The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  A number of Dragons voiced quiet encouragement.

  Mashglach looked down at the young Dragon and nodded, “Come forward young Shealauch and tell your tale.” He indicated the assembly with a sweep of his right arm, “The Winglauch will receive your words.”

  Murmurs of agreement and approval of the young Dragon swept through the hall as he worked his way up to the dais that held the podium.

  The Winglord smiled as Shealauch paused just before the dais, “Come Shealauch, step up to the podium and tell your tale. All of Dragonglade waits for you.”

  Shealauch took the three steps to the dais as Mashglach moved aside, opening the way to the podium for the young Dragon.

  “Ummm...” Shealauch cleared his throat and swallowed nervously as he looked over the assemblage in the great hall. Paintings of great moments in Dragon history covered the walls of the hall and he tried focusing on them in order to reduce some of the stage fright threatening to overwhelm him.

  “Ummm...” He tried once more.

  “You said that,” The mutter came from within the front rank of Dragons accompanied by a flutter of soft laughter that rippled through the hall.

  It helped to reduce the tension as well as the young Dragon's stage fright. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. He was ready now. “I saw a small party of the beings who call themselves men below me during a time of flying over the lands to the north and west of Dragonglade. It was my first sighting of them since the Wizard and his apprentice came to visit us.”

  There was a muttering and nodding of heads as the assembled Dragons digested the bit of recent history.

  Shealauch continued, “I thought it would be fun to look at them more closely and maybe to talk with them.”

  This time the muttering contained mixed approval of the young Dragon's actions.

  “I realize now that was a mistake,” Shealauch said contritely.

  “Tell them how you came to be wounded,” Mashglach urged him on.

  The young Dragon nodded, “As I dropped into a lower flight layer they sent these things Niamh called arrows up at me. Two of them stuck me in the foot and the tail. The pain was surprising and I almost fell out of the sky. I didn't know what to do. I thought they were all friendly.

  “I also had no idea I was bleeding so much. I mean, it was just my foot and my tail. I didn't know about the large arteries being there.”

  “Just tell us what happened, Shealauch. We'll discuss your lack of attention in class later,” the Winglord said dryly, which brought another ripple of muffled laughter from the assembly.

  “Sorry,” Shealauch's facial hide flushed pinkly with the intensity of his blush. “After the arrows pierced me I flew back to Dragonglade as fast as I could. Things were getting blurry by the time I reached the glade and I don't remember the landing, not much about it anyway.

  “The next thing I remember clearly is my mother and Niamh tending to me.”

  “Someone had to,” Timidi sniffed loudly and then subsided upon receiving a glare from Mashglach.

  Shealauch looked at the Winglord who encouraged him with a nod, “Ummm, well, that's all of it really. The Winglord called for the Winglauch and here we are.”

  The young Dragon backed away from the podium and then made his escape back to the comforting wing of his mother. Mashglach retook his place behind it, tapped the bell once lightly, and then stopped the chime with a forefinger, “We have heard young Shealauch's witness of what caused his injuries. This is the first time in our recorded history that any of the younger races has attacked a Dragon. Not even Gilgafed during the Magik Wars dared such a thing, but just such a thing has now happened. It is only by the grace of the Creator that Timidi's child survived to give testimony today.

  “Now,” he paused for a moment, “is there anyone else in this Winglauch who wishes to have his or her voice heard upon this matter?”

  Chabaad stepped to the front and raised his right hand, “I, Chabaad, have something to say.”

  Mashglach beckoned the mature Dragon forward, “Speak your peace.”

  “The other races, those who call themselves Men, Elves, and Dwarves live lives far shorter than we Dragons do. We need to remember this, especially in times when we are forced to deal with them. It has been over a thousand years since the Magik Wars. That is the last we had much to do with those other than our own kind outside of the occasional Wizard or lost traveler. Is there agreement on this?” Chabaad swept his gaze across the other Dragons in the hall. Many gave no visible response one way or the other as to his question, but enough of them nodded either to him or to the one they stood next to in the assembly.

