The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (53 page)

Okollu growled lowly, “I am kur-surus!”

Keeping her gaze locked on Rhohn, Tiliah corrected herself.

“Fine, then. That a kur-surus gave you the message from a disappearing woman? Every sane soul there would mark you mad!”

Rhohn glared at her, shaking his head.

“You are suggesting I take him to what? Corroborate my story?”

“I am,” said Tiliah firmly. “If they hear this from him, they will believe.”

Rhohn was shaking his head vigorously.

“Tiliah, it is you who are the mad one.”

“Why?”

“Why?” repeated Rhohn, his lone eyebrow arched high. He jabbed a finger in Okollu’s direction. “Look at him! If we are spotted, soldiers will surely come! I’ll never reach Storm Island with him at my side.”

Tiliah shrugged.

“Then avoid towns and cities.”

A derisive laugh burst forth from Rhohn.

“What wondrous advice! I had considered marching straight through Demetus with him! Okollu, would you like to visit one of the markets while we’re there?”

Tiliah’s eyes narrowed to a pair of slits. Yet before she could fire back her own retort, Okollu interjected himself.

“You are wasting your time arguing. I will not go.”

Shifting targets, Tiliah stared down at the mongrel and snapped, “Why not? What else are you going to do? Wander the prairie forever? Going east could help free your kind!”

Okollu shook his head.

“The soldier is right. I would put his journey at risk.”

“One which I think we must take! Better to face that than the chance no one will believe him when he gets there!”

“I am not going,” growled Okollu.

Knowing that she was treading a thin line, Tiliah nodded, lowered her voice, and said, “Ah…I understand. You’re afraid, aren’t you?

Bristling at the question, Okollu bared his teeth as a low growl reverberated in his throat.

“I am
not
afraid.”

Tiliah glared at him.

“Prove it.”

The mongrel glowered at her silently, the white fur along his muzzle trembling, his ears lying flat on his head. After a long stretch of quiet, he turned to Rhohn.

“Will the men in the east not believe you?”

Rhohn pressed his lips together and said, “I would hope, but…” He trailed off and let a long, heavy sigh slip from his lips. “Your tale is rather fantastic.”

Okollu gave a disappointed, frustrated huff, shook his head, and stared to the eastern horizon. After another long pause, he growled, “She is right then. I must go with you.”

Rhohn shook his head in disbelief, staring between them both.

“I don’t see how this can work, Tiliah. He’ll be attacked on sight. No—
we’ll
be attacked on sight! I’ll be marked as traitor!”

“It won’t be just you,” said Tiliah. “I am coming with you.”

Rhohn stared at her, his quiet anger momentarily stifled by surprise.

“You’re
what
?”

“This story,” began Tiliah. “All of it. His, yours, mine. It is
impossible
to believe. Gods, mystery women dashing about a pack of mon—kur-surus? Demon-men? Slavers? It might take a hundred people swearing it true for anyone to believe. We have three. I’m going with you, Mud Man.”

Rhohn’s eyes narrowed.

“What about your family?”

“We take a route that skirts Demetus to the south. You and Okollu can hide while I search. It’s nothing but hills and swamps. Nobody lives there. I ask for one day, Mud Man.
One
day. Then we continue whether or not I find them.”

She spoke decisively, ignoring the hollow, hopeless sensation growing inside her stomach. Even with all the luck of Ketus, she doubted she would find her family in a single day. When she had left a few turns back, the city was terribly overcrowded. She doubted it had gotten better.

Rhohn asked, “You would abandon them?”

She cringed at his word choice, but kept her voice strong and clear as she answered, “If we can deliver this message and it helps defeat—and I cannot believe I am saying this—if it helps to defeat the God of Chaos, then I will be
saving
them, not…not abandoning them.” The word tasted worse than it sounded.

Okollu shifted his yellow-eyed gaze to her.

“I do not understand. Your family?”

Tiliah briefly relayed her own harrowing tale to the mongrel and how her mother and younger siblings were still in the city. Hopefully.

When she was done, Okollu inclined his head a fraction and, with respect filling his rough voice, said, “Were you kur-surus, I would ask you to join my pack, Tiliah. You are strong.”

The compliment was so unexpected that she had nothing to say in response. Turning from Okollu, she eyed Rhohn and waited for his thoughts. The scowl he wore certainly hinted at them.

