The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  “Brace yer feet, skrud it,” Neely shouted to Charity and Circumstance, as he struggled to hold on to his friend. The position he lay in gave the tracker almost no leverage, he had to rely on main strength alone to keep Flynn's twenty-two stone out of the reach of the bloodcrabs milling beneath his boots.

  Flynn misunderstood Neely's yell and reached around with his feet for something to brace against. His right foot found a small ledge of granite, which gave him enough of a base to push upwards. That, and the frantic pulling of Charity and Circumstance, enabled Neely to lift enough of Flynn into the pipe so the big man could finish the job on his own. He lay there in the muck and moss that coated the bottom and sighed, “That's the closest I ever come to bein’ bait. It ain't a comfortable feelin'. Neely, I'm plumb glad ya didn't give up on me,” Flynn lay a hand onto his friend's arm.

  “Fergit it,” Neely dismissed his friend's thanks with a smile, “I owed you a couple, anyways.”

  Charity sniffed, “Well, you two may enjoy rolling around in the sewage, but I'd like to see if we could find someplace a little cleaner and a lot further from those disgusting crabs.”

  Flynn sighed once more, “I dunno, Miss Charity, compared to where I was, this is right comfortable.”

  Neely slapped him on the back, “You can get comfortable later. Iffn I remembers right, these pipes open up a ways under th’ city, could be we'll find a place to stretch out a mite.”

  Flynn rose to his hands and knees, “Sounds good to me.”

  Since she was the furthest into the pipe, Charity led the way. The sewer pipe slanted upwards at a fifteen-degree angle for well over fifty yards, and then, as Neely had implied, it opened into a passage with considerably more room, and a narrow ledge elevated them out of the muck below. The tracker rummaged into his pack, pulled out a torch and lit it with a few clicks of his striker. Flickering yellow light revealed their surroundings. The red brick of the sewer wall climbed to an arc just inches above Flynn's head, where it met those on the other side. The ledge they stood on was only a foot and a half wide and it ran off into a darkness that seemed to indicate the turning of a corner.

  Neely looked from side to side, “Seems we all made it in one piece, so's now I guess I can ask me question,” he fixed a gimlet eye onto Circumstance, “how come you didn't...” he wiggled the fingers of his free hand, “...magik them crabs outta th’ way?”

  “I wuz kinda wonderin’ that meself,” Flynn murmured.

  “I couldn't,” The boy answered simply, as if the reason was plain to all.

  Flynn nodded, “I see, kinda like those times ya tried to do summat, an’ it wouldn't happen.”

  “No, that's not what I mean at all.”

  “Then, what in th’ bloody blazes do you mean?” Neely straightened in exasperation.

  “Don't yell at him Neely,” Charity said, in an aside.

  With a glance at Charity, the tracker tried again, “What do you mean?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “You remember back when the draug master's head was still yelling at us and I sent it away?” Circumstance looked up at Neely and then at Flynn.

  “I ain't gonna forget it anytime soon,” The big man acknowledged quietly.

  “Me neither,” Neely agreed. “What about it?” he asked.

  “It didn't belong here,” Circumstance answered, “The crabs do. They were just doing what they're supposed to do, I can't stop that.”

  Charity shivered in memory, “What are they? They're horrible.”

  Circumstance shrugged, “I don't know, I just know they belong.” He looked up at Neely.

  The tracker smiled, though it looked more like a grimace, “Yeah, I suppose they do. They really ain't all that dangerous,” he began.

  “Really,” Charity snorted.

  Flynn chuckled in sympathy.

  “No, I mean it.” Neely turned and slid down the wall to a squatting position. “Most o’ th’ year, bloodcrabs is harmless. You can pick ‘em outta th’ tide pools with yer bare hand. A bucketful makes for a tasty meal with a crust of bread,” He smacked his lips. “Me da showed me that one.”

  “So, what makes ‘em ... like they is now?” Flynn asked.

  Neely shook his head, “Summat to do with them spawin', I think. Leastways, that's what me da told me. He near tanned th’ hide right off'n me backside when he caught me an’ me buds sneakin’ to th’ beach ‘bout this time o’ year. We was told not to, too. I guess that's what made ‘im so mad,” He sighed.

  “How long are they dangerous?” Charity asked.

  “Three, four weeks, thereabouts,” Neely said, with a shrug, “I think. Never learned for sure, never bothered to.”

