The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  Ethan kept his position. The only sign of readiness lay in his eyes and the way they tracked each of Gros's movements, “The problem with you thick lips, is you don't learn your lessons. You think every problem can be handled by brute force alone.” He dropped into a crouch and sidled off to the large man's left, “Well, come on then, school's open.”

  The blatant lack of fear just added fuel to Gros's anger. He lowered his head and charged with his huge arms spread wide, trying to catch Ethan in a grapple. All he caught was air and then a hard boot under the shortribs, “Arrggh!”

  “That's for the one you kicked while he was down,” Ethan danced back out of the reach of Gros's grasping hands.

  “Stand still you skrudding bastard!” Gros's mouth twisted into a snarl as he stalked Ethan around the hanging granite block.

  Ethan shook his head, “Can't, numb nuts, this is how the class operates, you dance, I teach.” He darted in under Gros's swing and planted two hard punches into the man's solar plexus. The answering grunt of pain could be heard across the workspace.

  Cheers rang out as Gros dropped to a knee. A crowd made up of those on the work crew had gathered. Some watched the fight from a vantage point atop the city wall while the rest occupied what spots they could find on the scaffolding or the ground.

  Gros missed again with a wild swing, receiving another kick for his trouble. But this one did not put the heavily muscled man down as Ethan intended. Inarticulate growls came from him as he stalked Ethan like a bear. Hammer-like blows to his chin did little more than rock Gros's head back slightly.

  “Gros's gone berzerker Lieutenant, gonna take a squad to bring him down,” The Sergeant turned to gather the needed men.

  “Stay right there, Sergeant, I want to see how this plays out,” The Lieutenant reached out and held his man by the arm.

  The noncom protested. “Sir, if we don't do something that man's going to die.”

  His superior shook his head, “I don't think so Sergeant.”

  Three times Ethan mounted successful strikes to his opponent all to no avail. It seemed each punch or kick simply added to the man's madness. Gros's eyes had narrowed to reddened slits, bruises showed across his face and blood dribbled from his mouth and nose. With grim acknowledgement Ethan knew he would probably have to kill the man to stop him.

  The watching conscripts and guards had ceased their catcalls and shouts of encouragement. They too sensed the deadliness of the affair.

  Ethan completed yet another circuit of the granite block with Gros following. The exertion of the fight was beginning to tell on his legs and his chest. If he didn't do something soon the thick-lipped monster would catch him with the outcome of that situation all but certain.

  There was one avenue he hadn't tried yet, “Come on Gros, you brainless wonder, try and catch me. What happened did your mother mate with a fish to give you lips like that? If she had I'll bet the father was a bottom feeder, your balls are smaller than a rats.” Taunting just might push Gros over the edge, make him rush things enough to cause the opening necessary for Ethan's idea to work.

  The big man stalked after Ethan, his pace varying little; a slight pause here, a hitch to the left or right there, but that was all. The taunts appeared to have no effect but a closer look at his face told a different story, Gros's temper worsened with each verbal barb flung in his direction.

  “Come on mouse balls, try to touch me. Go on, try like this,” Ethan slid in sideways and rammed an elbow into Gros's stomach and then slid back out just beyond the big man's returning punch, but his heel caught on a piece of loose debris and he slipped. The crowd gasped.

  With an enraged bellow Gros darted forward and swept Ethan into his arms. His eyes held an evil light as he tightened his grip with every intention of breaking the smaller man's back, “Now I've got you meddler, try to run now,” Gros leered down at Ethan's face and squeezed even harder.

  Ethan tensed the muscles in his back, vainly trying to break Gros's hold. His mind raced to find a solution while he had time. Already spots swam before his eyes. Both arms were free, fortunately, so at least he could try something.

  Gros had his head held back as he strained to exert even more pressure and was unable to drop it in time to prevent Ethan's thumbs from clamping down on his carotid.

  “Lieutenant,” The Sergeant's voice was tight with strain, “we've got to stop it now!”

