The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  The tracker dipped sideways in his saddle and whispered in Flynn's ear, “A sense o’ humor. Tell ‘em a few stories, make ‘em laugh an’ you can look like a mud fence wearin’ trousers. Of course, a few coins never hurt.”

  Flynn's bellow of laughter echoed across the plain.

  Neely reined in his horse as those in front of him came to a stop. “Hold up Flynn, looks like we's here.”

  Chapter Six

  The half-moon passed behind a cloud as a shadow detached itself from the gloom-filled alley between two shops. It darted northward across the street and vanished into a deeper shadow cast by the bulk of Grisham's ducal palace.

  It is just a few hours until dawn, he thought, the best time for stealth. Even the bats and owls will be sleeping by now.

  A window across the street lit up momentarily as an insomniac put flame to a lantern. A ray of light from the lantern played across the shadow briefly, revealing the face of the assassin hired by Wuest, Hodder and Stroughton. He pulled further back into the shadow of the palace as he studied the wall before him. The builders had not been kind to those of his profession. Smooth granite slabs joined tightly together rose above him to a height of more than eighty feet. Climbing them was not an option, as handholds were nonexistent, and sending a grapple up the wall without some scouting was risky at best. A man in his position did not take risks.

  It appeared the only course of action was the small door on the backside where the servants entered. He chuckled silently to himself. Leave it to the provincial mindset of the gentry to give him his way in; walls, smooth, thick and high enough to forestall a Dragon all around, and yet they leave an entry for him that may as well be a lowered ladder to the Duke's apartments. Servants, for the most part are considered harmless, not much more than cattle, by the upper classes. For that reason their comings and goings are essentially ignored.

  His ruminations brought forth the beginnings of a plan. As he considered, the workability of it became clearer and clearer until he saw little possibility of failure. His Grace the Duke of Grisham was in for a nasty surprise.

  Being sure to keep to the shadows, he edged his way around the palace wall towards the small door.

  * * * *

  Alford the twenty-third, Emperor of the Southern lands, scion of the house of Galtihedrion, even though tradition still used the house of Labad, and hereditary ruler of the city-state known as Ort, stepped back to take in an overview of his painting. It was a delicate watercolor rendition in the royal style, of a bright plumaged songbird perched over a transparent pool stocked with colorful fish. The tightly stretched white silk upon which it was painted shimmered in the mid-morning light.

  In the background the sound of a waterfall added its song to that of the birds in the trees and the crisp scent of herbs and flowers vied with the pungency of the paint as he squeezed a small amount onto his palette.

  Light footsteps rustled on the grass.

  The Emperor tilted his head to the side as he studied his work, “A little more yellow I think.”

  A polite cough sounded behind him.

  “What is it Cremer?” Alford kept his gaze fixed on the painting.

  “A report, my Lord, the army is beginning to gather at the base of Cloudhook Mountain.”

  The Emperor stepped up to the stretched silk and worked the brush in his right hand. “I see. Have you numbers in that report? A bit more yellow yet, don't you think?”

  Cremer blinked and then recomposed his face. “Yes on both accounts my Lord.”

  Alford nodded, worked the brush again and then stepped back once more. “Yes ... I like that.”

  He turned and faced his aide. “Have they a final count projected?” In spite of the feelings welling up within him he kept his voice light.

  “Thirty-three thousand score, my Lord, possibly another thousand, depending upon the conscripts,” Cremer answered. “In scores, the number could climb as high as three-quarters of a million.”

  Alford nodded again and then he was still for several moments. With the patience of long years, his aide waited.

  After a while the Emperor stirred and resumed his painting. “You may go Cremer. I thank you for that information.”

  “My Lord.” The aide backed out of the aviary and was gone.

  Alford washed out the brush in a small pot of water on the stand where his paints were kept and then placed it in a tray with others of its type. He stepped back, further this time, and studied the painting, bringing his hand up to run the edge of his forefinger back and forth across his chin. “That many...”

