The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  * * * *

  Flynn and Neely had to hide twice to avoid being spotted by Trading States patrols. Grisham's allies were proving themselves to be a tenacious and deadly partner in the war with Ort's Emperor. The tracker and his large friend saw evidence of other scouting companies that had suffered the same fate as theirs. As they passed through the remains of one Flynn saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

  “Oy, Neely, hold up. Somethin’ moved over yonder,” The big man pointed off to his left.

  “Where?” The tracker looked back over his shoulder at Flynn.

  Flynn pointed again as he moved toward the spot he'd indicated, “Over here. Oh no, Bless Bardoc Neely, it's Willie.”

  Neely came up alongside Flynn, stepping over an arrow riddled body as he did so. “Willie, you mean the Sergeant? Any sign of Loman?” He began to look over the battlefield, searching for a body half the size of the others. His nose told him the fight must have happened about the same time as the one he and Flynn had survived. A faint scent of corruption rose from the bodies and most of them held the stiffness of having entered rigor.

  “No,” Flynn shook his head while lifting a Southern trooper minus his head from its position atop Willie, “No sign of the little feller, just Willie here. He's got hisself a nice hole in his shoulder an’ a gash cross his temple. Not deep, but it bled a lot.”

  Willie stirred as Flynn eased him over to see the wounds more clearly but he did not waken, “Got whacked a good one, he did,” Flynn murmured, “Gonna be a while till he's able to tell us what happened.”

  “It's bloody plain what happened Flynn,” Neely toed aside a corpse that lay across another trooper, “They got their flickin’ heads handed to them, just like we did. Them Tradin’ States troops are a lot better'n we supposed they'd be, a helluva lot better.”

  A groan off to Neely's right caught his attention and he left off detailing the Southern Army's shortcomings to investigate. The terrain grew rougher in that section of the battlefield. Small gullies cut through the tall grass exposing the rocky soil beneath. One of them was deep and wide enough to hide men. In it he found Loman and four other survivors, all of them sporting the broken shafts of Trading States arrows. Loman's protruded from his right thigh.

  The little man looked up at Neely's approach with terror in his eyes, shying back from the blow to come. When it didn't he looked again. “Hey, I know you,” He said, “you're that feller from the mess tent. The one with the big redhead, Flynn's ‘is name,” Loman's voice quavered with weakness.

  Neely nodded, “That's me. Can any of you walk?”

  One of the Southern troopers braced himself against the gully's lip and tried to stand to his feet, “I can walk.”

  “Right, an’ I'm th’ General's right hand man,” Neely shook his head and motioned for the man to sit back down, “Flynn an’ me are gonna hafta fix up some bandages for your wounds. Iffn we don't you lot are gonna be dead from blood loss afore we gets back to th’ base. Any of you know iffn there was a healer with you?”

  “Had one,” The trooper in front of the one that stood spoke up. His voice told Neely there was a good chance he'd be the first to go. There was a bubbly quality indicating that the arrow in his chest had punctured a lung, “He got it first. The bastards knew who to hit and where. It was like they knew our plans better'n us, took us completely by surprise.”

  “He's got that right guvnor,” Loman gingerly poked at his injured thigh, “Them arrows took out half th’ comp'ny afore we could blink. Th’ only reason we's sittin’ here to tell ya is this here gully. I never thought mud could look so loverly.”

  Neely's mouth twitched. If he could just get them to stop talking he might be able to save most of them, “Where'd th’ healer fall? Maybe his gear's still good.”

  “Hey, that's a right good idea,” Loman broke in, a smile brightening his muddy face.

  Neely held up a hand to forestall any further comment, “Just tell me where to look for his body.”

  The one with the arrow in his chest pointed behind and to the left of Neely's position, “Over there, about a bow shot. He had yellow hair. His pack was thicker than most. I think that's how they knew.” He fell back against the wall of the gully, “Don't think it'll do me any good though.”

  “You just hang in there boy,” Neely knelt and placed a hand on the trooper's shoulder, “Loman, you keep an eye on him, got any water?”

  “Aye,” The little man nodded.

  “Get ‘im to drink some, even iffn he ain't thirsty. Flynn!” Neely stood and called out to his friend.

