scowl on his face. He prayed that the arrow was not too deep. Or barbed. More than anything, he hoped it was not barbed.

He glanced at the sack in front of him. The woman had been remarkably patient—and quiet—since leaving the slavers’ camp. After one last look to the horizon, Rhohn decided it was safe to stop.

Grabbing a fistful of mane, he gently tugged, hoping the beast understood the intent behind the gesture.

“Hold…hold…”

Whether the mare grasped his meaning or was simply tired from the hard pace Rhohn had set, she stopped.

Instantly, the muffled voice of the woman called, “What’s wrong?” She sounded concerned, but not afraid. “Why are we stopping?”

Rhohn said, “I was thinking about letting you out of there.”

“Thank the Gods. This is worse than riding in that blasted cart.”

Rhohn turned his attention to his right calf, wondering how he might dismount without aggravating the wound. The burning had waned, but the throbbing was worse. He could feel every thudding heartbeat in his leg.

For a short time, he attempted various maneuvers in order to dismount, trying to avoid brushing the arrow against the horse’s side. Any pressure exerted along the shaft sent a new burst of pain shooting up his leg. After a particularly bad one, he let out a short, hissing curse of pain.

“Are you alright?” asked the woman. “You sound hurt.”

“I have an arrow sticking out of my leg,” replied Rhohn tersely. “So, yes, I am hurt.”

He tried lifting his right leg over the back of the horse, but stretched his calf muscle in such a way that the burning-ember sensation returned. He drew a sharp breath between clenched teeth, grabbed a fistful of the small burlap sack he had stolen.

“Blast!”

He sat that way for a moment or two, waiting for the agony to subside when the woman spoke up.

“You might want to hurry. If you killed one of them, they will probably come after us. You did kill one, yes? Nimar sounded awfully angry.”

Ripping the smaller burlap bag he had tucked in his belt, he tossed it to the ground and said, “I think so.”

“You should have killed them all.”

“The odds were against me.”

“A shame,” said the woman. “Now hurry and get me out of here.”

Frowning at the woman’s demands, Rhohn unbuckled his belt, taking it and the attached sheath and sword off. Leaning over, he dropped it to the ground as carefully as he could.

Lifting his left leg over the mare’s neck, he rolled onto his back and slid off the horse, ensuring that he landed on his left foot first. Despite his caution, he still was forced to put weight onto his right, prompting another burst of pain in his right calf. He stood motionless for a few moments, willing it to go away before turning his attention to the woman in the sack.

The top of the bag faced him, bunched together and bound with a length of braided rope. He hobbled over and tried to untie it, but the rain had made the knots difficult to grip and undo. His half a right hand did not help things. Bending over, he retrieved his sword, wincing through the pain the movement caused, and cut through the knot. He opened the sack and peered inside.

All he could see was the top of the woman’s head, her short, wiry, black hair, and the back of her neck. Her skin was a touch lighter than Rhohn’s own, the color of bulboa bark.

The woman took a deep breath, held it a moment, and then exhaled.

“Bless the Gods, that smells good.”

With the bag now opened, Rhohn heard the woman’s voice clearly for the first time and was mildly surprised. She sounded younger than he had originally thought.

“Don’t suppose you can slip off on your own?” asked Rhohn hopefully. He did not want to try to lift her off with the arrow in his leg.

“Probably not,” replied the woman. “My wrists, knees, and ankles are tied together.” She tried to lift her head to look up, but in her position, she was unable to do so.

Rhohn sighed.

“Fine. I’ll try to lift you off, but I can’t put too much weight on my leg. So…if I drop you…well, I drop you. You’ll live.”

“That looks like it hurts a lot,” said the young woman. She might not be able to look up at him, but she had a clear view of the arrow sticking out from his calf. “Get me out of here and I can help you with that.”

“That would be wondrous,” muttered Rhohn through gritted teeth.

Placing his hands under her shoulders, he began to hop backwards, pulling bag and woman as he went. Three painful hops later, the woman’s weight was entirely on one side of the horse. As she began to slide off, Rhohn instinctively placed his right leg on the ground to help slow her fall. The worst jab of pain yet bolted from inside his calf, up behind his right knee, through his buttocks and into his lower right back. He let out a sharp yell, but managed to hold onto the woman as she landed on the wet ground.

The moment she was down safely, Rhohn collapsed, falling forward into the wet, matted brown grass and pounded a balled up fist into the ground. He lay that way for a few moments, catching his breath, and waiting for the pain to subside.

From behind him, the woman said, “Oh, please. You’ll be fine. I’ve seen wounds thrice as worse.”

Miffed by her dismissive tone, Rhohn pushed himself up and peered back to find the woman sitting up, the bag having slipped down to her waist. He could not decide if she had reached her Matron’s Day or not. She looked both young and old at the same time, no doubt her ordeal had taken a toll on her. The ragged shirt or dress she wore had once been light cream or tan but was now stained, streaked with mud and what looked like old blood. Her face was drawn and dirty, yet an underlying beauty shone through. The richest, darkest brown eyes he had ever seen stared at him, the skin around them crinkled with amusement. Two small dimples dotted her soft cheeks, summoned forth by her disarming smile.

“Nice to finally see your face, too, stranger.”

It took Rhohn a moment or two before he could stammer out a response.

“Um, my pleasure is to meet you in peace today, miss.”

“And what peace might that be?” asked the girl, skipping the ritual response. “You do know there’s a war going on?” Freeing her arms from the bag, she held her bound wrists up and asked, “Could you cut these off, please?”

Nodding, Rhohn said, “Hold a moment.”

Wincing, he crawled to where his sword lay in a patch of mud as the girl scooted closer to him. She held out her wrists and he carefully slipped the tip of the sword between her skin and the rope. After a few gentle back and forth movements, the blade sliced through the braid and the ropes fell away. The skin on her wrist was raw. She had been bound for a while.

Pulling the rest of the bag from around her legs, the girl said, “If you’ll give me the sword, I’ll get my own legs.”

Rhohn held out the sword for her to take and, a few moments later, she was free, having severed the ropes binding her knees, then her ankles. Tossing the ropes aside, she stood tall and stretched her high arms over her head, his sword grasped in her right hand.