The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  Murt raised his knife as he readied it to plunge the blade into Neely's back. The stupid tracker's still celebrating, he thought. Murt pulled the hand holding the knife further back so as to achieve the strongest thrust possible ... and then it kept going back.

  Murt felt himself lifted off the ground, suspended by the hand that gripped the knife. He looked back and saw a broad face wearing a short white and red beard along with a look of stern disapproval.

  “I ain't gonna let you stab ‘im inna back, Murt. Drop it,” Flynn's grip on the trooper's wrist tightened.

  Neely turned at the sound of Murt's screech, “What th’ flick?” His eyes widened when the knife fell out of Murt's hand, “Why you skruddin'...” He started towards the man but Flynn's free hand against his chest stopped him short.

  “Ain't th’ way ta do it Neely,” The big man shook his head. Murt, still suspended, groaned over his crushed wrist, “You kill ‘im now it'd be murder.”

  “But he...”

  “Neely, you an’ me go back a long ways an’ you knows what's right an’ what ain't. Whadda you think it'd look like iffn Miss Charity sees you off this guy whist I'm holdin’ ‘im?” Flynn gave his friend a gentle smile.

  “But he...” Neely tried again but his heart wasn't in it. He was even beginning to find it hard to recall just exactly why he and Murt were fighting in the first place."Aww, skrud, let ‘im go, it's all over anyroad,” He turned on his heel and walked over to where Charity, Travers and Circumstance waited.

  Charity graced him with a not quite successful scowl, “Are you through having fun?”

  Flynn defended his friend, “he coulda hadda good reason fer it Miss Charity. Murt ain't th’ easiest feller ta get alongside, ya knows.”

  “That's the truth,” Travers muttered agreement.

  Charity let loose a longsuffering sigh, “I suppose so.”

  The fight over, most of the gathered Engineers and Troopers dispersed to their various posts and duties. A few, those who'd won betting on Neely, clapped him on the shoulder as they filtered past. Some expressed their appreciation verbally. One Trooper dropped a couple of silvers into Neely's hand, “You earned me near to two golds mate, thanks.”

  “We should get going,” Circumstance said.

  Charity gave Neely one more sour look, “Yes, we should.”

  “Well, you go ahead,” Travers turned to the right into a row of tents that looked just like the rows before it and all of the ones after. “I've still got a few duties to see to, good fight Neely.” With that the Sergeant walked away into the forest of tents.

  On the way to see Lemmic-Pries, Charity tried a couple of times to pull the reason for the fight out of Neely. Even Flynn attempted applying a bit of pressure but to no avail. The tracker was keeping mum.

  “Ain't no use Miss Charity, he ain't gonna talk about it,” Flynn grumped from his spot behind and to the left of Circumstance, which placed him on the right hand side of Neely. “You sure you ain't gonna talk about it Neely?” He asked one more time.

  “Bugger off, Flynn,” The tracker muttered as he mooched along behind Charity.

  “Nope, he ain't gonna talk.”

  The tent of the Chief Engineer occupied a position with others of its kind on a high point in the gently rolling landscape chosen for the Ortian Army's base.

  At first Charity thought they'd missed it. She had in mind that the head of such a large operation would be housed in something grander than the mundane structures used by those below him. She nearly asked Circumstance about her concerns when Lemmic-Pries stepped through the flap of the tent and waved at the boy.

  “Ho there lad, who are your friends, a curious looking grouping I must say,” He waited while Charity, Circumstance, Flynn and Neely closed the gap between them.

  “A lady dressed for the wood, a man with the look of a tracker about him and a giant. What brings you to my humble tent my lords and lady?” Lemmic-Pries grinned.

  Circumstance separated himself from the others by a couple of paces, “Gaspic said they needed to register in order to stay at the camp, even though they came here with some of the troopers bringing in conscripts.”

  The Chief Engineer shook his head as he rubbed a hand across his bald pate, “One of these seasons I've got to get that man to take a vacation. His phobia about non-Ortians is going to cause me to lose what little hair I've got.”

  He looked back up at his visitors and gestured toward the flap of his tent, “I was about to settle down to some tea, won't you join me?”