  In the Bay tree on the other side of the pond a brightly plumaged songbird began to trill, but to Alford's ears it sounded like a dirge.

  * * * *

  “Oy! Up you! Get up!”

  Ethan's dream of tumbling changed as he woke to the realization he was being roughly shaken. His right hand darted to the haft of his sword but a boot stamped down, pinning his wrist painfully to the ground.

  “Uh, uh, none o’ that mate,” The voice was coarse and thick with the accent of those living in the lands north of Berggren.

  Ethan forced himself to relax as he focused in on his attacker. The face swam into view. There was nothing in it to write home about, lousy teeth, a nose obviously broken more than once, eyes of a nondescript gray, with one brow over both, and sagging cheeks sporting a week's worth of gray stubble finished the picture. To cap it off, the man's breath stank with a stomach turning intensity.

  Looking below the face, Ethan noticed the rusty mail and the insignia showing through the grime. Flickin’ great, he thought, a Trading State's soldier. I've been nabbed by a flickin’ press gang.

  “Get him on his feet,” The command came from another Trading States soldier standing at the far edge of the clearing Ethan chose as his campsite. To Ethan's eye he looked to be at least fifteen years older than himself, an old veteran to keep watch over the leftovers if the Trading States still did things that way. Press gang duty was usually reserved for those either in trouble or headed that way. This one had to have been in for a lot of years. He had hash marks running the length of his sleeve.

  Several more Trading States soldiers sat at the edge of the clearing on horseback. Four of them held crossbows ready to fire. Behind them stood a line of forlorn men wearing shackles—conscripts.

  The one with bad breath gestured to Ethan with his short sword. Ethan noted it needed oiling, badly. “You heard ‘im, get on yer feet.”

  Ethan got to his feet and the soldier reached in and gingerly pulled his sword from its scabbard. “You might as well take the knife too, no telling what damage I could do with that.”

  A couple of the men on horseback snickered at Ethan's joke. The soldier frowned as if trying to decide whether or not the joke was at his expense but he took the knife anyway.

  “Good man, Hooper, that gives us an even dozen. Nice try there,” This was said to Ethan. “Men this rough usually doesn't take well to being mocked. Man could lose his temper an’ maybe slip up enough to give an opening or two. Make ‘em an easy mark for good blade. You've the look of one, I'll wager.

  “Problem is,” he shifted his stance and began walking back to where his horse was held by one of the mounted soldiers, “they've had me riding their worthless hides for the past couple of moons. Man slips up, he gets the livin’ crap kicked outta him. One or two of those, an’ they start payin’ attention.”

  He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up into his saddle with practiced grace. “Now, you've the look of a man with a bit of experience in him, maybe too much. We'll have to see if that's the case. You're gonna have shackles put on you an’ I'd druther not have a commotion. Keep quiet an’ you just may live to see that family of yours.”

  Ethan looked up into the eyes of the veteran, “How do you know about my family?”

  The question earned him a smile, “You've got that look about you, too.”

  “I need to get back to them, Sergeant. Fighting your little war
isn't part of my plans.”

  Hooper backhanded Ethan across the mouth, drawing blood and rocking him slightly. “Mind your mouth you!” Only the crossbows aimed his way kept him from feeding Hooper his teeth.

  “Enough Hooper, put him into the line.”

  The old Sergeant looked down at Ethan as he was led to the back of the conscript line. “Keep your cool fellow and you may get a chance to repay Hooper his kindness, and get back to your family.”

  * * * *

  Ellona pulled the carding brushes apart with short deft movements and then reversed direction once more. She placed the finished batt into the basket next to her stool and put some more tufts of clean wool onto the card in her lap.

  “Can I card some mommy?” Jonas came out of the house and sat on the stoop.

  “Of course dear heart.” She reached into another, larger basket next to the one with the batts and pulled from it a smaller pair of cards, handing them to Jonas. “Is Sari still napping?”

  Jonas’ brow wrinkled as he concentrated on duplicating his mother's technique, “Yes.”

