The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Milward quickly closed the distance between himself and the Captain's mount, climbing onto place behind the startled officer. “Why didn't you say so in the first place? Let's be going.”

  The mass of men, horses and supply wagons began to move again. Milward decided he'd given the young officer enough time and repeated his question, “How far to Ort?”

  “About seven hundred miles give or take fifty, Master Wizard. Why do you ask?” The officer's back was board stiff.

  “That far,” Milward mused. “And the number of days to get there?” He made his tone jovial. It would probably pay to thaw the Ortian Captain's mood for a trip of that length.

  “We have been marching for a fortnight and will do so for the same number of days, I imagine.” Milward's ploy bore a small amount of fruit, the Captain's shoulders relaxed slightly.

  The old Wizard nodded, “Uh hmm, uh hmm. This fighting you mentioned...”

  “Wouldn't you prefer your own mount, Master Wizard? It would be more comfortable for you to sit in a saddle instead of behind one.” The officer sounded hopeful.

  Milward shuddered. “No thank you Captain. I prefer it when someone else handles the reins. My history with the beasts is checkered at best.”

  “I'm sure we have space on one of our wagons.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me Captain?”

  “Not entirely Master Wizard, but I would be more at ease if you were not mounted behind me.”

  “Oh very well,” Milward made himself sound resigned, “Take me to this wagon of yours Captain.”

  The officer dropped Milward off at the first of the supply wagons, its driver being a middle-aged supply Sergeant with a much easier-going attitude than his Captain. He glanced at the Wizard as Milward settled onto the bench seat beside him and then reached down to come up with a small leather bag. He held out the bag to his passenger, “Pemkin?”

  Milward took the bag and pulled out a wafer of the dried meat, “Thank you, driver. I was getting very tired of fish.”

  “S'why I allus bring a bag ‘er two of me favorite along on these trips. Man likes summat different now an’ then to chew on.” The driver chuckled and snapped the reins once, “C'mon old gals, keep ‘er up.”

  “Impressive pair of oxen,” Milward pointed at the animals with a piece of pemkin.

  The driver grinned and nodded. “Thanks, they're me gals. Allus pull whatever I asks ‘em to, better'n horses. Me, I never had much use fer horses.”

  Milward clapped him on the back. “I think we're going to get along just fine ... what's your name?”

  “Garld-Jens, Master Supply Sergeant Garld-Jens at yer service, sire.”

  “You can call me Milward.” The old Wizard held out a hand.

  The driver took it. “Well now, nice to make yer acquaintance Milward,” he looked his passenger up and down. “Whatcho do fer a livin'?”

  Milward chewed for a second on the spicy pemkin and then swallowed. “I guess you could say I'm sort of a professional student.”

  Garld-Jens looked directly at Milward with wide-open eyes. “Ya don't say? Good money in that?”

  “So, so,” Milward waggled a hand.

  The driver put his attention back on his oxen. “Ah well, can't have everthin'.”

  “No, I suppose you can't.” Milward handed the bag of pemkin back to the driver. “Your Captain said this caravan was headed towards Ort and then onto the fighting. What fighting?”

  Garld-Jens put the bag back where he got it. “Fer a perfeshonal student you ain't learning much are ya? The fightin’ up near Grisham's whut the Cap'n was talkin’ about. There's a war goin’ on. Ain't been one o’ them fer a long while, I can tell ya that.”

  “How long has this war been going on?” The fighting had begun already, unless he'd been stuck in the vortex longer than he thought he'd been. That had happened before. One poor sod botched the shaping and wound up coming home a few hundred years late.

  The driver pursed his lips and then scratched a grizzled chin, “Ah ... nobbut a month now. S'just getting’ warmed up iffn ya ask me. I hears the elfonts ‘er puttin’ quite a scare into them Northerns. Hee hee,” he laughed, “I woulda liked to see them tryin’ to dry themselves after catchin’ first sight a them beasts.”

  A month? So, he had been stuck longer than he thought. He'd have to try scrying Adam and his sister after the caravan settled for the night. A twinge of guilt nagged at him for hiding Charity's existence from her brother. He brushed the feeling aside. There would be nothing gained from regretting the past, besides the prophecy was quite clear on that point. They each had a separate path to travel before things came to a head.

