The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  “But what, who, uh, who are they?” The boy shivered with the fright he'd been given.

  “Bad men,” Circumstance said, a fire beginning to flicker in his eyes, “Very bad men.”

  They left the cover of the fodder after the last horseman passed. By then the screams had started up. Circumstance turned and looked the boy in the eye, “Go, run into those woods.” He pointed toward the hardwood thicket.

  The boy stood frozen with his mouth open. A rough shove in the middle of his back broke him out of his trance and sent him scurrying up the hillside to safety. Circumstance did not understand the anger that burnt inside of him. When Corporal Greenstone was beating him there was no anger, just a sadness mixed with a fear of using the magik growing inside of him. This time he wanted to strike out, to make the horsemen feel the same terror they were inflicting on the people in the base.

  The Chief Engineer, with Colling-Faler right behind, avoided a large group of Trading States footmen following another of the horsemen by ducking into the laundry tent and out the other side.

  “We need weapons,” The Engineer Third said to his chief in a hoarse whisper.

  “And do what with them, Colling-Faler? The only fighting you and I have ever done is with equations and an abacus.” Lemmic-Pries shook his head, “We're not like Durston-Kres or those friends of Circumstance. Damn, I wish they'd stayed here with their lady. We could surely use their help now.”

  Colling-Faler pointed off to the right of where they hid, “We have it Milord, look!”

  They watched as Flynn caught up with Neely and together they dragged the last rider out of his saddle. Emboldened by the prowess the two showed, several Engineers, led by Durston-Kres, swarmed the Trading States footmen who had come to the riders rescue, even Gaspic came out from beneath his bunk to wield a heavy sauce pan all the while screaming in a high-pitched treble. All Flynn and Neely could do was watch as the footmen were overwhelmed by a force three times their number.

  The Chief Engineer grunted, “They don't seem to be doing much.”

  “Doesn't look like they needed to,” Colling-Faler rested his hands on his hips as Charity, Flynn and Neely turned and began walking to where he and the chief Engineer stood.

  “Bardoc's beard,” Lemmic-Pries breathed out the expletive as he pointed behind the three, “Look!”

  They turned to look in the direction the Chief Engineer pointed. Circumstance was running towards them, dodging a gauntlet of footmen who seemed fully intent on separating the boy's head from his shoulders.

  “I'll get him Miss Charity,” Flynn hefted his axe as Charity screamed out the boy's name.

  “We'll both get him Flynn,” Neely drew his long knife, “But I don't see how's we'll make it in time.”

  When they started out, Circumstance was a good fifty yards from their position with more than a dozen footmen between him and safety. Charity put as many arrows as she could into opening up the way for him but the rapidly shifting crowds gave her few chances for a good shot.

  Neely passed Flynn before the big man reached the first row of tents and then pulled up short, “Bugger, will you look at that!”

  Flynn skidded into Neely's backside, “What is it Neely, whatcho see?”

  “That!”

  Circumstance dodged around one footman and through the legs of another. The sword swung by the second buried itself deeply into the thigh of the first. Another footman tried to block the boy's way with a whirling pike. Circumstance raised his arm and pointed at his attacker. The man flew backward as if kicked by a horse.

  “Did you see that?” Flynn's exclaimation came out as a squeak.

  “Bugger me iffn I didn't,” Neely shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  One of Charity's arrows took the next footman out of Circumstance's path and Flynn and Neely, now out their reverie, waded into the rest along with the thoroughly aroused Engineers. In a few short minutes they stood in an island of tranquility surrounded by battle.

  The Chief Engineer nodded to Flynn and Neely, “Thank you for coming back, it appears your return is both timely and fortunate. My men, for the most part, are not fighters but as you can see they learn quickly, if they've an example to follow.”

  Neely hefted his sword and winked at Charity, “Well then, let's give ‘em some more of that example.”

