The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (34 page)

Thinking she might get an answer from one of the hurt men, she followed the group to an open pavilion filled with countless injured soldiers and citizens alike. Stunned, she marched up and down the lines of the wounded in a daze. Women and men scurried about the rows of people, trying to aid as best they could, but there were simply too many that needed aid. Without thought, Tiliah volunteered to help, doing whatever was asked of her. Over the course of the next few weeks, she learned how to treat all sorts of grotesque injuries and maladies.

When Lord Nizeman assumed control and ordered Gobas evacuated, Dust Men swept through the streets, forcing everyone capable of walking to leave the city. It had taken two soldiers to drag her from the pavilion as she kicked and screamed, leaving a good number of patients behind. Their faces haunted her dreams. She began to take a deep breath as a precursor to a sigh, but smelled the roasted meat odor again and nearly gagged.

Biting down hard and swallowing the bile in her throat, she shoved the past away. Dwelling on the dead would not help her get back to her family.

Rhohn abruptly broke their shared silence, speaking in a soft, stunned tone.

“I don’t understand how this could have happened.”

Tiliah pressed her lips together and stared north, away from the city. She had no interest in talking about this again. It was time to move on.

He continued musing aloud, asking, “Where was the defense?”

Tiliah shut her eyes tight. Rhohn had asked that question a dozen times today.

Shaking his head, he muttered, “What in the Nine Hells is Duke Vanson doing?”

Tiliah’s patience, already as thin as a light coating of dust, finally gave way.

Her eyes snapped open as she hissed, “Blast it, Mud Man! You can ask that question a thousand times, and I
still
will not be able to give you an answer!”

Rhohn’s head turned sideways quickly as if he were about to issue a sharp retort, yet he stopped halfway. He remained motionless for a moment before letting out a long, weary sigh and dropping his chin to his shoulder.

“Then I’ll stop asking.”

Tiliah stared at the back of his burnt head, black hair covering only the left side of his skull. She sighed softly, her shoulders slumping. Tilting her head forward, she rested it gently on his back, reached up with her right hand, and patted him on the chest.

“I’m sorry, Rhohn. This is hard for you.”

The soldier grunted a wordless affirmative and resumed his staring at the ruined city. She allowed him a few additional quiet, reflective moments before patting him again.

“You do know that we aren’t safe here, yes?”

He nodded.

“I know.”

Sitting tall, pressing against Tiliah in the process, he pulled the makeshift reins fashioned from the leftover rope from her bonds and directed the horse southeast, away from the dying capital of the Borderlands. With a swift kick to the mare’s sides, they resumed their journey.

Hoping to change the subject, Tiliah bent over and peered down at Rhohn’s right calf.

“How’s your leg?”

“Fine,” muttered Rhohn.

“The thornroot must be working, then. Does it hurt anymore?”

“I
said
it is fine.”

Tiliah nodded and sat upright, deciding to leave him alone. Turning about, she scanned the brown horizon again. Still no movement. She offered a quick prayer to Ketus that their good luck would continue.

15
^th
of the Turn of Luraana, 4999

Warm mud squished between Okollu’s fingers and paws as he raced through the pre-dawn prairie, each long stride taking him closer to his prey. He tilted his muzzle upward and drew in a deep lungful of air. The scent was stronger.

He let loose a fleeting snarl over his shoulder and slowed his pace to a gentle, loping gait. The four kur-surus trailing him did the same. After a dozen more long strides, Okollu barked out a second short command and stopped. His pack-mates halted a few paces behind and, other than muted huffs from extended exertion, remained silent.

Pushing himself from the ground, Okollu stood upright to get a better look at their pre-dawn surroundings. The hills had grown taller since Saule-acu had rested last evening. The endless grasslands followed the rise and fall of the landscape, broken only by the occasional stubby tree.

Okollu sniffed the air again. The scent of green things drowned his nose. Glancing at the ground by his paws, he frowned at the new shoots sprouting from the dirt. They were troublesome. Their fresh, clean scent combined with the musty and moist earth was making their task difficult.

