The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (24 page)

Broedi nodded.

“A name that was well-earned.”

Nundle tried to bring to mind any other details, but could not. He had recited the sum of his knowledge and admitted so, saying, “Truthfully, the few books I have read on the White Lions barely touched on Nelnora’s champion. Much more attention was given to Aryn and Eliza. You, too. The authors often discounted his contributions.”

With a slight frown, Broedi said, “Then they were fools. Without Tobias, the battle against Norasim would have been much longer. Years longer.”

“Truly?” replied Nundle, surprised. “Why was he so important?”

“Tobias would have visions of sorts. Often, he would be able to share with us the enemy’s movements as they happened.”

Nundle’s eyebrows lifted.

“That would be incredibly useful, I would think.”

“Oh, it was,” replied Broedi “But it came with a terrible cost. He had no control over what he saw. Or when he saw it. Seemingly random and always unbidden, the glimpses would sometimes take him at the most inopportune moments.”

A sympathetic sigh escaped from the hillman.

“There are many horrors that take place throughout Terrene. And more often than he would have liked, Tobias was forced to watch them as they occurred. After a time, he stopped sharing what he saw unless it was important to our goal. As the years went on, he grew to loathe his gift. He even went to ask Nelnora to take it from him. She refused to see him.”

Nundle muttered, “That sounds awful.”

“It was,” rumbled Broedi. “Tobias was a good soul. A good friend. It pained me to watch him suffer. The final pebble to topple the pile was the scourging of the Carinius coast. Thousands died and we could not discover how or why. That time, Tobias was angry with himself for
not
having a vision of what happened. He blamed himself something fierce. Eliza and I tried to console him, but our words fell on deaf ears. He ignored us completely, standing on that rocky beach for hours, staring at the bodies. We left him there, thinking he needed some time alone.”

Broedi paused and sighed.

“And that was the last any of us ever saw of him. He disappeared and never contacted us again. Some of us searched for him for a time, but then magic was outlawed, we were named criminals, and…well, we suddenly had other things to worry about. In the end, most of us ended up losing contact with each other. Aryn, Eliza, and I remained together, but the others...” He shrugged and went quiet, turning around to stare at the fields below.

Swiveling his own head, Nundle scanned the fields again. The tombles below were all heading in the general direction of the village to the northeast. Their workday must be over.

“Broedi?” muttered Nundle. “I’m a bit confused here.”

Broedi lifted his arm, extended a long finger, and pointed below.

“Do you see the lone tomble in the barley field?”

Nundle’s gaze followed Broedi’s outstretched arm and settled on a single figure, slowly shuffling through the waist-high shafts of grain. His vision was not nearly as good as Broedi’s, but he could still see that the tomble had light brown hair, wore simple tan fieldclothes, and was using some sort of farming tool to lean on as he walked. After watching the figure take a number of halting steps, Nundle realized that the individual was using the tool as a cane.

“The fellow with the limp?” asked Nundle, still bewildered.

The figure stopped in mid-step near the edge of the field and remained still.

“Yes,” rumbled Broedi softly. “The fellow with the limp.”

A few heartbeats later, the tomble finished his half-taken step. He stopped again, shook his head side to side, and turned around in a slow circle, scanning the countryside. As he faced the hill Broedi and Nundle stood upon, he stopped his search and stared straight at them.

Broedi murmured, “I wonder where his cane is. He rarely ever let that thing out of his sight.”

Nundle whipped his head around to gawk at Broedi.

“
That
is Tobias?”

Broedi gave a single nod.

“It is.”

“One of the White Lions was a tomble?!”

A slight smile touched Broedi’s lips.

“He still
is
a tomble.”

Nundle stared back down to the fields, mouth agape. The lone tomble had already turned away and was hurrying toward the village at a much quicker pace than before, limping with each scampering step.

In his deep baritone, Broedi rumbled, “That is Tobias Donngord, the Eye of Nelnora.”

For the second time since arriving on this hilltop, Nundle was speechless.

Thankfully, Broedi filled the quiet, saying, “He’s had the limp ever since he was young. A capable Life mage could have helped him at the time, but we both know how magic is viewed in your home.”