  “Patience Sergeant,” His superior said quietly, “watch, and learn a lesson in anatomy.”

  The fight had now been reduced to a race of endurance. Ethan pressed his thumbs deeper and deeper into his opponent's bull-like neck. Lights, like fireflies, danced in his vision. If the big man took too long to drop ... he shook the thought off and arched his back against Gros's arms, fighting for greater leverage. The maneuver seemed to work, for it felt like the pressure loosened a bit, so he pushed again.

  More firefly lights appeared and he began to get lightheaded. Ethan felt himself swaying. He could hear people yelling but it was difficult to get a fix on where the voices were coming from.

  “Let him go man, you've won, you've won!” This voice came in more clearly. He won, won what?

  Hands slapped him on the back and clapped his shoulder. There was a long moment where Ethan wondered where he was and then reality came swimming back into his consciousness. He'd been in a fight and ... what?

  He shook his head to clear some of the cobwebs and then wished he hadn't. The headache pounded at him from both sides of his skull.

  “Water, you! Bring some water over here, now!” The Sergeant noticed Ethan's wince of pain and, from personal experience, realized the source.

  “Fought yourself dry, didn't you?” He helped Ethan over to a convenient block and made him sit down.

  Before Ethan could answer, the man straightened and bellowed at the crowd of spectators, “All right, back to work, entertainment's over for the day! Any man not sweating in two minutes forfeits mess call, move it!” The crowd scattered.

  The Sergeant turned back to Ethan, reached out and rubbed his shoulder, “You ok man? I've never seen anything like that. How'd you take that beast down?”

  “Let him drink first, Sergeant and then he can answer your questions. I also believe you have a small wager to settle,” The Lieutenant eased up beside the Sergeant and held out his right hand.

  “Worth twice the price as far as I'm concerned,” The Sergeant shook his head as he counted the coins into his superior's palm, “I've never seen a man fight like that before. Heard of it, never saw it.”

  “What's your name conscript?” The Lieutenant's voice held a strong tone of respect.

  Ethan drank deeply of the water given him by the Sergeant before answering, “Ethan, Ethan of Swaledale.”

  The Sergeant noticed his superior's reaction to that name, “You know this man Lieutenant?” The wager suddenly seemed less fair.

  The Lieutenant shook his head, “I know the name Sergeant, what I don't know is if this man and the name are one. Are they?” He looked at Ethan with raised eyebrows.

  “Put a sword in my hand and you'll find out,” Ethan drank more of the water.

  “So,” The Lieutenant crossed his arms in front of his chest, “what is one of the top swordmasters in the world doing in Grisham's conscripts? With your reputation you could have any commission you desired.”

  “The press gang leader didn't ask me,” Ethan finished off the water. “After that,” He shrugged, “it just never seemed the right time to bring it up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “March!” The shouted command rang out across the massed multitude of Ort's assembled armies, repeated by company commanders over and over again until the last private heard it and responded.

  It took nearly two long months for the Southern Empire's military to complete their trek across the plains from Ort to the Cloudhook base and then another few weeks to assure that all preparations had been met for the assault on the city state of Grisham. With the addition of s
everal hundred thousand conscripts, give or take a few dozens, the army's size swelled to the millions Alford's Generals predicted.

  In every sense of the word a city now stood at the mountain's base where once only tall grass and game held sway. Mile upon mile of hastily scraped streets separated the tents, offices, stores and stables of the army. On the outskirts of the base those business that thrive on the need of the military man to do whatever it takes to forget his regulated life for a time, expanded from a tent wagon or two to several districts. A number even took the time to ship building materials from the south to construct full-blown pubs and entertainment halls, reckoning on the free-spending reputations of their targeted patrons to recoup the investment. Now, with the army massing for the initiation of combat, a few of the less avaricious souls found reasons to change their business address.

  “Looks like yer settin’ to move on, Fergus.”

  “Aye, and not a day too soon I tell ye. Them soldier boys'll drink yer ale one day and spit ya like a pig the next. You've seen ‘em forming their ranks, Grandle-Jenz, that's a sign war's comin’ this way. I plan not to be here when it arrives.”