  Neely shot a glance toward Charity, “Uh...”

  She missed his look and walked up to the tent, “I don't know what tea is Sire Engineer, but I'd be glad to accept your hospitality and so will my friends.”

  She didn't see the looks of horror that passed across Flynn and Neely's faces.

  Lemmic-Pries lived comfortably, for his dwelling and office being a tent. The walls were augmented with hand-hewn boards up to chest height. A drafting table stood to the left of the entrance with two oil lamps suspended above it. Lamplight glinted off the polished surfaces of the triangles and squares. Next to the table squatted a large desk covered in papers, inkwells and another lamp. Instead of the ubiquitous cot, the Chief Engineer had for his night's repose a goose down mattress with two matching pillows and a deeply quilted comforter laid over the blankets.

  He gestured for his guests to seat themselves on the turned wood chairs set along the back wall as he picked up a metal pot exuding wisps of steam, “Now, who will join me in a nice hot cup of tea?”

  “What is this ... tea?” Charity chose the seat closest to Lemmic-Pries’ desk.

  Circumstance sat on the bed as if he owned it and Flynn and Neely placed themselves as close to the tent flap as possible.

  The Chief Engineer eased himself into his desk chair and pulled open the left-hand drawer. Out of it he took an ornate ceramic pot with a curving spout, a handle that blended into the leaf decorations on the pot's belly, and a lid shaped like a singing bird. He talked while he spooned bits of what looked like an herb into the pot, “Tea is the favorite beverage of the Ortian court. It has been since recorded history. The young leaves are picked from the plants on their hillsides once each moon. This gives the next crop a chance to grow to the peak of flavor. After picking they are dried,” He poured water from the pan into the pot, “I like this particular blend best. Just smell that aroma.”

  “I like it,” Circumstance chimed in, “it smells like melons and plums, kind of.”

  Charity sniffed the air, “I must say it does smell nice. Does it taste as good as it smells?”

  Lemmic-Pries smiled as he replaced the lid, “Indeed it does. Do you two fellows want to try some?”

  Flynn stared at the pot as if it had suddenly grown fangs and claws, Neely edged a bit closer to the flap.

  The Chief Engineer looked nonplussed, “What's the matter? Don't you like tea?”

  Two blank faces stared back at Lemmic-Pries and his other guests.

  “Flynn, Neely,” Charity was overcome with sudden concern for her two friends, “Are you ill? What's going on?

  “Flynn?”

  The big man blushed scarlet, “Uh ... it ain't th’ taste Miss Charity, I ain't never tasted tea, but ... you see...” If anything his blush increased in intensity and sweat appeared on his brow.

  “Um,” Neely cleared his throat, “you see Charity, there's these stories, we been hearin’ ‘em as long as we been around. By Bardoc, even me Gran Da heard ‘em.”

  “What stories?” Charity asked.

  Neely's faced matched Flynn's in color.

  “What stories,” She looked from Neely to Flynn, “What stories?”

  Both men remained dumb.

  “I believe I may be able to shed some light on this,” Lemmic-Pries broke in as he placed his cup onto a rare bare spot on his desk, “The fellow who brought Circumstance to stay with us, Ethan was his name, is that correct?”

  The boy nodded as he poured himsel
f a cup from the pot, “Ethan.”

  “Well, Ethan was just like these two,” He nodded in the direction of Flynn and Neely, “Acted like the tea would cause his...” He looked over at Charity and reddened slightly, “Um ... his ... uh,” The flush deepened to match that of Charity's two companions. He drank a measure of his tea to escape the moment.

  “They think it will cause their manhoods to fail,” Circumstance sipped from his cup and smiled at the taste.

  Reaction to the boy's revelation came suddenly and with variety. Charity fell off her chair laughing. Flynn's blush deepened further. Neely shot to his feet with an oath and tea spurted from Lemmic-Pries’ nose.

  When he finally controlled his choking the Chief Engineer wiped his mouth and picked up the cup he'd dropped. “Out of the mouths of babes,” he chuckled.

  “That ain't what...” Neely sputtered to a finish and then glared at Circumstance, “An sayin’ it in front of a lady...!”