  He grunted, satisfied with the answer and then continued, “Because of this difference in life spans, we Dragons have a tendency to discount, or in some cases ignore altogether, events in the world that may resolve themselves within a few seasons or a few years. Our perspective is a different one than those of the younger races.

  “However, in this instance, I do not believe Dragonkind can afford to act similarly. Shealauch's having been attacked and his resulting injuries are a symptom of a larger problem that has yet to manifest itself in this world. We, if we choose to wait and see as before, will be remiss in our responsibility to the younger races at the very least. At the worst,” he paused for effect, “we may bear silent witness to our own destruction. This is not the same as deciding on changing a planting schedule.”

  The last word in Chabaad's speech threw the Winglauch into turmoil. Mashglach had to tap the bell several times before the tumult began to settle down, “Enough of that! The Winglauch is a place for sober discussion and resolution.” He leaned forward, putting some of his weight on the podium, “This is not a classroom where favorite theories are bandied about for the entertainment of students. This is a serious matter that Chabaad brings to our gathering and it bears much weight when placed with the witness of young Shealauch.”

  The Winglord looked into the hall of now silent Dragons, “Is there anyone who has a view supporting or opposing Chabaad's words?”

  For several long moments, the hall remained quiet and then several hands rose into the air.

  Oscglach, an ancient Dragon so old that white showed on his muzzle, walked slowly to the front of the crowd. Those Dragons with hands raised lowered them as they saw him pass.

  He shook his head at Mashglach's invitation to take the podium and instead turned to face the Winglauch, “You know me, I am Oscglach. A few millennia ago I was Winglord before the tragic Naublouch and our wise Mashglach. My view differs from that of the noble Chabaad. I believe this is a lesson we all may learn from, if wisdom is still the path for Dragons. He mentions time and how our use of that time may decide our fate. In that aspect, we agree. The interpretation of that aspect is where we part ways.”

  A few murmurs followed Oscglach's statement but he ignored them as he continued, “I have lived for seven thousand years, though you are already aware of that bit of information, I find it is still good to use as an illustration of where my opinion is founded. During that time, it has been my privilege to see the traditions of Dragonglade proven valid repeatedly. Time, rather than being our enemy, will in all probability be our greatest ally in this matter. What enemy can assail us here? What foe could pull down the glory that is Dragonglade? No, learned Chabaad is in error in this matter unless I miss my guess.”

  He paused and paced to the left a few steps and then returned to where he'd been standing, “Prudence and long tradition suggests to us it would be best to do what we have always done when it comes to dealing with the younger races, wait and see. There is always the possibility their next generation will change for the better. After all,” he spread his hands, “their lives are pitifully short in comparison, are they not? I see no reason why we must change our way from what has been proven to serve us well up to now.”

  “That's because you never had a child fly home punched full of holes!” Timidi pushed through the assembled Dragons and stood b
efore Oscglach, her nose twitching in fury.

  “Timidi!” Mashglach gasped at the female Dragon's lack of manners.

  She rounded on the Winglord, “And you! What good does this gathering do for us when the ones who ... assaulted my Shealauch are still out there waiting to shoot their arrows at some other helpless Dragon?”

  “Silence!!!” Mashglach's roar snapped Timidi's mouth shut. “Great Gakh female, have you taken leave of your senses? Shealauch's injury is the reason we're here now. Hide and Tail! What do you think this is all about?” He waved a hand in the direction of the other Dragons.

  Timidi kept her peace under the glare of the Winglord.

  Mashglach held his gaze on her for several seconds and then nodded, “Very well.” He raised his voice as he addressed the Winglauch, “Is there anyone else who wishes to speak?”

  * * * *

  “Lookit ‘im,” Muttered the Avernese guard as he sipped from his bowl. “Sittin’ off by hisself, thinks e's too good fer the’ rest o’ us ‘e does.”

  “Keep yer voice down Aerny and eat yer breakfast,” The one to his left said, as he hid his moving lips behind the pipe in his hand. “Tha knows ‘is nibs there's a friend o’ th’ Baron? Well, e is, an’ it'll be yer ‘ead on th’ spike, not ‘is, iffn this little field trip goes wrong.”