  Quarters for the senior officers sat in the geographic center of the base, the most senior within the ring of those officers junior to them. Orders began at the General's office and filtered out into the ranks through a network perfected by time into a system as rigid as a mother-in-law's opinion.

  Carried from the central core and placed into the hands of Captains and Lieutenants, the command to muster was eventually put into motion by the true managers of the military complex, the Sergeants. Each of them had come to know the men under them intimately. They knew who to push and who to cajole, who to threaten and who to praise. Like a vastly complicated mechanism, an army is built of individual parts, each of them requiring special attention to function as a whole. The Sergeants knew this and where to apply it, this they did and the Southern Army moved. From Cloudhook's heights it appeared as a vast black amorphous shadow flowing across the grass of the plain.

  Two sets of eyes saw the march begin. One thing about mountains, they're big and Cloudhook was bigger than most. As thoroughly as the Ortian scouts had scoured the mountain's flanks for stragglers and spies there was always a chance they would not find them all. This proved to be true as in the case of the two Grisham guardsmen now watching the Ortian troops begin their march. They noted the size and the general direction of the army including the large portion that split off to skirt the mountain's perimeter to the north. Nodding to each other they began making their way down the ravine below the ledge where they hid from the scouts. Word had to be taken to the city; the Southern army was on the march.

  It was three days before the first contact occurred, an organism the size of Ort's army must move slowly if it wishes to stay intact. Siege engines, supply trains and armories dictate the overall pace and if Jarl-Tysyn's orders to send out skirmish parties had not been followed, it may have taken another week to reach what would become the first line of battle.

  Thinking it foolish to wait like a badger in its den for attack, Duke Bilardi had positioned several companies of Trading States troops along the rolling hills that lay to the West and South of Grisham. There they would have the advantage of elevation and good cover to launch spears and arrows at the approaching enemy. The Southern Army's loss of nearly an entire company proved the Duke's premise a good one. Flynn and Neely were two of the survivors of that debacle.

  “Bloody hell, if I ever volunteer for another thing in my life Flynn, do me a favor and beat some sense back into my worthless hide,” Neely muttered the oath as he and Flynn crouched behind one of the few reddish colored boulders on the slope below where the rain of spears and arrows fell.

  Flynn waited a few seconds and then eased upwards until he could just see over the boulder's edge, “Seems to've left off Neely. Might be a good time to see iffn we can make it back over that first ridge. They might be waitin’ fer a charge, not knowin’ there ain't no one left to do it.”

  Neely peered over the edge of the boulder next to Flynn, “You may be right, but let's not both go at once. I rather like th’ idea of you being there to carry me body back iffn it gets skewered.”

  Flynn shook his head, “No good Neely, iffn we goes at the same time then they gotta decide which one to shot first. Maybe give us the seconds we needs to make it. We's goin’ together. Iffn you run, I'll be right behind ya.”

  “Ok Flynn,” Neely nodded just before looking over the boulder one more time. “Let's go, last one over the ridge's a pincushion.”

  They made it to the ridge unpunctured though a few of the arrows sent their way came unreasonably close. On the other side of the protecting verge they increased their pace until a good two miles away they both collapsed into the tall grass exhausted.

  “So what're we gonna do now Neely,” Flynn spoke up after finally getting his breath back, “Go back an’ tell them what happened?”

  “Naw,” Neely brushed a grass stem away from his face, “there was a coupla survivors besides us. They'll get word to who needs it. I'm for goin’ back an’ makin’ sure Charity's safe. There ain't much in th’ way of fightin’ men left in that camp an’ I don't like th idea of what could happen iffn you an’ me ain't there to stop it.”

  Flynn rolled over onto his belly and grinned at his friend, “You sweet on her Neely?”

  “Huh,” Neely turned his head to look into Flynn's grinning face, “Sweet on who? Whatcho talkin’ about Flynn?”

  “Miss Charity, that's who.”

