The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (26 page)

“Gods! That feels
so
much better.”

As she arched her back in another stretch, the lightweight dress she wore, torn and ragged at the knees, clung to her, soaked through from the rain. Rhohn eyed her appreciatively for a moment before staring back to the muddy ground. It was rude to stare. As he peered at the nearby grass, it suddenly occurred to him that she had not stared at him, either, which was strange. Nearly everyone gawked at his deformities.

As he sat there, rain dripping from his forehead and into his eyes, the young woman spoke, a smile in her voice.

“Well, you appear to be a modest soul. That certainly speaks in your favor.” She moved closer to him quickly, prompting Rhohn to glance up in time to watch the girl point the tip of his own sword at his chest, mere inches from his heart. Glaring at him, she asked, “Now, who in the Nine Hells are you?” Her friendly tone from moments ago was gone, replaced by a wholly unexpected, hard edge.

Rhohn eyed the sword, a frown on his face. He was a fool for having ever handed the blade to her. After a moment, he stared up to the young woman’s face.

“I save you from slavers, got shot while doing it, and you stand here, holding my own sword against me? Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

“Nimar said you were a Dust Man. Is that true?”

Rhohn shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes and no.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means I was, but I am no longer. I doubt the Dust Men even exist anymore.”

Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “What are you doing out here?” She looked away to scan the landscape. “And where is here? We were headed west before the slavers stuck me in that blasted sack.”

Curious, Rhohn asked, “West from where? And where were they taking you?”

The woman’s gaze snapped back to him. Still she did not flinch at his scarred appearance.

“I have the sword. Therefore, I ask the questions.”

Frowning, Rhohn waved his good hand to the north and said, “Fine. Ask away. But you might want to hurry before they get here.”

As he hoped, the woman glanced to the horizon and he attempted to spring up, planning to grab the sword from her. The girl recovered swiftly, however, and pressed the tip of the blade against his stomach.

“Don’t do that.”

Rhohn glared at her for a long moment before loosing a heavy, dejected sigh and relaxing.

“Fine.”

He should have left the woman with the slavers.

Leaving the sword against his gut, the young woman asked, “Now, who are you? And what are you doing out here alone? I’m not letting you up until you explain yourself.”

Frowning, Rhohn muttered, “You want my tale? You shall have it.”

While sitting in the grass and mud, he told her his name, about his assignment at Fort Jorodas, his journey from there to Midiah, the crumbling backbone of the Dust Men, and his foolish choice to join the non-existent resistance. He told her about the resulting massacre of Ebel, but lied about how he survived, claiming he played dead under the body of two other men. He said nothing about Okollu or the strange message that he was taking to the Southlands. The girl might gut him right now if she learned he was cooperating with a mongrel.

By the time he concluded his story, the girl had pulled back the sword a few inches. She still pointed the tip at Rhohn, but it was no longer jammed into his flesh.

“And what are you doing now?” asked the woman.

“Heading east,” replied Rhohn. “Looking for safety.” He shrugged. “Or an army to join. There’s not much one man can do alone in this war.”

Peering intently at him, she asked, “How did you find me?”

“I was hungry and I saw smoke from a fire. I was hoping they were refugees who might share a bite. Instead, I got you.”

She stood motionless, staring hard at him with her beautiful brown eyes.

“You found me by
accident
?”

Rhohn stared up into the gray sky and sighed.

“To be clear, I did not ‘find’ you. To find something, you have to be looking in the first place. I stumbled over you. Call it luck, call it fate, call it ‘yesterday’s eveningmeal, all anew’ for all I care. I mean you no harm, miss. None. All I want from you is my sword back so we can get on that horse and leave before Nimar and the rest show up.”

The woman eyed him for another long moment, a tiny frown on her face. Finally, with a short, firm nod, she announced, “Fine.” She moved the sword to the side, jammed it into the earth, and released the hilt.

Rhohn cringed. That was no way to treat a sword.

Crouching by his leg, she said, “Now, be a good patient and let me look at that arrow.”

Rhohn peered at her, surprised.

“So then you believe me?”