  Aerny sipped another mouthful of soup as he watched Vedder. The priest was huddled with his hands crossed in front of his knees, staring into the fire he'd insisted be set up several yards away from those the guards were using. “Makes yer wonder, ya know?”

  “Wonder whut?” The pipe smoker blew a cloud into the firelight.

  “Whut goes on inna head like that?” Aerny finished off his soup and tossed the bowl against his pack. “Probably workin’ on ‘is next sermon, I'll bet.”

  Vedder stared into the flames of his campfire as they danced into the morning air. This was it, he was sure of it now. A Cardinalship at least would be his once word got out of his triumph over the evil the Dragons represented. It seemed amazing to him how ignorant most people were concerning the ways of evil. Well, soon he would have his proof of how Dragons abducted young children and used them in obscene rituals before devouring them at their perverted feasts.

  One thing did surprise him though. Dragons were much bigger than he thought they would be.

  * * * *

  “Well, Sergeant, are you going to tell us what this enlistment nonsense is all about?” Charity blew on her tisane to cool it and then patted on the log next to her indicating where he should sit.

  No more than a quarter hour earlier, Sergeant Travers and the members of his patrol had attempted to “enlist” Charity and her companions into the Ortian army. The attempt had proven less than successful and ended with the Sergeant staring at the business end of a clothyard shaft. Much to his relief, the arrow stayed with the bow. The redheaded giant didn't seem inclined to do more than hand him a cup of tisane and the wiry fellow with the crutches ... well he was just as glad a fight had been averted.

  He looked at Flynn and then at Neely. Both of them wore unreadable expressions. The men in his party were no help either. With a sigh, he sank down onto the log and sipped some of the tisane Flynn had given him. “I suppose talking is better than getting our bottoms kicked in.”

  Neely chuckled around his pipe, “I'll say. Let's hear yer story.”

  The Ortian Sergeant nodded, “Very well. The name's Travers by the way.”

  “Neely.”

  “Flynn here.”

  “And I'm Charity.”

  He nodded in turn to each introduction. “There's a good reason why my men and I are out doing the job we are. You know anything about the Ortian royal family?”

  Flynn and Charity shook their heads; Neely nodded while blowing a smoke ring.

  Travers grunted, “Seems I'd best add some history to what I'm telling you.

  “The Emperor's a good man, a real good man, considering where most Royals put their pleasures. His brother's the Ambassador to Grisham, been there oh, two years now since the death of his wife. Wouldn't hear about backing out on the assignment. Many folks respected him for doing that. The man did his job and didn't ask for favors just because of his title.”

  “Sounds like a good leader. Someone men would follow,” Neely said around his pipe stem. Flynn nodded agreement.

  “That he is. The whole family is that way. Not a bad apple in the bunch.” Travers finished his tisane and held out the cup for a refill. Charity did the honors.

  “Thank you.” He sipped and smiled, “I wish I had your touch. Mine always tastes like I used saddle polish.”

  “Boil the water first, and then add the dry mix. Don't cook it. Cooking brings out the bitter oils and kills the sweet.” Charity tested the coals with a twig.

  Travers sipped again. “I'll keep that in mind. Back to the Ambassador's family, the only one any of them worried about was the daughter, Hypatia. She had a touch of the wild in her and Alford, the Emperor, her uncle, was more than a little happy to see her accompany her father up to Grisham and away from the crowd she was running with back home.”

  “Grisham, safer than Ort? Sorry Travers, but I'm havin’ trouble belivin’ that,” Neely took the pipe out of his mouth and stared at the Sergeant.

  His answer was a sigh as the Sergeant lowered his gaze to the fire. “Turns out you're right in your feeling. Someone killed Hypatia. They found her body in one of the guest rooms in the back of the Embassy.” He shook his head, “She was only seventeen summers along too. The Emperor knows Grisham's Duke is involved. I don't know what proof he got, but he's not a man who goes to war over just a suspicion.”