  “Comin',” Flynn had Willie draped across his shoulder and was striding toward Neely as if the portly Sergeant weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He had to skirt around a few of the dead troopers before he made it to Neely's side.

  “How's Willie, still sleepin'?” Neely tilted his head to check the Sergeant's head wound. Flynn had somehow managed to cobble together a poultice bandage and also washed off most of the blood from Willie's face.

  “Still sleepin', I made up a poultice with the bac from ‘is smokin’ pouch, me da once tol’ me it was good fer that sorta thing, keeps th’ corruption away. Here, lemme set ‘im down easy like,” Flynn eased the Sergeant down onto the ground next to where Loman and the other troopers sat in the gully.

  “Willie, you found Willie! Is he gonna live? Kin I do anythin’ fer ‘im. What's..?”

  Neely held up a hand, cutting off Loman's rapid-fire questions, “He'll be just fine. You see to him,” He pointed at the trooper with the chest wound. “Flynn an’ me'll go see to th’ healer.” He turned and began walking over to where the dead healer was supposed to lie before Loman could bring up any more questions.

  Flynn joined him after a few steps, “Loman's scared. Some men show it by talkin’ a lot more'n they usually do.”

  “Then that'll make the little fella a real chatterbox. Not sure I'd wanna spend much time in hearin’ distance right now,” Neely kept his eyes open for any other survivors.

  Flynn chuckled, “I hear ya.”

  Neely paused in his search and looked Flynn in the eye. “You're a strange duck sometimes Flynn.”

  “How so?”

  “Here we are in the middle of a flickin’ battlefield, our guys lost and you're makin’ jokes,” Neely gave an exasperated snort as he threw up his hands.

  Flynn looked embarrassed, “I like makin’ jokes.”

  Neely's caustic answer died in his throat as Flynn broke in with, “Here's the healer, poor sod, looks like a bloomin’ porkypine.”

  “You're right there Flynn, they must've picked ‘im out ‘cause of his pack. Look at it, has to be half agin bigger'n th’ others,” Neely nudged the dead healer's pack with his toe. “Them Tradin’ States buggers sure know what they's doin'. Ya kill th’ healer—then all ya's gotta worry about is woundin’ th’ others. Corruption an’ bugs'll do th’ killin’ for ya.”

  “I'll turn ‘im over,” Flynn eased the healer's body off its stomach. The eyes were open, his expression one of surprise, “Bloody hell Neely, he's a kid! What's a kid like him doin’ in the middle of a flickin’ war?”

  Neely grunted as he cut the straps keeping the pack on the healer's body, “Dyin’ Flynn, bleedin an’ dyin'.”

  As Flynn closed the young healer's eyes Neely checked the contents of the pack. He was pleased to find it well stocked, “Got everything we need here Flynn, c'mon, let's get back to that lot afore they bleed themselves dry.”

  They worked their way back through the bodies to where Loman and the other troopers sat. The diminutive non-com was fussing over his Sergeant like a mother hen and the trooper with the chest wound was still alive, somewhat to Neely's surprise.

  In addition to a good supply of Willit powder, the pack also held a number of vials containing Opatia oil. The Willit would do for those such as Willie and Loman whose injuries were more troublesome than dangerous, whereas the trooper with the arrow sticking out of his chest ... Opatia would kill any p
ain the man felt, even that caused by Garloc poisoning, but it would also addict him to the point where more and more of the oil would be needed until he overdosed, a bad choice between two bad alternatives. Some refused to take it, choosing instead to accept what they considered a cleaner death.

  Flynn and Neely went to work. While the tracker pulled out bandages and the stitching kit he found in the pack, Flynn backed the arrow out of the trooper's chest.

  “Unngghh!”

  “Easy there fella, I knows it hurts, but we gotta get it outta ya so's we can stitch ya up. Here, drink this, it'll cut the pain some,” He took a tin cup of Willit powder dissolved in water from Neely and held it to the trooper's mouth.

  More than halfway into delirium the trooper gulped the bitter potion without protest. Flynn waited for a couple of minutes and then returned his attention to the arrow. As the head pulled away from the raw edge of the wound, red blood welled up and trickled down the trooper's chest.