Gripping his leg, she stuck her fingers through the ripped cloth of his breeches and tore it open to expose the wound. Rhohn winced at the sudden movement. Without looking up at him, she replied, “Either I trust you and help get you well, meaning I have a Dust Man by my side as I head east. Or I don’t and I’m out here alone.” She glanced up to meet his eyes. “I think my odds are better with you than without.”

Rhohn admired her sensibility. She acted years older than she looked.

The girl probed the entrance of the wound with her fingers, wiping away the new blood still seeping out. Rhohn grunted in muted pain with each poke. She made no effort to be gentle.

Her gaze focused entirely on the wound, she mumbled, “Try to hold still. I need to check something.”

Before he could acknowledge her instruction, the girl gripped the shaft and began to twist it slowly, rotating the arrow in place. Rhohn bit his lip and held in a curse. She only twisted the arrow a fraction before she stopped.

“Good. It’s not barbed. I should be able to pull it out.”

Rhohn gaped at her, not understanding how she could be positive of that.

“Are you sure? If it is barbed and you—”

He let out a sharp scream as the girl ripped the arrow free of his calf, a flash of white exploding before his eyes. As the white faded, he saw a pointed, non-barbed shaft held before him, red with his own blood. The falling rain was already thinning out the crimson, rinsing it away.

“See?” said the girl. “No barb.”

She tossed the arrow aside and ripped away the rest of the cloth around his ruined breeches up to his knee. Using it as a bandage, she began to wrap the material around the hole in his calf.

“This will stop the bleeding as long as you don’t run or walk too much on it. But if we’re riding the horse, that shouldn’t be much of an issue. Oh, and we should keep an eye out for thornroot as we go.”

Watching as she expertly bound his calf, he muttered, “Thornroot?”

“Yes, it’s a yellowish-green plant, low to the ground—hidden under the grass if you aren’t looking for—”

Rhohn interrupted her, saying impatiently, “I know what it is. Why are we looking for it?”

The girl stopped her bandaging, stared up at him, and said, “Because if we don’t get some in that hole in your leg, wound-rot will set in, and you’ll be dead within a week.”

Rhohn held her gaze for a quiet moment before nodding once.

“That’s a good reason.”

He immediately began scanning the area nearby for any sign of a yellowish-green leaf.

With a firm, final tug, the girl wrapped the cloth inside a previous loop and pulled it tight. She wiped her hands on his breeches and stood, saying, “Come. We’ll find some as we go. If Nimar’s father has decided to come after us, your screaming like a hungry newborn surely alerted them to where we are.”

The girl turned toward the horse and stopped, noticing the small burlap bag that Rhohn had taken.

“Did you take that from the cart?”

“I did,” said Rhohn. “I was hoping I might be able to sell it as I move east. Or trade it for food.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t looked inside.”

She bent over, grabbed the bag, and stood tall.

“Let’s see if you grabbed anything useful.”

As she started to work on the rope, Rhohn struggled to stand upright. Once he had, he was surprised to find that he could put weight on his right leg. It still hurt, but without the shaft in the muscle, the pain was bearable.

Testing his range of motion, he asked, “How did you know the arrow would come out?”

Struggling with the knot on the bag, she answered, “It spun in your leg. A barbed arrow usually catches on muscle or bone.”

Rhohn lifted his gaze to her.

“Usually? And what happens when it doesn’t?”

“A lot of screaming.”

She glanced up at him and gave a quick, teasing wink before setting back to working on the knotted bag.

Shaking his head, Rhohn moved to pick up his belt and buckled it around his waist. He was a muddy mess, covered in a soupy mixture of wet dirt and grass. With a sigh, he tried to wipe as much of the muck as he could from the blade before sheathing it. He would need to clean it properly as soon as possible before it lost its edge.

A soft, distracted curse from the girl drew his attention.

“This blasted knot is impossible!”

She was still working on the rope and not having much luck with it.

Rhohn scanned the horizon to the north and west. Still no movement. Glancing back to the girl, he asked, “Where’d you learn how to treat arrow wounds…” He trailed off, realizing that they had not exchanged names. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

The young woman glanced up from the knot.

“You first.”

Following Borderlands custom, Rhohn introduced himself and his heritage.