  “And you got the conscription duty, right?” Flynn scootched down his part of the log until his ample bottom was on the ground and his back against the wood.

  Travers grimaced, “Right. It's not a proper duty for a soldier, but when you've got orders...”

  Neely's smile was crooked, “Seems those orders ran into a bit of a snag.”

  “Not really,” The Sergeant smiled back. “They said to collect as many conscripts as possible.” He emphasized the word possible. “Seems to me possible wasn't in the picture here. As far as I can tell, I've obeyed my orders to the letter,” He put down his cup.

  “How did she die?” Charity's question came out wrapped in quiet dread.

  “That's not something I'd tell a lady, miss,” Travers looked embarrassed.

  “Tell me anyway,” Charity's tone and expression changed from concerned to dangerous.

  “Better do it,” Flynn grunted.

  “But...” The Sergeant looked hunted. His eyes darted to and from each of his hosts.

  Neely yawned, “Go on man, she's not gonna let ya go. Yer on the’ hook, ain't no wrigglin’ off.”

  Travers lips tightened and then loosened in a sigh, “Very well, but you're not going to like it. I don't like it; in fact the information apparently wasn't supposed to be known to the average soldier. But now that I think of it, the Crown probably leaked it to move the foot soldiers off of their collective butts.”

  “Probably,” Neely agreed, “so what did they leak?”

  “That she was raped and strangled. Whoever did it wrung her neck like a chicken's.” He paused for another sigh, “But that isn't the worst of it. I told you the Emperor had proof of the Duke of Grisham's involvement?”

  His three listeners nodded yes.

  “The worst of it was where they found the proof, whatever it was.”

  “Where?” Neely asked from around his pipe.

  “Umm ... well ... as I said, I'm not sure I should mention it with a lady present,” Travers demurred.

  “Mention it!” Charity said sharply.

  Travers told them. No one said anything for a while and then Charity stood and began pacing back and forth in front of the campfire. “Animals! To do that to ... to ... she was my age. Do you know that? My age. That could have been me on that bed.”

  “Not likely,” Flynn said
dryly.

  “You know what I mean,” Charity dismissed Flynn's attempt at humor. “We've got to do something about this.”

  Neely snorted, as he tapped out the dottle from his pipe, “Like what, go to war against Grisham? Somebody's already doin’ that.” He pointed the handle of the pipe at Travers.

  Charity rounded on Neely, “Were you listening to him? How can you sit there after hearing how the Duke violated that girl? The man's no better than Cloutier and he deserves exactly what the Earl got.”

  “Well...”

  “You think he doesn't?” Charity's eyes blazed. “You think maybe Cloutier didn't deserve what he got?”

  “I didn't say...”

  “I'm not going to let an animal like that escape if I can do anything about it,” Charity hissed as she turned away from Neely. “Do you have room for one more in your party who isn't a conscript, Sergeant Travers?” She sat back down next to the Ortian and glared at Neely.

  He returned the glare, “Now don't you do that to me, missy. You ain't gonna make me guilty just because of what you think I thunk. Women are always doin’ that, an’ it ain't fair! I never said we wasn't gonna do somethin’ about what th’ Duke done, I just asked what was we gonna do, an’ that's somethin’ different all together. Ain't it?”

  Charity looked at Neely, trading glare for glare, and then she looked away. “You're right,” she murmured.

  “What's that?” Neely asked with a half smile,” Sounded like you said something.”

  Charity scowled. “You heard me,” She muttered. “What are you grinning at?” She said to Flynn who was watching the two of them with a wide smile pasted onto his face.

  “Me? Nothin'. Whut should I be grinnin’ at?” Flynn's smile grew broader.

  Charity looked from Flynn to Neely and then to Travers who wore an expression of supreme puzzlement. Neely began to share Flynn's smile. “Men!”

  Neely nodded, “Yup, that's us, and I ain't apologizing for it neither. So, whadda you wanna do? Join up with the Sergeant here and hunt down the Duke fer whut he done? Or keep headin’ on south where we most likely are gonna run into more press gangs?”