Nundle mumbled, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Magic was not outlawed in the Five Boroughs as it was here in the Oaken Duchies, but mages were still social outcasts, barely a step above criminals. Nundle had kept what he was a secret from nearly everyone back home.

Shaking his head, Nundle asked, “How is it that I’ve never heard about this? None of the books had anything—” He cut off, turned to glare at Broedi. “Why is it you never mentioned this?!”

Broedi shrugged his shoulders, his eyes still trained on the figure hurrying through the crop fields, and said, “You know more about our history than most everyone else in the duchies. I assumed you knew.” He made to start walking down the hill. “Come, we must hurry before—”

“You assumed I knew?” interjected Nundle in disbelief. He was not about to let Broedi brush this aside. “Did you not find it odd that I
never
asked you about it?”

Broedi stopped, turned, and fixed his gaze on Nundle.

“Of course. I found it quite odd. I thought you had merely not gotten around to the topic.”

“Had I known about this, it would have been the first thing I would have asked when I met you right after, ‘Are you a White Lion?’ Hells! A tomble White Lion?! How did that happen?!”

Broedi, ever the visage of patience and calm, cocked a single eyebrow.

“You do not need to shout.”

Drawing in a steadying breath and letting it back out, Nundle said, “I am sorry for my outburst. But this all comes as a bit of a shock.”

Adjusting the strap to his leather shoulder bag, Broedi turned his gaze to the fields below and rumbled, “Please adjust quickly, little one. Based on Tobias’ reaction, he does not seem excited to see me. We must hurry before he disappears again.” The hillman strode from the shade of the oaks to the sunny edge of the hill.

Left with no other choice but to follow, Nundle put his heels to his horse and endured a short, jarring trot to catch up to Broedi. He pestered the hillman for details regarding Tobias as the pair hurried down the slope, but Broedi turned all questions aside, insisting that “Tobias’ tale is his to tell.”

By the time the pair reached the edge of the fields, they were empty of workers, leaving Broedi and Nundle alone to traipse along one of the cart paths.

The barley field to his right was just beginning to yellow, the seeds on the awns of the plants filling the air with a nutty, wheat smell. To his left, red potato plants filled another field, the tiny little white flowers atop the plants fluttering in the warm afternoon breeze. Tomble-sized fences lined their path. For the first time in five years, Nundle did not feel as though he wandered amongst a world of giants.

Turning to look at Broedi walking beside him, he suddenly laughed aloud. The fence barely reached the hillman’s thighs. Broedi glanced over, one eyebrow raised.

“What is so funny?”

Nodding to the posts, Nundle said, “You look rather absurd beside that fence.”

Broedi looked over at the railings and gave a reluctant smile.

“Yes, I suppose I might seem a bit out of place. Let us hope we do not spend the night. I cannot imagine any inn in Tinfiddle could accommodate me.”

“Tinfiddle?”

“The name of this village,” answered Broedi. “The other three lie west, farther down the road.”

“I see,” said Nundle. “So, there
will
be an inn, then?”

An inn meant food as well as a nice bed to sleep in rather than lying on the hard ground another night. Broedi had insisted they avoid towns and villages as they traveled west, which had resulted in every night being spent under the stars and without a proper meal.

“A few, if I recall,” rumbled the hillman. “Although I doubt we will have an opportunity to visit any of them.” He glanced over. “We are here for other reasons.”

With a frown and a sigh, Nundle mumbled, “I know.”

One by one, the winding paths merged, growing wider as they did, until Broedi and Nundle were walking on a trail that would fit at least two carts across. Upon cresting the hill, they found themselves on a flat plain, less than a quarter mile from the edge of Tinfiddle. An arched, stone bridge straddled the gulley Nundle had spotted from the hill.

By now, the initial shock of discovering one of the White Lions to be a tomble had passed, leaving behind a strange curiosity.

“Broedi?”

Without looking over, the hillman rumbled, “Yes?”

“You haven’t seen Tobias in centuries, correct?”

“Correct.”

“He’s remained hidden all that time?”

“Again, correct.”

Nundle frowned, glanced over, and asked, “And now, while on our way to visit Nelnora, we just
happen
to stumble across him?”

Broedi eyed him for a moment before rumbling, “Do you need any further proof the Celystiela are meddling?”