“I am Rhohn Lurus, son of Ezek and Nebedee Lurus, born of the village Dashti.”

He stared at the girl, expecting her to announce her legacy as well. Instead, the girl gave him a small smile and shook her head, amused.

“Truly, Mud Man? Tradition still holds sway over you out here?”

“Dust Man,” he corrected her.

Her smile widened and the dimples returned.

“Right now, you look more ‘Mud Man’ to me. Here, get this open—” she tossed the bag underhand to him “—and I’ll tell you my name.”

He caught the burlap sack one-handed, and studied the rope. The knots appeared as tight as the others had been so he slid his sword free of its sheath a few inches and ran the rope back and forth along its edge.

The girl stepped closer, watching him, and said, “As to where I learned to treat wounds, I was in Gobas up until the Sudashians attacked. There were plenty of injuries to practice on.”

Rhohn’s gaze shot up from the bag and fixed on the girl.

“There is fighting at Gobas?”

“No. There
was
fighting at Gobas. Not anymore. The Sudashians took it.”

Rhohn could not believe what he was hearing.

“Gobas has fallen?! When?”

“Three days back?” answered the woman. Her eyebrows drew together. “Or was it four?” She was quiet a moment before shrugging her shoulders. “Hells, I don’t know exactly.”

“But you are sure it fell?”

“Quite, Mud Man. I was there until the day before the battle when Lord Nizeman ordered the city evacuated. I was heading back to Demetus to find my family when Nimar’s family kidnapped me.”

“Lord Nizeman?” asked Rhohn. “Who’s Lord Nizeman?”

The woman gave a careless shrug.

“Some baron from near Gobas. He was in charge at the end.”

Rhohn was confused.

“Where was Duke Vanson?”

“That is a wondrous question, Mud Man. No one knew. Rumors said he and half the nobles disappeared the night the Sudashians showed up outside the walls.”

Rhohn’s eyes opened wide in stunned disbelief.

“He ran?”

“It would certainly seem so,” said the young woman. Glancing back to the horizon, she said, “Look, open the bag to see if it’s worth keeping so we can start riding. Then you can ask all the questions you wish and I’ll do my best to answer them.”

Even though a hundred questions burned inside him, Rhohn returned to slicing open the braided twine. She was right. They needed to be on the move.

When the rope finally fell away, he ripped open the bag and looked inside. The aroma of salted, spiced meat rushed to fill his nose, prompting a quick, hungry grumble from his stomach. Peering inside, he found a couple dozen dark strips of dried boar meat. The cloth lining of the burlap bag was coated with a waxy substance that had kept the inside dry.

He was about to report on their luck and findings when he saw a second, smaller drawstring pouch made of a light tan leather partially buried by the strips of meat. Curious, Rhohn reached inside to grab the fist-sized bag. Just before his fingers touched the leather, a sensation of intense, dark foreboding filled him. A crushing, bone-chilling wave of emptiness enveloped him, swallowing him and the world around him. All light was sucked from the sky, turning the plains blacker than a cloudy, one-moon night.

As quickly as the feeling overcame him, it vanished. He pulled his hand back a few inches and stared at the pouch warily.

“What’d you steal, Mud Man?”

Rhohn glanced up at the girl briefly before staring back to the pouch. He reached out with a single finger of his burned hand and prodded at the tan leather.

Nothing happened.

Gripping the pouch, he pulled it free of the meat-filled burlap sack. The leather was soft and supple with golden-thread braiding binding the two halves together. One side of the stitching was ripped at the top and bottom. A leather strip appeared to be missing, one that would allow the purse to be strapped to a belt.

“What is it?” asked the girl. There was a sudden hint of trepidation in her voice.

“A leather pouch,” murmured Rhohn. “A nice one, too. This belonged to a merchantman. Or noble.”

“What’s inside?”

“Let’s find out.”

Sticking the bag of dried meat under his arm, he undid the drawstring of the leather pouch and turned the small bag upside down, over his left hand. A smooth, black, oblong stone the size of his thumb fell into his palm. He was struck by how heavy the glossy rock was, considering its small size. It seemed heavier in his hand now, than it had been in the pouch. A moment later, he realized it was also incredibly cold.