Lifting his gaze, he spun in a slow circle, scanning the dark horizon. Both Zila-acs and Balts-acu had set already, leaving the sky black and dusted with stars. The lack of light, however, did hamper Okollu in his search. As he faced east, he noticed a slight lightening where land met sky. Saule-acu was awakening. Okollu paused in his search and gave a slight bow, welcoming her return.

He resumed his study of the grasslands, taking short, quick breaths between his panting, filtering through the dozens of scents within each puff of air.

Upon completing his slow spin, returning to the same point on the northwestern horizon from which he started, Okollu let out a disappointed huff. While the scent was undoubtedly stronger, they still had more running to do.

Spinning around, he eyed the four Drept with him. They had remained on all fours and were staring at him, their yellow-irises reflecting what little light there was. In the thick, wet words of the kur-surus tongue, Okollu spoke to his pack mates.

“We will catch our prey before Saule-acu sleeps again.”

“Good,” growled Grrash. “This hunt grows long.” She glanced over her shoulder, back to the east. “We must hurry and return to tas-vilku.”

Their growing unease was clear, the urge for them to return to Baaldòk growing ever stronger. It sickened Okollu to see them like this.

Dropping to all fours, he snapped, “Let us go.” He turned and began to run again, letting his instincts guide their pursuit and his mind wonder what he and his pack-mates were doing out here.

After taking Gobas five visits of Saule-acu ago, Okollu and his pack had remained outside the walls, awaiting Baaldòk’s next order. The tall, regular structures and confined spaces within the city made the Drept—and all kur-surus—skittish. Baaldòk and the other diavoli did not care what their charges did when they were not fighting, so they had left the packs outside.

The respite allowed the Drept—and the other packs—to attend to kur-surus traditions. For two visits of Saule-acu, all kur-surus performed Grif Rol, offering a constant song to aid the souls of those who perished in the assault on their journey to Maeana’s open fields. Grayskins or blade-men alike frequently threatened to attack if they would not stop the ceremony, but their diavoli leaders managed to keep such clashes to a minimum.

The day Grif Rol finished, Baaldòk returned to the pack, stomping up to Okollu and ordering him to choose his four best trackers to follow the diavol back into the city. Okollu complied and the five Drept slunk uneasily through the streets and towering buildings. He did not understand how any living soul could live in such a place. Endless walls hid the sky.

Baaldòk led them to a flat field of stone within the city, an open space that stunk of man-sweat, leather, and blood. Okollu was instantly uneasy, the hair on the scruff of his neck standing on end. With each breath, evil filled his snout, coating his tongue and filling his lungs.

A unique group awaited their arrival, two men, a female that was not quite of the smooth-face race, and the hated, yellow-haired, long-lived named Tandyr. The dark-skinned bald man and the female were wrong inside, just as Tandyr was. And while the other man was not twisted as the other trio, he reeked of fear.

The five Drept stopped before the assembled group and waited. Okollu wanted nothing more than to charge Tandyr and rip the long-lived’s pale neck wide open. Yet he restrained himself, knowing that he would never reach Tandyr. Others had tried and failed. It would be a foolish attack, one that would doom what was left of the Drept.

Tandyr wanted the kur-surus to retrieve something for him. The terrified man had been assaulted by bandits on a road north of the city and they had stolen something of value. When the long-lived asked if the Drept could track the thieves, Okollu—sensing an opportunity—requested to be shown where the attack had occurred. The group then traveled miles north of the city, eventually stopping in the middle of a dirt road.

The man stammered out what had happened in between repeated, blathering apologies to the bald, dark-skinned smooth-face the others called Vanson. When he was done, Tandyr looked expectantly at the Drept and the five kur-surus converged upon the petrified man. The smooth-face held out a leather strap, stuttering that it was part of a stolen pouch. The Drept sniffed the strap a few times, gathering in its mix of odors, trying to distinguish one from another. Then, they spread out along the road, muzzles pressed to the ground. After a few moments, Grrash barked that she discovered a trail. The other Drept went to confirm it.

Leather from the pouch. Four horses. Old meat. Filthy smooth-faces.

Okollu announced they had a trail. Immediately, the screaming started.