  Charity settled her laughter and climbed back into the chair, “You needn't worry about my sensibilities Neely. If you remember, I'm a little experienced in failure of that sort.”

  Neely winced.

  She turned toward Flynn, “You believe this too, is there any proof?”

  The big man's flush continued as he pulled his battered floppy hat from his head and began wringing it back and forth in his hands, “Well ... you see Miss Charity ... I ... that is, me an Neely we ... uh...”

  Charity leaned far enough forward to place a hand on Flynn's knee, “It's ok Flynn, you won't embarrass me. We've been through worse. Remember that night in the Earl of Berggren's castle? I didn't have a stitch on and neither you or Neely were blushing then.”

  “That was diffrn't Miss Charity, we was rescuin’ you, not talkin’ about ... you know,” The blush returned.

  Neely flopped onto the floor of the tent and crossed his long legs under him, “Ah skrud it, Flynn, it's out an’ we might as well ride it to th’ end. Me da tol me Charity, just like his da tol him, tea'll make you limper'n a overcooked noodle, an’ not all th’ farm girls in th’ village'll git yer starch back. Every lad in th’ north knows it.”

  Flynn nodded while grinding more punishment into his long-suffering hat, “That's a fack Miss Charity, an’ I might not look like much of a catch but I kinda wanna be ready when th’ time comes, ya know?”

  Lemmic-Pries looked at them over the rim of his cup and smiled, “May I say something on this?”

  They all nodded.

  He sipped a bit more of the tea and then settled back into his chair, “In the Southern Empire we look at things a bit differently. In order for something to become a wide spread belief, we usually insist on proof that it is actually what it is said to be. For example,” he continued on as Neely opened his mouth to protest, “if, as you say, tea wreaked such damage upon a man's ... ahem, manhood, then the south would have to be nearly void of population, wouldn't you say?”

  Charity hid her smile behind a hand as Flynn and Neely stared blankly at the Chief Engineer.

  The moment of silence extended into a minute and then two. Flynn looked like he was beginning to choke.

  Lemmic-Pries refilled Circumstance's teacup and then his own. “One more thing you should probably know, I've been drinking tea since I was a young lad. I've fathered six children and three of them have made me a grandfather ten times over. I think if this beverage were as dangerous as you've been told things would have turned out a bit differently, eh?”

  Neely's mouth opened again. “Well I'll be a buggered onion.”

  Chapter Nine

  Haberstroh peered out of her doorway for the seventh time that morning. The one who claimed to not be a man still lived. True, his screams and groans of agony were satisfying enough but things were supposed to move in their proper time. Something was decidedly wrong, the human should have been dead days ago, his desiccated corpse being used as both home and food for the vermin of the swamp.

  She emerged from her hut and tottered over to look down upon McCabe, “So, Not-a-Man, you still live? Why, why do you live?”

  Red mist washed across McCabe's vision. The hag's face swam before him as if seen through poorly blown rose glass. “I told you,” The words came out spaced between gasps of pain, “I'm not a man, not anymore.”

  Haberstroh straightened and looked back down at McCabe, first from her left eye and then her right, twisting her head back and forth to do so, “Not anymore he says, my mate, not anymore. What's he mean, I wonder, what's he mean?”

  She bent down once more and tweaked her victim's cheek, hard, “Something here is different, Not-a-Man. Haberstroh will dig it out, oh yes she will, dig it out. You wait here,” She left him, cackling at her own joke.

  For McCabe life had become a swirling nightmare. The barrier between himself and his new friends was still there, impenetrable and as dense as ever. Every joint felt as though it was pulled from its socket and fire burned its way along his bowels. Ice lay in his veins, but not that of the days when he prowled the lowers of Grisham. No, this traced a line of frozen fire throughout his system that somehow burned more than the agony in his gut. The worst though, was the itching. It manifested itself as a deep prickling tickle that refused to go away. Even if he was able to use his hands, McCabe knew that no amount of scratching would erase the pit spawned double-damned itch.

  The hag returned clutching a crude pottery bowl in her bony fingers. She mumbled what sounded like an incantation as she swirled the bowls contents.

  “What ... is ... that?” McCabe tried to focus on the bowl.