“This is madness,” mumbled the soldier. “You should go find your family.” He stared at Okollu. “And you should stay here.”

Frustrated by the man’s pigheadedness, Tiliah said, “Fine, then. You go your way. Okollu and I will go to Storm Island on our own.”

Rhohn shook his head.

“Your ideas are getting worse, Tiliah, not better.”

“Then we go together,” growled Okollu. “You know she speaks sense, smooth-face.”

Tiliah glanced to the mongrel and gave him a short nod of thanks for the support. Okollu ignored her, his gaze locked on Rhohn, waiting.

The Dust Man crossed his arms, stared into the distance, and remained as motionless as a bulboa tree on a windless day. Tiliah remained quiet. She had said her piece. The decision was in Rhohn’s hands now. After an interminably long stretch of quiet, a tiny sigh slipped from Rhohn’s lips and he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“I think you’re right, Tiliah. I wish you were not, but I think you are.”

She nodded, saying, “Good, so then it is settled.”

“No,” said Rhohn quickly, looking back to them both. “It is
not
settled. There is no possible way Okollu can travel to the Southlands without being noticed. A half-blind man could mark him a mile away on a one-moon night.”

“He is right,” growled Okollu, turning to eye her. “That will be a problem.”

The corners of Tiliah’s mouth turned up a fraction.

“I have an idea how to make sure it is not.”

Rhohn and Okollu both stared at her, clearly dubious. She quickly explained her plan and within minutes, the trio was marching east, leaving the vultures to their meal.

25
^th
of the Turn of Luraana, 4999

Nikalys ran his forehead side-to-side along the ship’s rail, his eyes shut tight, his hands gripping the wood beam. Any chance of receiving a splinter had long passed. Years of use and harsh sea weather had worn the wood smoother than a polished river rock. The sensation of the wood grazing his skin somehow took his mind off the ship’s constant, rocking motion.

He could not decide which of the repetitive movements he hated more. The graceful rising up, pausing for a moment, followed by a stomach-twisting drop down. Or the knee-buckling, world-tilting rolls to the left and right.

His insides sloshed about like water in a stable-mucking bucket. His head ached, thumping with each pulsing heartbeat. The snap and crack of the sails assaulted his ears.

“Feeling any better, son?”

Recognizing Sergeant Trell’s voice through the roar of the waves, Nikalys squeezed his eyes tighter and mumbled a short reply.

“What does it look like?”

“You really should let Broedi or Nundle help you,” said Sergeant Trell, his tone an interesting mix of concern and amusement.

A sharp drop from a wave crest caused Nikalys’ stomach to flip. An involuntary, sickness-fueled scowl spread over his face as he muttered, “I’ll be fine.”

During the first few days of their voyage, most of the Shadow Mane soldiers had dealt with similar seasickness, much to the amusement of the Sapphire’s seamen. Broedi offered to perform a short Weave for any of the ‘ground-kissers’—as the seamen had called them—to temporarily remove the effects of an ill stomach. Nundle and a handful of longtime Shadow Manes accepted Broedi’s proposed solution without hesitation and were moving about the ships’ deck within minutes, happy and healthy grins on their faces. Those onboard who were former Red Sentinels forewent the offer initially and continued to suffer. They were Shadow Manes now, but their lifelong prejudices against magic still held.

Even Sergeant Trell had resisted for two days before letting Broedi help him. Moments after granting his consent, the sergeant stood upright, fit, happy, and relieved. After their sergeant’s example, every last soldier lined up on deck for Broedi to remove the seasickness.

The Weave only lasted for a day, however. So, each morning, pallid, sickly men arrived on deck and waited for Broedi or Nundle—the tomble had learned the pattern now—to administer to them. After the hillman did whatever it was he did with the Strands, the soldiers would go about their day, lounging about the ship.

Nikalys was the last holdout.

He did not relish having magic used on him, but mostly he wanted to prove that he could conquer something as mundane as seasickness. To himself and to the Shadow Mane soldiers.

Sergeant Trell prompted, “Nikalys?”

Moaning softly as his stomach lurched again, he wished the sergeant would go away. The ship dropped suddenly while lolling to starboard, Nikalys’ insides cramped, warning him of what was to come.

“Gods, not again.”