  In the ages to come, scribes and storytellers of the Southern Empire would tell and retell the story of how Lemmic-Pries and his Engineers faced down a hoard of Trading States horsemen and prevailed. Highlights of the saga would detail how Lady Charity and her enchanted bow decimated an entire troop of riders and drove their footmen into a panicked rout. How the giant Flynn and his terrible axe cleaved through armor and helm as if they were naught but tissue, and how the dashing tracker Neely wove a curtain of death with his glistening blade. Others, hinting of mysteries and magik, told of the half-elf Circumstance who, with a wave of his hand, toppled rank after rank of the enemy as if they were nothing more than wheat for the reaper's blade.

  In his dotage Neely had one word to describe the tales, “Rubbish, wasn't nothin’ dashin’ about me then an’ there ain't nothin’ dashin’ about me now. We had a job to do, plain an’ simple an’ we done it. Go ahead; make us into heroes iffn you want to. Callin’ it wine don't make horse piss drinkable.”

  His cynicism to the contrary, Neely's contribution to the battle was the stuff of legend. With Charity's incredible bowmanship and Flynn's axe to back him, the tracker cut a swath through the attacking forces leagues wide and yards deep.

  When the last Trading States soldier had been driven off Lemmic-Pries began overseeing the grim task of seeing to the wounded and gathering the dead together for burial. According to the custom of the Southern Empire their honored dead were gathered together onto a huge pyre with their weapons and those of their enemy laid about them. As the sun began to sink, the pyre was lit and the entire camp kept a watch until the last ember died away.

  The next morning Charity approached Flynn and Neely as they sat outside their tent sipping tisane, “Lemmic-Pries says they're abandoning the base and heading back to Ort.”

  Flynn nodded without looking up, “Yeah, I heard that too.”

  “We goin’ with ‘em?” Neely looked up after sipping from his cup. Flynn raised his head as well to see Charity's response.

  She squatted in front of them. Her expression showed a war of desires, “That's what I wanted to talk to you about. There's a lot we could do to help Lemmic-Pries and his people on their way back to the capital...”

  “But...” Neely prompted Charity when she paused.

  “...But there's the fighting to the north of us and we did promise Travers...” Her voice died out again.

  “I'd surely like to see the South,” Flynn murmured, “We was headed that way when the Sergeant an’ his men come by.”

  Neely grunted and sipped his tisane again, “You're forgetin’ th’ promise we made. Goin’ South'd be nice mind you, but I've a feelin’ our consciences ‘ud be botherin’ us afore we got too far.”

  Flynn smacked his forehead, “Gnomic! Shoulda thought of it a lot sooner. Makes everything simple, it does.”

  Charity gave Flynn a sharp look, “What does?”

  “Yeah, what does?” Neely glowered over the rim of his cup.

  “Goin’ north, of course, ain't that where her brother is?” Flynn's beatific smile stretched from ear to ear.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clouds obscured the rising moon. From the look of the evening sky, the weather was turning and the night would be black. The assassin nodded to himself, the time was right to earn the coins those two in the tavern had given him. What were their names? It didn't matter, the Duke was a pig, regardless and Grisham would be better off without him.

  He closed the curtain and crossed the room to his bed. Reaching underneath he pulled out a locked chest of unadorned polished wood. He placed the chest onto the bed and unlocked it. From inside he selected
a number of highly lethal tools. One of them, his current favorite, was a miniature crossbow of full-size power capable of a silent kill from a block away.

  Outside his apartment Burguf Street had few travelers crossing its cobblestones. With winter approaching the evening air now held a distinct chill. One man, a cloth merchant, who thought he knew this neighbor, nodded as they passed. It did pay to keep one's business well away from where one lived.

  Unconsciously the assassin's hands moved about his person, checking the various tools of his trade for their placement and security. By the time he reached the intersection of Burguf and Market he was satisfied as to the eventual success of his night's venture. A left turn would bring him to the hill leading to the palace. When the good citizens of Grisham greeted tomorrow's sun they would be doing so without the company of their ruler.

  The assassin reached the castle's perimeter an hour after midnight and flattened himself against the wall. Guards still walked the watch six floors above, and unlike the previous evening, two of them bracketed the door used by the Palace servants. He sidled back out of sight and skirted the walls perimeter to his alternate choice of a way in. If he kept to the shadows it was a good bet he would not be noticed.