  Neely goggled at the big man, “One of those arrows hit you in th’ bean Flynn? You get that thought right outta yer head an’ don't ever let it in again. Charity's turned into a fine woman an’ all, an’ whatever man she chooses is th’ luckiest feller in this world, but,” He raised a finger for emphasis, “I wouldn't touch her for all the gold in the world, nope, not even iffn you added the silver to go with it.”

  Flynn's jaw dropped. In his heart he felt much the same way but was astonished to hear his friend admit to the feeling, “How come Neely?”

  The tracker climbed to his feet and brushed his trousers free of the few bits of grass clinging to them, “Cause she's too good for th’ likes of me an’ we both know it. Come on, it's gonna be a long walk before we get back to th’ camp.”

  * * * *

  Upon leaving the Library, Milward set his shaping to place him just outside Ort's city wall. He did not want to put himself through the trouble that would come from his appearing out of thin air in front of hundreds if not thousands of people, especially a people who've not believed in magik for generations. As the vortex enveloped him he inwardly shook his head. Something had to be done about his temper. Lately it seemed he was crabbing at everyone, sometimes about picky little things he wouldn't have raised an eyebrow over just a couple of centuries ago.

  Within a traveling vortex time and motion stand still as far as the traveler is concerned. A Wizard trained to use the shaping sets the destination in their mind and then the rest is left up to the spell. In most cases this all unfolds without a hitch, in most cases.

  The Dreamsnatcher struck just as Milward was ruminating on his worsening temper, One of the creatures of Shadow, it preyed on the subconscious, absorbing the dreams and imagination of its victims for its sustenance. In appearance it resembled a denizen of the ocean depths with many writhing limbs and a glassy transparent skin. Its attack caught the old Wizard off guard and before a defense could be mustered Milward was ensnared within the Dreamsnatcher's grasp. Pain, beyond that of a hornet's sting, surged through his body, nearly shocking him into insensibility.

  If the attack had occurred outside of the vortex Milward would have been driven to his knees. As it was his senses reeled and he could feel the thing reaching for the recesses of his mind where those attributes that made him a Wizard lay.

  A hastily erected shield stopped the advance of the Dreamsnatcher's tendrils but even as he threw it up Milward coul
d feel his shield beginning to weaken against the enemy's attack. If a counterattack was not formulated, and soon, he would cease to be anything more than a lump of animated flesh. His being already involved in a traveling vortex though, presented him with an additional problem. A successful attack would mean pushing his powers to their limits, which would mean he could wind up anywhere, literally, because of what the release of those energies would do to the original shaping that built the vortex. But even that was preferable to letting the Dreamsnatcher have his mind for a snack.

  Milward formed the shaping so swiftly that arcs of magik snapped and sparked around him like glow worms. The Dreamsnatcher fought back sensing the shaping as it built. More pain surged through the Wizard, distracting his will and causing the shaping to release partially unfinished.

  Even in its partial form the shaping tore into the Dreamsnatcher with the fury of a thousand whirlwinds. All but one of its tendrils were torn from the Wizard's skull and pieces of its transparent skin flew about the interior of the vortex. Milward reeled with the exertion but forced himself to focus, if he failed now he was doomed. There would be no energy left for a third try and he had to hurry for the creature of shadow was beginning to rally even as he was.

  More arcs of magik crackled throughout the vortex as Milward's shaping erupted from the head of his staff and ripped into the Dreamsnatcher. The thing's scream grated across his mind with agonizing intensity but he continued to force the shaping into it. Another bit of its skin whirled away into the vortex and then another and another until the space around them was filled with a fluttering whirlwind of transparent confetti.

  Milward felt the last tendril give way as the vortex collapsed leaving him standing on a grassy sward just to the left of a gleaming white road. The road stretched to the horizon in both directions. Across the road the grass rose into a shallow hillock with the ocean meeting the sky beyond that. He had no idea where he was. “That is the second time I've been ambushed in a Traveling,” He said to himself, “it's no wonder I prefer walking.”