Lifting his head from the railing, Nikalys retched. Nothing came out, however, as nothing was left inside him. For a dozen agonizing heartbeats, the dry heaves continued. He peered through watery eyes, squinting at the sea, its dark blue, almost black surface mottled with frothy white wave crests. A cold and wet spray washed over his face and neck. He actually welcomed the mist. The heaving made him hot and sweaty.

When the gagging finally stopped, he dropped his head back to the railing with a soft thud.

“Oh, bless the Gods.”

Tiny spasms wracked his midsection from overuse. He took in a deep, shuddering breath and, through half-closed eyes, absentmindedly focused on a square peg jammed in the wood plank upon which he stood. Lifting his head, he tried to spit into the sea, wanting to clear the taste of sick from his tongue. He failed, however. His mouth was as dry as Summer dirt in Yellow Mud.

Behind him, Nundle said, “My goodness, you are being stubborn.”

Nikalys groaned. It bothered him that Sergeant Trell had seen his undignified display. Knowing Nundle had as well only added to his humiliation.

“How long have you been standing there, Nundle?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Nundle. “A while, now.” Nikalys could hear the smile on his face. “We all came over here with Nathan.”

Still leaning on the ship’s rail, Nikalys lifted his right arm a few inches, tilted his head forward, and peered behind him. Ten paces back on the deck, Sergeant Trell and Nundle stood with Cero and Wil. Managing a weak smile, he raised his voice and said, “Good days, everyone.”

The four of them stared back at him, each displaying various degrees of amusement in their expressions.

Wil wore a small smile along with the blue and gold pants of a Southern Arms uniform, a black coat, and a matching woolen cap pulled down over his ears. Cero grinned wider, his smile poking out from the black Southlands-style beard he had grown. The ex-Tracker had discarded his Constable grays some time ago and now wore brown breeches and a dark blue overcoat pulled tight against the breeze.

Wil tilted his head to the side, mimicking Nikalys’ own sideways-leaning head.

“Why won’t you let Nundle help? It doesn’t hurt.”

“If I can do it,” said Cero. “Surely you can.”

Cero’s distrust of magic ran deeper than most. As a Tracker for the Constables, he had hunted mages, despite the fact he was more or less a mage himself. Trackers found outlaw magic users because they could sense the Strands themselves.

Nikalys gave the group a halfhearted shrug.

“I don’t need help. I’m fine.”

Nundle raised his eyebrows.

“And I’m an oligurt.”

As the three men standing with Nundle chuckled at the tomble’s remark, the ship suddenly dropped again, sending his stomach cramping anew.
Dropping his head back down, Nikalys shut his eyes tight, pleading that his insides remain calm. He counted each thudding heartbeat. By the time he reached nine, it seemed that, this time, mind won out over body.

Sergeant Trell insisted, “Son, you are
not
fine.”

Taking a deep breath, Nikalys looked back at the group again. Since arriving at the enclave, the sergeant had taken to wearing a Southern Arms uniform of the same position despite Commander Aiden’s insistence he deserved a higher rank. The blue and gold uniform seemed normal now. Nikalys could no longer picture him in the red and black of their home duchy.

Fixing him with a steady gaze, the sergeant said, “I know you are trying to set an example, but you’re setting the wrong one.”

“Pardon?”

“Stubbornness is not a trait you want the men to emulate, is it?” asked the sergeant. Yet again, the man had displayed the remarkable ability to read a person perfectly.

Shaking his head, Nikalys said, “No, I suppose not.”

“Even the best among us needs help at times. And it’s not a sign of weakness to ask for it. Rather, it’s the opposite.”

Nikalys held the soldier’s stare as the Sapphire reached the crest of another wave and began its plunge downward. Whether it was the sergeant’s wisdom or the new bout of fluttering in his stomach, Nikalys’ resistance crumbled. He shifted his gaze to Nundle.

“Do what you can.”

Nundle gave a short nod and said, “Good.”

The mage was absent his wide-brimmed hat, leaving his wild red hair to the whim of the gusting wind, and wore a set of crimson wool breeches along with a solid black coat lined with silver buttons. Staring into the open air above the ship’s deck, Nundle’s gaze focused on something only he could see. Nikalys knew the Strands were there and squinted, wishing that—just once—he could see what they looked like.

After a few moments, Nundle shifted his gaze to Nikalys.