  Luck stayed with him and he soon reached the wall overlooking the valley that led to the lowers. No lights shone from any of the buildings across the yard that separated the castle from the rest of the city and no sounds of patrol reached his ears from above. Inside the left flap of his overcoat the assassin withdrew a pair of gloves fitted with what looked like the claws of a large jungle cat. He pulled on the right and then the left, cinching them down with a cord inset into the cuff of each.

  The blocks that made up Grisham's Ducal Palace were hewn smooth and made smoother still by the weathering of centuries. Ordinarily, climbing the walls without the help of a rope would prove a fool's errand. The assassin counted on that belief for his success. What looked like claws were actually hardened steel prongs. These bit into the softer mortar between the stone blocks and carefully, seam by seam, he moved up towards the empty guardwalk. A quick survey of the walk showed him nothing except a locked door at each end and some rodent bones where an owl once used the parapet to feed.

  No sounds came through either door and the only smell on the night's breeze, outside of the subtle background scent of decay from the lowers, was the mustiness of old stone. He kept the grunt of satisfaction to himself as he reached inside the overcoat once more and pulled out a thin glass vial filled with a clear fluid. Unstopping it with care he tapped out a couple of drops onto each of the heavy iron hinges and stood back as they began to bubble and hiss angrily. In a very short while the hinges fell away and he was able to pull the door from the frame and step into the castle.

  The first room he entered was nothing more than a rest and staging area for guards, one obviously long left untended, by the profusion of crawler webs he saw hanging between the stones. Another door stood in the center of the circular room directly across from the one he'd just ruined. A test of its latches showed it to be unlocked. From within the same interior pocket that produced the acid, he withdrew a small stoppered bulb syringe of clear oil. This he applied to the hinges, a few drops to each, and then waited. After ten heartbeats he tried the door, it swung inward silently.

  As per his guess, the hallway was empty. The map he acquired from a castle servant more avaricious than loyal, indicated the Duke's living quarters could be reached by following the right hand corridor through three turns and two stairwells. The stairwells would be narrow, meant for the servants’ use. Glancing at the map one more time he followed the corridor, his ear pricked for any sound.

  His passage remained uneventful through the first turn and partway through the next. One guardsman, old and overweight had the good fortune to be sound asleep as the assassin passed. He remained alive simply because experience had proven it better to leave as few bodies behind as possible. Another one, younger, ambitious and alert was not so lucky. He died wondering about the sudden pain that struck him from behind.

  The assassin turned to the right after stuffing the guard's body into a nearby closet and stepped into a small alcove. There he found the narrow door that led to the first stairwell.If the map proved true he needed to follow the steps down two floors. A door on the left hand side would access the Duke's suite, and so it was. He came out of the stairwell into an area used for linen storage. Aromatic Cedar paneling filled the room with its scent. Absently he brushed a hand across some of the neatly folded sheets. Duke Bilardi slept well, the cotton weave felt as soft as silk.

  He paused at the door that would open into the Duke's quarters. Placing an ear to its surface he listened for a few seconds. No sound came to him, either the Duke was away and his time had been wasted or the man was a quiet sleeper.

  A grunt stopped him as he was opening the door. The Duke's body showed as a silhouette sitting on the edge of his bed. An arm rose with the sound of scratching coming soon after. So the old man was an early riser, or something woke him prematurely. The assassin pulled back into the linen closet bringing the door with him. He left just enough of a gap to watch while his right hand readied the small crossbow.

  Duke Bilardi stood to his feet and padded across the room to an alcove cut into the far left side. The assassin waited for a few seconds and then left the cover of the linen closet to silently dash across the bedroom. He flattened himself against the wall just outside the alcove. A whiff of flatulence tiptoed past his nose. So, the old man had his own garderobe. Well, he couldn't think of a more appropriate place for Royalty to die. He checked the tension on his crossbow once more and turned into the opening.