  Neely looked over Flynn's shoulder and eyed the wound critically, “No pus, good. Least ways, he'll not die from gangrene.”

  A groan from his left caught Neely's attention. He motioned to Flynn, “You keep workin’ on that feller, looks like Willie's decided to wake up.”

  Loman's homely face split into an ear-to-ear smile, “Sarge, you've come back to us. Yer gonna be all right, Sarge, them two fellers we met in the mess tent is here. They's gonna get us back to where we belongs.” He sat back against the gully's side, “We's gonna be all right.”

  Willie passed a hand across his face, “Wazzat, Loman, you made it? Where am I?” He looked around, centered on Neely and then Flynn for a second and then caught a good look at the battlefield, “Oh skrud, we been slaughtered.”

  Neely, gently but firmly, forced the Sergeant to lie back down with the palm of his hand, “That's what yer ugly little friend says. Seems they was waitin’ for ya just like they did our bunch. Gonna hafta do somethin’ about that,” He grunted, as he tore the Sergeant's tunic to get to the wounded shoulder.

  “Bad, huh?” Willie noticed Neely's expression as he exposed the wound.

  “I've seen worse,” The tracker muttered. The sweet/putrid scent of corruption rose to meet Neely's nose while he worked. “You want some painkiller before I yank this thing out?”

  Willie shook his head, “Just get it over with, I smell the stink. I know what's there. Never thought I'd get it like this, ya know? Thought I'd die in bed surrounded by me kids.” He sighed as Neely took hold of the arrow's shaft, “Just shows ya never can know.”

  “Don't you talk like that Willie,” Loman cried out, “you's gonna make it, ya hear? You's gonna make it just like me.”

  Flynn reached over and pulled the little man away, “Let ‘im work Loman. Here, let's take care o’ that leg o’ yourn.”

  They worked on the wounded troopers until the lack of daylight forced a halt. The Southern trooper who claimed to be able to stand came around faster than either Flynn or Neely hoped and was able to lend a hand. When morning came the one with the chest wound had gone, leaving just four out of the forty that had comprised the company. Loman was able to walk with the aide of a crutch thrown together by Neely, and Willie claimed to not need any help and managed to hold himself upright by sheer force of will. Of the other two only one needed a litter. Flynn collected a couple of spears and a few tunics from the battlefield. After a few minutes the big redhead produced a serviceable litter. Neely took the head and Flynn the tail. The march back to the Cloudhook base ate up nearly a week. By then, Willie was being half-carried. After a brief glance from the guards they were ushered to the healer's tent where a surprised Medical Officer confronted Flynn and Neely.

  “You did this work, who taught you?”

  Neely looked stubborn, Flynn flushed and scratched the white and red stubble on his cheek, “Uh, we just kinda picked it up, here an’ there like. Did we do somethin’ wrong?”

  “On the contrary, I wanted to congratulate the two of you on the work you did.”

  “Huh?” Both Flynn and Neely's mouths dropped open.

  The Officer reached out and took each of their hands in turn, “Because of you, those four men will not only live, but I'll not have to take any of their limbs. Sergeant Hubban-Polig will take a while recovering from the infection that set into his shoulder but even at that...” His voice trailed off, “It's just fortunate for them you came along, that's all I can say. Thank you.”

  They were saved further embarrassment by a sudden burst of shouting from outside the tent. Neely reached the tent flap first and pushed through. Flynn followed on the tracker's heels. The entire camp had become a beehive of activity with men rushing everywhere. Screams, undeniably those of women, could be heard coming from the Merchants’ quarter.

  Neely made a long arm and grabbed an engineer as he raced by their position, “What's goin’ on? What's th’ shoutin’ all about?”

  “We're being attacked,” The Engineer gasped out, “men on horseback shooting arrows, throwing spears. Now let me go!” He tore out of Neely's grasp and rushed off, away from where the screams came.

  “Worthless twit,” Neely muttered. “C'mon Flynn, I'll bet them's th’ same ones what did us out there last week.”