  Garld-Jens proved to be an amiable traveling companion and he and Milward had a jolly time of it trading stories until the Captain called the caravan to a halt for the night. Milward easily fell back into the role of storyteller like the time he took on the persona of Nought and told stories to the people of Adam and Charity's village. The driver thoroughly enjoyed the competition and said so when the wagon finally ground to a halt.

  “Fine time, Milward, fine time. You can ride with me whenever you want.” Garld-Jens shook the Wizard's hand, “You joinin’ us fer supper?”

  “Not immediately,” Milward shook his head, “There's something I need to take care of first, but save a place for me, will you?”

  Garld-Jens climbed out of the wagon. “Sure, sure. Barley stew ok? ‘fraid the meat'll be fish.” He worked at unhitching the oxen.

  Milward cast his gaze across the rest of the caravan as it set up camp for the night. “That's to be expected Sergeant.” He spotted a place suitable for his needs. “A man's got to eat regardless of what's set before him.”

  He left the driver to his oxen and his chuckles and passed through the camp. Most of the men ignored him, intent on their own tasks. A few, to his disgust, shied away and made a warding sign. A very few eyed him speculatively, one of them the young Ortian Captain.

  The spot Milward chose was a spring coming out of the rise west of the highway. Below the rise, a creek formed by the spring flowed into broad ponds the soldiers used to water their stock. Rocks laid along the edge of the ponds helped prevent their being muddied by the beasts. Using the tip of his staff as a guide he directed a small shaping into the head of the spring. When he was done a small still pool winked back at him in the fading daylight.

  Ok lad. Let's see how you're faring. He sent his scry into the pool's mirror surface. The old Wizard studied the images that flowed before him for a long, long while. He made no sound and moved not a muscle, even when a night bird wafted in on silent wings and settled on the tip of his staff. The bird eventually found the motionless Wizard boring and flew on. Another passage of minutes went by and finally he let out a slow sigh. Nodding, Milward erased the scry and started his walk back to the camp. If someone had been close enough they would have heard him say softly, “Good, very good.”

  * * * *

  Drinaugh reached out with a trembling hand and scratched at the door before him. He dreaded the moment to come more than anything he'd ever faced before, but the same compulsion he felt when he flew off to find Adam last year was driving him again. He had to do this.

  “Yes?”

  The Winglord's going to have me stuck into the deepest classroom in Dragonglade for this, I know it. Drinaugh's heart felt like it was trying to come out of his throat as he slid open the door.

  “Drinaugh, what brings you to my door this time?” Mashglach closed the cover of the Dragon-sized volume he'd been reading and turned to face his visitor.

  “Well, Drinaugh?”

  The young Dragon tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Why was his mouth so dry? He'd ingested plenty of water before coming to the Winglord's quarters. Why was it so dry? He swallowed once more, “Uhmm, uh, Winglord ... I ... I still want to go help my friend.”

  “What was that?” Mashglach leaned forward, bringing his head closer to Drinaugh's. “You mumbled
something, I didn't quite catch it.”

  “I still want to go.”

  Mashglach sighed. He's been expecting this, “You are aware of the consensus, young Dragon, we will not take part in the human's war.”

  “I ... I know, honored Winglord,” Drinaugh winced under the admonitive young Dragon, but he pushed on, “however, I think the consensus is wrong.”

  “You WHAT?”

  Drinaugh reeled back from the Winglord's bellow and then reasserted himself, “I think they're wrong. All the older Dragons want to do is hide in Dragonglade and study, they don't do anything. I learned so much when I went out before and I did things, I helped people. I ... need to do that again, I can feel it.”

  Mashglach studied the young Dragon for a while. To Drinaugh it seemed as though his insides were being searched. The Winglord held Drinaugh with his gaze for a while longer and then reared back to where he'd been before. “Yes, I imagine you do feel it. I also remember you telling me how it seemed things were moving faster, and, your words have some merit,” the senior Dragon sighed, “but that is not the feeling of all of us, Drinaugh. It is certainly not the feeling of Chabaad or your mother. There are far too many of us who feel as they do, humans are to be left to their business and we are not to interfere, especially in their wars.”