  “Go away, can't you see I'm sleeping?” Captain Bilardi pulled his pillow tighter around his head to smother the sound of that insistent ringing.

  The bell continued to ring and suddenly the Captain shot bolt upright. His father's alarm, that was his father's alarm! Throwing off the covers he grabbed a robe and struggled into it as he ran down the hallway to the Duke's apartments. The guards at the entry doors pulled them aside as he approached at a dead run.

  “Father! Father! Where are you? Are you all right? Father!” The Captain rushed from door to door within the Ducal residence as he frantically searched for his father's whereabouts. A faint sound, more of a whimper than a groan pulled him away from the balcony and back into the master bedroom.

  “Father!” The Duke was nowhere to be seen. Bilardi dropped to his knees and pulled back the coverings to peer under the bed. A few dust bunnies looked back but that was all.

  “Father!” He looked behind each curtain and in the small study off the bedroom. The sound had to have come from within this part of the suite. Holding back the yell of frustration that was welling up in his throat, Captain Bilardi rotated slowly in the center of the room looking for some sign that would help his search.

  There, the door to his father's linen closet was slightly ajar. It took three quick steps to cross the space from where he stood and less time to jerk the door fully open. To his utter disappointment all he saw was stacked linens.

  “Father! Where are you?” There, another groan, “Father, I'm here, call out once more if you can. I'm here.”

  His answer came from his right. He looked carefully and slapped his forehead, “Fool! Gnomic fool, the garderobe, why didn't I check it the first time?”

  Duke Bilardi sat where the assassin left him, slumped against the backrest of his private potty with a crossbow quill protruding from his upper left chest. He looked up, using only his eyes, as the Captain came into the room, “It ... looks ... like you may be a little late lad.”

  * * * *

  Adam woke to the sound of shouting. He was sleeping in the officer's quarters. Sirena Culperti upon hearing he and Thaylli weren't bonded had insisted the girl use the extra room in the Colonel's quarters, where she could keep an eye on her. He rose up onto an elbow and called to the orderly rushing past his door, “What's going on, are we und
er attack?”

  The orderly skid to a stop and turned to face Adam, who now stood in the hallway draped in his blanket, “No milord Lieutenant, nuthin like that, leastways I don't think so. Summat's happened to the Duke, milord. They says he's been kilt, kilt dead!”

  “What?”

  “It's like I said milord,” The orderly knuckled his brow, “Kilt dead.” He edged closer and whispered excitedly, “I heard he was stuck full of arrows. Looked like a hedgehog he did.”

  “You saw this?” Adam stepped back a ways, the fellow's personal sanitation was less than pleasant.

  The orderly shook his head, “Oh no, milord. Like I says, I just been told so.”

  Adam left the orderly to his duties and hurriedly dressed. Outside the quarters the parade ground was quickly being filled with other men and officers also recently awakened. Off to his right a Captain and a wizened Corporal held a whispered conversation.

  “I tell ‘e Cap'n, it's true. Somehow this bugger got into the Castle without raisin’ so much as a cat's whisker. Dropped one of the guards an’ stuffed him into a closet, an’ then did his business w’ the Duke. Left his nibs sittin’ on the pot he did. That's where the Son found him, sittin’ on the pot with an arrow in his chest.”

  “And it was confirmed the Duke was dead?”

  The old Corporal scratched a grizzled cheek, “Hmm, that I don't rightly know, Cap'n. Didn't hear that, an’ the one what told me was there, helped the Son move his nibs onto the bed, he did. I guess he woulda noticed iffn the old man weren't breathin'.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” The Captain nodded as he stroked his chin. He caught Adam out of the corner of his eye, “Did you hear any of this Lieutenant?”

  Adam stepped off of the porch and onto the playground wishing he'd thought to put on an overcoat. The night air held a distinct chill. “Some of it. Captain Bilardi's father's been attacked, possibly killed, an orderly said much the same thing inside.”

  The Captain grunted, seemingly satisfied with Adam's answer. Then the man's eyes traveled to the sword belted at his waist and widened slightly, “You're the one who's spent some time recently with the Guard Captain aren't you?”