  “Or summat like ‘em,” Flynn hefted his axe. He turned and began running cross grain against the general direction of the melee. Very few of the panicked Engineers and support personnel failed to move out of his way, those that didn't bounced off.

  Neely caught up with Flynn after hurdling a fallen clerk, “Where ya goin? Th’ fightin's back that way,” He pointed to his right rear.

  “Miss Charity's that way,” Flynn pointed in the direction he ran with the axe head.

  “Oh.”

  The fighting caught up with them two rows of tents before Charity's. A number of horsemen wearing Trading States colors came bearing down on them from Flynn's left. The one in the lead looked to be nearly equal to the big man in size. Some of them had bows. The one in front carried a spear crooked under his arm and aimed at the big man's midsection. Flynn waited and then side stepped at the last second. A downward sweep of the axe cut the spear in two and with the return he removed the spear-carrier's head from his shoulders. The horse continued on in its charge for several more yards before the headless body tumbled to the ground.

  An arrow whizzed past Neely's cheek forcing him to duck behind a tent. The other riders, seeing the ease with which Flynn dealt with their companion, had decided to stay back and shoot from a safe distance. But the camp was now aroused and not all its members were clerkish enumerators, shopkeepers and whores. Durston-Kres, wielding a spade like a felling axe, surprised a rider as he passed between two tents in chase of another Engineer less courageous. The flat of the blade caught the man full on his chest tearing him out of the saddle.

  Colling-Faler came rushing out of his tent just as the screams started up. Reflex alone saved him from being trampled into the ground.

  Lemmic-Pries called out to him as the Engineer Third jumped out of the way of a second horse and rider, “What's going on, who are these men?”

  “I don't know Chief Engineer, I ... duck!” Colling-Faler yelled out the last as he slammed into the older man, dropping both of them below a volley of arrows.

  “Damn it!” Lemmic-Pries slammed his fist into the ground, “Don't they know we're non-combatants?”

  The Engineer Third looked grim, “I think they were counting on that, Chief.”

  None of the other riders noticed the first arrow take their compatriot out of his saddle, nor did they notice the second, but the third and fourth shafts caught their attention just as Neely came charging from behind his protecting tent to join Flynn.

  “Atta girl, Charity, you knock th’ buggers down an’ we'll mop ‘em up! C'mon Flynn, let's get ‘em,” The tracker ran full tilt at the horses screaming like a madman and waving his sword.

  As three of the remaining riders spurred their mounts toward the charging Neely the fourth wh
eeled around to take aim at the archer threatening them. He was not expecting to see a woman fitting another shaft to her bow.

  Charity stared into the rider's eyes from across the yards between them. She loosed her arrow the same time as the rider did his. A second shaft followed on the heels of the first.

  The arrows met head on and shattered but the rider had no time to marvel over that event. Charity's second shaft entered his chest on its lower left side, piercing his heart. He tumbled out of the saddle and landed face down driving the arrow out from between his shoulder blades.

  Sometimes in battle it isn't good to concentrate too closely on just one objective. Charity was doing just that when a piercing howl spun her around. A Trading States soldier had come up behind her holding a wicked looking knife. Fortunately for Charity, the howl was from her cat. The following scream came from the soldier as four sets of tearing claws bit into his face and neck.

  Charity buried the tip of her bow into the soldier's belly and followed up with the other one to his chin. The cat jumped from the falling man into Charity's arms, turned her head toward the soldier and hissed.

  Neely's charge had little effect on the Trading States horsemen but it did unnerve their horses. One ran slightly ahead of the others and as the raving tracker came upon it the horse reared, kicking out with his hooves. Neely ducked, rolled and slashed upward at the horse's belly neatly severing the cinch strap holding the rider's saddle to the horse. A startled yelp and the Trading States horseman fell backwards as his saddle slid off his mount. This happened too quickly for the riders behind him to swerve and his own compatriots ground the luckless horseman into the sod.

  On the other side of the camp, Circumstance had been one of the first to notice the attacking horsemen coming from the foothills leading to Cloudhook. He was helping with the picketed horses as the first group came galloping down out of the hardwoods.

  “Run, get out of the way,” He pulled the boy whose duty it was to see after the livestock behind a heap of fodder.