  “But what was that when you led all of Dragonglade out to rout those humans who were coming to attack us, if not interference?” Drinaugh trembled in his fervor. “We all did something then, and I'm sure they all felt good about it.”

  “Being attacked is one thing, Drinaugh, attacking is another. Dragonglade was removed from violence even then. If you will remember, all we did was fly and roar. I have to say some of us are ashamed of even that much being done.”

  Instead of chiding, the Winglord's words had the reverse effect on Drinaugh. A seed of stubborn rebellion took root within him and his resolve stiffened. “I remember something else, you agreed with me when I said things were moving faster. I heard you.”

  “Yes, I did,” Mashglach nodded, “In that you are right.”

  “I also think my talent, my calling, is wrapped up in this. I'm the first Dragon Ambassador. I didn't know what it was all about at first and there is still a lot to learn, but I know it means I have to be ... out there,” he pointed to the door, “showing the other races what being a Dragon is all about. Part of that, honored Mashglach, is helping those in need and my friend needs me.”

  Drinaugh's speech brought another long thoughtful silence from the Winglord. When he broke it his gaze was centered on a point far away. “You bring up memories I thought long buried my spirited young Dragon.” He paused. “Being Winglord does not mean being the dictator of Dragonglade, nor does it mean I have total freedom in allowing privilege, but it does give a little additional weight to one's decisions and I have decided.”

  “Decided what, Winglord?” Drinaugh could sense the precipice before him.

  Mashglach smiled. “Go, go be Dragonkind's first Ambassador. Find your friend and have the adventure of your life. Let the others grumble, they'll get over it. After all,” his smile broadened, “they're not going with you.”

  * * * *

  Thaylli leaned closer to the oak framed mirror trying to see the imagined imperfections in her complexion.

  “You don't have to fuss like this, Thaylli,” Adam admonished her from his favorite chair. “Ethan will think you look lovely, as I do.”

  She blushed furiously and looked into the mirror one more time, “Oh, poo! I'll just have to hope this looks all right.”

  Adam scratched a forearm. “I'm telling you it's ok, Ethan will think he's in the presence of the most beautiful woman in Grisham, and I'm not sure but if he'd be right.” Despite the Sirena's objections, Thaylli had moved back in with Adam.

  Thaylli turned from the mirror. “You sweet thing, you know just what to say.”

  A firm tap of the door's knocker interrupted her expression of gratitude to Adam. She pulled away but not before nipping the end of his nose playfully, “That's for later.”

  Adam stared at her. “What, what later?”

  She looked at him with half-lidded eyes as she went for the door. “You'll find out, later.”

  Ethan stood on the step with a bundle under one arm. He presented Thaylli a sweeping bow as she gaped in the open doorway, “My lady, may a tired old soldier cross your threshold and dine in the radiance of your beauty?”

  She had no idea how to respond to such a display of gallantry, “I ... uh, we...”

  Adam appeared behind her and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. What ‘later’ meant had just come to him. “Welcome Ethan, we're glad you could come over.”

  Thaylli nodded, “Come in, please. I made one of the recipes Fainnelle taught me.” She laughed quietly, “I've been practicing on Adam.”

  Ethan entered the house and handed the bundle to Adam. “I'll reserve judgment as to whether or not to be sorry for you,” he said with a smile, “But, what I smell tells me I should be jealous. The Captain gave you a nice place with that promotion.”

  Thaylli laughed again and headed toward the kitchen. Adam pointed Ethan to a chair and then sat himself. “She really is a good cook. I have to watch myself or I eat too much. Thaylli can be dangerous for a man's waistline.”

  “I know that,” Ethan laughed, “Ellona's the same way.” He sobered suddenly, “By Bardoc, I miss her.”

  Adam nodded and then held up the package, “What's this?”

  “Open it and find out,” Ethan pointed with a fingertip.

  Adam untied the knots and pulled the string away from the wrapping, “A bottle of wine?”

  “Not just wine,” Ethan said smugly, “estate bottled Clarendy, and of a vintage year even our Lord Duke would be envious of, if he knew of it. I thought it might go down well with dinner.”