  “Good, she needs the sleep.” Ellona looked up at the sound of footsteps and smiled at the tall slender woman approaching, “Hello Nicoll, what brings you by?”

  Nicoll waved a hand in the air, “Oh, the sun, the warm breeze, a chance at gossip?”

  “So you just got tired of being home with your man away at work,” Ellona laughed as she gestured for Nicoll to sit down.

  “You know me so well,” Nicoll returned Ellona's laugh as she sat down, “Speaking of men. Have you heard anything from yours and the boy?”

  Ellona's expression dimmed, “Nothing yet I'm afraid.”

  “I hope they're all right,” Nicoll murmured.

  “So do I Nicoll, So do I.”

  * * * *

  Haberstroh paused in her mixing. The potion swirling in the rough clay pot consisted of certain plant oils, a few rare herbs, and the slime gathered from the backs of the small red frogs found in the center of the swamp. There was a sound, she cocked an ear, listening, there it was again. Something on two legs was pushing its way through the rushes bordering her swamp.

  She put the wooden spoon down carefully and stepped out of her hut. Haberstroh turned her head this way and that ... over there.

  There was to the north of her hut just on the edge of the swamp where the rushes grew thin enough for a body to pass through. She craned her neck to peer over the copse in front of her and saw it. A shadowy form, bent double in agony, staggered past her position. Small whimpers of pain came from it and the faint smell of Garloc stayed behind after its passing. She moved back into the clearing before her hut and listened as the figure moved along the perimeter surrounding it. By the sounds, it seemed to be moving randomly with little evidence of intelligence. Could the smell of Garloc be a telling thing? A part of her, long buried, stirred.

  As if in answer to her musings, the figure changed direction suddenly and broke through the rush barrier and stumbled into the clearing. It wasn't Garloc, as far as she could see, and therefore worthy of being poisoned.

  She shuffled closer to the figure as it writhed on the ground. The smell of Garloc was even stronger but it looked human. Her memory flashed back to her husband. Looking human was good enough for her. She chuckled, Good enough for a moment of personal revenge.

  The pain coursed along McCabe's veins like cold fire. His friend, lover and mistress had turned on him like a maddened dog. The strain was nearly beyond him but he forced his body to remain erect as he pushed through the thick grass and rushes.

  Poisoned, that had to be what was happening to him. The life he drained from that filthy Garloc was doing it. He'd been overconfident and now he was paying the price for his lack of caution.

  Pushing through the reeds that made up the bulk of the rushes he closed his eyes and tried to shake off the dizziness overwhelming him. Squelching sounds popped and squizzled as he pulled his boots from the muck beneath the reeds. The smell of decay rose with each jerk of his feet as he exposed the mud beneath the water.

  Pain shot through his gut again, this time with redoubled fury and for the first time in his life he felt fear. The dizziness washed over him again and this time it stayed. Panicking, he struck out blindly trying to outrun what was killing him but his foot tripped on a hard outcropping and he pitched forward onto dry ground.

  He attempted to rise once but a well of darkness opened before him and he felt himself falling. Just before he lost all consciousness he thought he heard laughter.

  * * * *

  “Look at that.”

  “Look at what, Cap'n?” Corporal McKenit looked up from the rollup he was working on.

  Bilardi nodded in the direction of the shirtless young man across the parade yard. The object of the Guard Captain's attention was running through a series of sword exercises in front of a crowd of junior officers, “That—he accepted my challenge this morning to a match with foils.”

  McKenit chuckled, “Oh I'da liked to seen that.”

  “I'm sure you would have,” Bilardi muttered under his breath. He shook his head as he watched Adam execute an impossible riposte-thrust-riposte-parry combination in three positions. “You would have been disappointed, Corporal, the match proved to be short and to the point, the point being the point of his foil at the base of my throat.”

  “He beat you Cap'n?” The Corporal sounded scandalized.

  “Yes, he beat me, made me look like a raw recruit.” Bitterleaf tasted better than this.

  “Sumpin hadda be wrong wittcher, Cap'n. Maybe you was sick er sumpin,” McKenit temporized.