“No,” muttered Nundle, his frown deepening. “No, I do not.” A moment later, he added, “Are we nothing more than game pieces to the Gods?”

“It feels that way, does it not?” rumbled the White Lion.

Nundle turned to stare at the hillman.

“I don’t much like that feeling.”

The hillman shook his head, a stern expression on his face.

“Nor do I.”

They continued walking in quiet, up the path, toward Tinfiddle.

A flash of movement drew Nundle’s attention to the arched bridge. Two tombles were crossing from the other side and stopped upon the bridge’s peak, their gazes locked squarely on Broedi and Nundle. The individual on the left had short, black hair while his companion had hair as red as Nundle’s own, but cut much shorter. Both individuals were dressed in plain, matching navy tunics, light tan breeches, and sturdy mud-brown boots.

Nundle whispered to Broedi, “Those almost look like uniforms.”

“I believe they are,” said Broedi. “Judging by the small clubs at their hips, I would say they are guards of some sort.”

Nundle’s gaze dropped to the black cudgels hanging from both tombles’ belts.

“Why? No one carries a weapon back home.”

“This is not the Five Boroughs,” rumbled the hillman. “Remember that.”

Some of Nundle’s earlier excitement evaporated. Broedi was right. No matter how much it felt like it, this was no homecoming.

As they neared, the black-haired tomble lifted his left arm and held his hand up, palm out. In a clear voice, he called, “That’s far enough!” The tomble’s right hand remained resting on the grip of his club. His redheaded companion was at the ready, too, staring at Broedi and Nundle with suspicious, almost angry eyes. “We’d like it best if you two turned around and headed back the way you came.”

Nundle leaned over toward Broedi and, with a touch of confusion, whispered, “We are most definitely
not
in the Five Boroughs. A decent tomble would never be so rude to strangers.”

Keeping his voice low as well, Broedi suggested, “Perhaps you should attempt to talk to them.”

“Me?” muttered Nundle, peering at the pair on the bridge. “Are you sure?”

Broedi had done all the talking whenever they came across others on their journey west.

“It seems wise,” replied Broedi. “Tomble to tomble.”

Nundle studied the uniformed pair for a moment before sighing nervously.

“If you think that’s best.”

“And no Weaves of Will,” rumbled Broedi.

Shooting a disappointed look at the White Lion, Nundle asked, “Why not?” Two quick Weaves of Will and they could be past the guards within moments.

“Tobias can sense Will,” explained Broedi patiently.

“But he already saw us,” pleaded Nundle.

Broedi shook his head.

“
No
, Nundle.”

Sighing, Nundle said, “Oh, all right, then. No Weaves. I’ll use my wondrous, charming personality on them.” Turning back to face the tombles on the bridge, he smiled nervously while shifting in his saddle.

The tomble guards stood on the bridge, staring at Nundle and Broedi in silence. The babbling creek running in the gulley and the light rustle of trees and grass filled the uneasy quiet. Moments passed while Nundle tried to think of an appropriate greeting to use when meeting a community of tombles that should not exist.

“Nundle?” prompted Broedi. “Sooner is better than—”

Nundle blurted loudly, “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere in town where one could find some spiced turnips?”

The question leapt from his lips before he realized they were moving and he immediately felt the fool. He felt Broedi’s eyes on him, staring. Embarrassed, Nundle kept his eyes straight ahead.

The black-haired tomble’s eyes narrowed. After exchanging a baffled glance with his companion, he turned back to stare at Nundle.

“Pardon?”

Nundle winced. He did not want to have to repeat himself. After nervously clearing his throat, he said sheepishly, “I… uh…I said, I don’t suppose there’s anywhere in town where one might find some spiced turnips?”

The tomble cocked his head to the side, deep furrows lining his forehead.

“That’s what I thought you said.”

After a moment, he swiveled his head around to glance into the town behind him. His hand slipped from the club at his belt. Turning back around, he leaned over to confer with his companion in a hushed whisper.

Taking advantage of the moment, Broedi muttered, “Spiced turnips?”

“Sorry,” offered Nundle weakly. “I’m hungry.”

Broedi frowned slightly and stared back to the bridge.