  Haberstroh cackled as she chanted, “Answers, Not-a-Man, answers for Haberstroh. Isn't it my mate? Answers of what you are, Not-a-Man. We'll see, oh yes we will.”

  “I've ... already ... told you.”

  She mugged an expression at him, “Telling says nothing, Not-a-Man. My mixage will show the truth, won't it, my mate?”

  McCabe wondered why she kept calling him that. He had no way of knowing it was an affectation, garnered over decades of depressive loneliness, caused by the death of her husband. My mate was her way of including his memory into what she was doing at the time.

  Haberstroh dipped a finger into the bowl and watched as the reddish viscous fluid dripped thickly from its tip. “Yesss,” She hissed, “this will do, won't it my mate?”

  “I'm not your...”

  She silenced his protest by pouring a dollop of the fluid into his mouth. McCabe braced for the agony to come but it didn't. Instead, a cool river washed away the pain leaving behind a lethargy he wanted to bask in forever.

  “Ah, he likes it, doesn't he my mate?” Haberstroh cackled, “We can't find what we want when it's twitching around now, can we? Now we shall see.”

  A change in the bliss he was feeling came over McCabe, beginning at his toes. It felt as if a part of him was rising out of his body. This feeling he didn't like and said so with a despairing wail.

  Another cackle erupted from the hag, “Not like the first part, is it, Not-a-Man?”

  McCabe's wailing continued as the feeling intensified. Haberstroh looked up from her mixage and frowned, “Enough of that noise you, this isn't for killing, it's for seeing. Ah, yes. Here it is now.”

  She leaned closer and peered at McCabe. No part of him escaped her scrutiny, from face, ears, throat, chest, groin, thighs, knees on down to the feet and toes, her eyes traveled, “And here, here, and here. How many are you, Not-a-Man, how many?” Her face held an unreadable expression.

  Haberstroh's question stopped McCabe's fear cold and converted it to incredulity. She knew of the voices!

  He forced himself to be calm, “How ... how do you know this?”

  The hag brushed his question aside with an abrupt wave of her hand, “Questions from you can come later, Not-a-Man. How many are you? What are these minds I see, Not-a-Man, what part of you are they?”

  At each question she moved closer until the last was said with her nose nearly touching his. Her breath stank of d
ecayed fish, like Grisham Bay at low tide, “What part?”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  She pushed closer and pressed her nose firmly against his. He tried exercising the power he'd had but to no avail. Her life remained within her and she surprised him further by kissing his forehead, “Oh no, Not-a-Man. That won't work on old Haberstroh, and I wouldn't taste so good anyway. That part of you is over here,” She pointed to a position a few feet away to McCabe's left, “and they can't help you right now, can they my mate? So old Haberstroh can see what she wants and do what she wants. Can't she my mate?”

  McCabe said nothing so the hag stood up and wobbled her way down to his feet, “The first thing we have to do is get these black rags off you.”

  * * * *

  Ethan was sure he'd raised a blister, maybe two since the combined conscript companies began marching up Labad's highway. Every step added a new discovery in the world of foot pain. To make matters even more difficult that little flick of a corporal had decided to make Ethan his special project.

  They all had one, the noncoms overseeing the march, special projects, that is. The idea was to pick out a man who looked like he might be one the others would look to for leadership and lay upon him every scutt task that could be thought of. In this way all thoughts of rebellion that just may be germinating within the ranks of conscripts would arrive stillborn.

  It was a good idea, primarily because it worked. In all large groups of men there are those who, by nature, are sheep and there are those who are not. For these men wolf would be a closer metaphor. Ethan, along with about a score of others were seen as potential wolves and therefore kept so busy and so exhausted they had little energy left for leadership.

  Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. He focused his concentration on keeping the rhythm of the march going. The discipline of the count helped to take his mind off the spots of painful heat blossoming at each step.

  Pictures of Ellona and the children wafted in and out of his mind's eye. A stray side thought nearly brought a smile to his face. Just a few seasons ago his only thought had been on getting to the next tankard of ale and the next day marked off on his march to death. Now, now he had begun to think of himself as a family man. He made a silent promise to survive the soldiers and their business, whatever it was.