  Adam worked his thumbnail at the wax seal around the cork. “We may as well give it a try. How could you afford it on a Sergeant's pay, even with the advance Captain Bilardi gave you, this must have cost a few golds at least.”

  “No,” Ethan leaned back in his chair and grinned, “not even a whole silver. Remember, I said the Duke would be envious, if he knew of it. That bottle of liquid paradise you're holding is a product of the Wool Coast. Not too many people outside its boundaries are aware the region produces more than just wool and mutton. That bottle cost me no more than seven coppers. The shopkeeper wasn't even aware it was on his shelves. It was merely happy chance I spotted it.”

  The cork came away with a soft pop and the aroma of sweet flowers mixed with currents and deep blue berries filled the air of the sitting room. “Smells wonderful,” Adam held the bottle tip to his nose. “I'll get some mugs.”

  He stood up out of his chair and joined Thaylli in the kitchen. “What do you think of him?”

  She flushed and stirred the seasoned potatoes before her a bit more forcefully.

  Adam saw an opportunity for some teasing but wisely forbore. He still had the promise of ‘later’ dangling before him.

  Thaylli sniffed her potato dish and sampled a bit of its sauce. “He's very good looking, almost as handsome as you. In fact, he makes me think of what you'll look like when you're older.”

  “Oh,” Adam fingered his hair, the image of Ethan's gray streaks sweeping through his mind's eye. “Where are the mugs? He brought us a very good bottle of wine for our supper.”

  “Up in that cupboard over to your right. What wine?” She looked at him from behind her spoon.

  “One called Clarendy, it smells nice enough. Ethan called it liquid paradise.” Adam took down three mugs and whispered in Thaylli's ear, “Shall we give it a try?” She smelled of spices and musk. A tingling whispered through his lower region.

  Thaylli opened the lid of the pot behind the potatoes. Several fat sausages sizzled and popped amid a nesting of small chunks of apple. “The food's ready, I think. Why don't we get it to the table and then try the wine?”

  Ethan saw his
hosts moving platters of food across the hall and, in spite of their protests, lent a helping hand. Supper consisted of the sausages and potatoes with a salad of crisp greens. A tiny pitcher held dressing. “It looks and smells delicious. I'm glad I skipped lunch. Of course, what they're serving the noncoms in the mess made my decision easier.”

  “Is it really as bad as that?” Thaylli spooned some of the potatoes and sausage onto a plate and passed it to Ethan.

  Adam poured the wine into the mugs and passed them around. “Captain Bilardi is getting concerned that if the siege continues for an extended time, all of Grisham may begin running out of food beyond what can be caught in the harbor. I haven't seen fresh bread for days.”

  Ethan sliced a portion of potato and transferred it to his mouth. “That explains the mess situation. Someone needs to show those cooks how to prepare herring in different ways beyond stewing.” He chewed, swallowed and began slicing a chunk off one of the sausages. “That reminds me of a question, it's about the harbor.”

  “Yes?” Adam tried some of the greens with a drizzle of dressing, washing it down with a good swallow of Clarendy. The wine proved to be as good as Ethan said it would be.

  “What about the harbor?” Thaylli continued to slice her sausage into small rounds.

  “This is marvelous cooking young lady.” Ethan held up a piece of potato topped with a bit of sausage on his fork. “The harbor,” he finished off his bite of food, “seems to me to be an open doorway to invasion. Why isn't the enemy exploiting it? If I were them I'd have an armada through that strait in a heartbeat, Grisham would be in flames and the Duke's neck under my heel.”

  Adam copied Ethan's combination of sausage and potato. “The strait is better defended than it looks. I asked Captain Bilardi about that myself just the other day. I got to thinking much like you were after that situation with the Ortian shaper and his tunnel making. He told me something very interesting. I didn't even know it was possible. I certainly didn't believe it was possible until he showed me the engines.”

  “Engines?” Ethan and Thaylli said the question at the same time.

  “That's what he called them, engines. There are huge caverns dug into the stone at the mouth of the strait. Inside, running into shafts dug into the cavern wall are these things called pistons, each one of them as big as three wagons. He said the pistons drive giant spears upward at a great rate. Any ships caught above them are spitted like a boar for the pit.”