  Bilardi nodded, “Yes, maybe that was it.” Not bloody likely.

  “Gotta be Cap'n, gotta be. You'll get ‘im next time out, I knows ya will,” McKenit gave him a snappy salute and walked off in the direction of the enlisted mess.

  The guard Captain watched the Corporal until he vanished into the mess hall door and then he turned back to watch more of his newest Lieutenant's bladesmanship. Not this one McKenit, no, this one exists on a different plateau. This man made me feel like a distant second. There's something about him...

  * * * *

  Sweat poured down Adam's forehead and into his eyes. He let it come, using the sting of it push him further into the dance of the patterns. The old Wizard's words still hung in his mind, destiny, his destiny, what had Milward meant by that? The prophecy had something to do with it, of that he was certain, as well as Labad being in the middle of it. Beyond that he was lost.

  The confusion was aggravating and he allowed his temper to flare with it. A dragonfly zipped through the space he was using and the sword's pattern changed, bisecting the insect and then returning to its original line.

  “Did you see that...?”

  “Man's not human...”

  “Bardoc's balls! I never thought you could...”

  The murmurs of astonishment coming from the watching guards eased his temper a bit as well as the petty act of death. He knew he'd feel guilty about it later, but that was then and this was now. Now it felt good to ride the sympathetic magik of the sword into exhaustion and oblivion.

  Thaylli sat in the shade of the porch attached to the officers quarters and watched Adam run through his exercises. Some of the moves nearly took her breath away, she had no idea he was capable of such things. His magik had something to do with it, maybe. A warmth began spreading across her loins and she looked around covertly to see if any of the other women seated there noticed.

  “Magnificent,” A willowy blonde seated next to her breathed.

  “You're a lucky woman dearie,” The matron behind her placed a plump be-ringed hand on Thaylli's shoulder, “You're going to have to keep an eye on that one. More than a few of these vixens will have their sights set on tumbling him.”

  The warmth changed to a chill and she almost turned on the older woman but checked herself in time. The old biddy was just trying to be helpful in her own way. Besides, Adam had managed to res
ist Saichele back in Access hadn't he? Let the others squirm and dampen their pants. He was hers and they knew it.

  She turned and graced the older woman with a smile, “They can try Sirena Culperti, they can try, but Adam's not gifted with a roaming eye. They'd be sadly disappointed.”

  Sirena Culperti broke forth in a booming fruity laugh, “Oh you wonderful child! How poetic. What a delightfully refreshing presence you are. Will your man and you being staying here in the compound with us?”

  This time Thaylli's smile held a tinge of reluctant sadness, “I'm sorry, Sirena Culperti, Adam is insistent we stay at this shabby little Inn he found. It's not much, not by a long sight, but it's where he wants to be right now, he feels safe there.”

  “Just call me Hirittia my dear. As the Colonel's consort I'm a Sirena of course, but here it's just us girls,” She giggled more of her warm laughter.

  A woman with red hair similar to Thaylli's but several years her senior leaned across the Colonel's wife's ample lap, “That incredible example of a man, afraid? Look at him, what in the world could he be fearful of?”

  “He is rather strapping my dear,” Hirittia nodded in Adam's direction. “Is there something you're not telling us?” The redhead and the blonde leaned forward some more in anticipation of the potential gossip. They would be disappointed on this front as well.

  Thaylli shrugged, “Nothing I can think of right now, if I think of something I'll let you know, but as far as I've seen there is nothing in this world he fears.”

  * * * *

  Thunk! The thrown blade sank into the oak target a hairs breadth from a mark drawn on it in the shape of a lowercase x. Two other knives surrounded it, each of them equally close.

  “Almost there,” He murmured to himself as he stood up and collected the knives, “Another few hours and the Duke won't know what hit him.”

  He stopped, looked to the side and rubbed his chin, “Then again, maybe he will.”

  The old man shuffling home after a long evening at his local looked up at the manic laughter coming from the third story and quickened his steps away from their source.