The odor of roasting flesh filled the air and Okollu and the other kur-surus watched as the terrified man shrieked. His skin bubbled, turning from brown to red as he seemed to be cooked from the inside out. Once the man collapsed, Tandyr ordered the five Drept to follow the trail, kill the thieves, and retrieve the stolen pouch. Okollu and his four pack mates left at once, tracking the scent north.

Shortly after they started, the scent changed. The markings of a female smooth-face joined the trail just before it turned west. They ran constantly, hunting when hungry and sleeping when they must. During the last visit of Saule-acu, they came across the third campsite of the thieves. Unlike the first two, they stopped, needing some time to sort out what happened.

Some fighting had occurred. One of the filthy smooth-faces lay dead, his body rotting under the hot, watchful eye of Saule-acu. Another of the thieves had been injured, but was gone now. It was not until Grrash, the best tracker of the group, found the surprising scent of a new man that the scene made some sense. While Okollu recognized the odor instantly, he said nothing. Already concerned, his worry only deepened when he realized the man had moved in the same direction of the thieves and the stolen pouch.

From behind him, a rough voice cut into his thoughts.

Grrash spit out, “I smell blade-men blood.” She huffed again. “And rotting flesh.”

Okollu sniffed the air. He, too, caught the scent of the fiends along with the putrid aroma of an uncared-for wound. Feeling a flicker of worry, he took a quick, second snort and was relieved that the odor did not belong to the man from the village. That was good. The soldier still lived.

The Dust Man had been the fourth soul to whom Okollu had managed to give the message unbeknownst to Baaldòk or the Drept, but he doubted any of them had survived. Two had been old and feeble, and another emaciated from lack of food. The fact that this particular man still moved east meant he was strong. Perhaps he would succeed in actually carrying the message to its destination. Okollu hoped the trail did not lead to him. If it did, the four Drept with him now would kill the man without hesitation.

Okollu searched the air. The scent of sweaty men, horses, and a rancid wound was potent. For now, he focused on that.

The Storm Island weather was still crisp and cool, but for once, the air was blessedly still.

Kenders sat on one of the benches in the courtyard, her head tilted back as she stared at the blue sky, marveling that the sun was actually shining, trying to remember the last time she saw Mu’s orb. A few leftover, rogue clouds from last night’s squall floated in the cerulean sky, the constant gray that typically dominated the heavens absent for the time.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth on her face, and listened to the sharp, arrhythmic clanging of sword striking sword and the crack of wood against wood.

“A wondrous day, is it not?”

Recognizing the voice, her heart leapt into her throat and her eyes shot open. Dropping her gaze quickly, she swiveled her head in the direction of the voice while trying to blink away the brightness. As she focused on the figure standing beside the bench, her heart slowed to its normal pace. It was not whom she had thought.

Summoning a friendly smile, she nodded and replied, “Yes, sir. It certainly is.” When the man lifted a single black eyebrow, she quickly amended, “I mean, ‘yes,
Joshmuel.’
It certainly is.”

When she had first met Zecus’ father, she had repeatedly called him ‘sir,’ forgetting that—in the custom of the Borderlands—titles were reserved only for people of high honor. In fact, throughout their very first conversation, Joshmuel insisted on calling her the “great hope of all lands.” Wanting nothing to do with the silly honorific, Kenders had offered Joshmuel an affable compromise. She would call him by his first name and he would avoid the grandiose titles. To date, both had kept their end of the agreement, although Kenders noticed that Joshmuel still refused to use her name.

The thin Borderlander stood before her, bundled in an impressive amount of clothes, having layered shirts and tunics atop one another to the point where he looked a bit foolish. His ever-present headband was pulled down over the tips of his ears.

Pointing to the bench, he asked, “May I join you?”

“Of course,” replied Kenders. “I would welcome the company.”

With a small, polite bow, Joshmuel said, “You are most gracious.”

He settled to the bench on her right and stared out at the open courtyard. For a short while, the pair sat in a comfortable silence, watching the soldiers work under the direction of Sergeant Trell and Commander Aiden. Half the soldiers practicing were Sentinels, half were original Shadow Manes.