  Neely's answer ended the conversation for a while. As narrow as the ledge was, it was more comfortable than either the beach or the sewer pipe. The companions rested quietly, enjoying the sense of security the solid brick walls gave them.

  Circumstance stood after about a half hour and tugged on Flynn's sleeve, “It's time to go.”

  “Huh,” Flynn roused himself out of his lethargy, “Go where?”

  * * * *

  Magister Mallien sipped a bit of the brandy Duke Bilardi had poured into his crystal aperitif glass. A smile buried itself amidst the rolls of fat in the cleric's face. “The forty-six,” he said in appreciation, “I wasn't aware any of it remained.”

  The Duke replaced the stopper into the decanter and slid the vessel back into position onto the sideboard. “That is surprising, your grace, considering your sources.”

  Mallien sipped again, “Your recovery seems complete, Your Grace.”

  Bilardi noted the change of subject, but hid it as he sank into the plush chair across that of his guest. “As well as may be expected, Magister. My family has always healed quickly, both from wounds of the body or of the heart.”

  “Ah,” Mallien smiled again. It looked like a frog experiencing gas, “A reference to your son, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” the Duke acknowledged, sipping from his own aperitif. He savored the musky sweet sharpness as its vapors filled his mouth.

  Mallien observed the Duke from behind steepled fingers. Though well hidden within folds of fat, the cleric's eyes were quite sharp, nearly as sharp as the mind behind them, and very little escaped their notice. The slight tightening of the fingers holding the glass, the twitch of the nose, and the even slighter narrowing of the Duke's eyes all told Mallien his bolt had hit the mark. Bilardi was disturbed deeply by something his son had done. The cleric decided to probe further, “Perhaps something to do with the young swordmaster seen frequently in his presence?”

  To his credit, the Duke held his temper. He raised an eyebrow and sipped again. “You have an interest in this young man?” He asked, blandly.

  “Perhaps,” Mallien answered, continuing the game. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the play of the light against the facets. “Word has reached my office concerning this ... Adam, is it? A strange name, that. It means clay, or mud, I believe, certainly not a name one would find among the royals,” He waved his free hand, “But that is beside the point. I am told he carries the Emperor's sword.”

  Bilardi's eyebrow quickly climbed into his hairline and then relaxed. Damn the cleric, he almost had the advantage. “Do tell,” He forced indifference into his voice, “There are a lot of young men in this city with fancy swords, my son is one of them. That does not make any of them a royal, much less the Emperor's heir.”

  “So, you discern the thrust of my argument,” Mallien noted with a nod. He paused and drew in a breath, letting it out with sibilance, “Yes, you do. Can you describe for me any of these young fancys’ swords?”

  Bilardi sneered, “What's to describe? Most of them are merely toys acting as overly large pieces of cheap jewelry. The balance is atrocious, mostly due to the massive amounts of gilt work framing the hilt.”

  “And the scabbards?” Mallien cradled a gelatinous jowl with his fingers.

  “Their scabbards aren't m
uch better, some are worse,” Bilardi's sneer deepened as he warmed to his subject. “Garish, as a description, would be a kindness.”

  “I see,” Mallien changed position to where his hands were linked over his huge paunch, “So, how would you describe the sword of Labad?”

  The Duke rose out of his chair and poured himself some more brandy. “Why? You've seen the portraits. There's that one in the Basilica, it's what, twelve feet tall? You walk past it at least three times a day—Labad himself with that blade strapped to his side.” He regained his chair and sipped, “You describe it to me.”

  Mallien's chin disappeared into the folds of his neck as he ducked his head in thought. When he rose back up his eyes held a faraway look, “The pommel is the head of a mythical creature with its wings curving out and down to form the basket of the hilt. Its eyes are emerald, with a larger one centered on the crosspiece. Actual gold appears to be the metal of the hilt rather than gilt, of course, it is the Emperor's sword.”

  Bilardi leaned forward, his eyes alight, “Exactly, the Emperor's sword. Do you think a ragamuffin, no-name oaf from the bush is going to be carrying a weapon like that strapped to his side?”

  “One would be fool to believe that, eh, my lord Duke?” Mallien imitated a frog with gas again. “Yet, your response leads one to wonder about your use of the word ragamuffin and bush. Would that be a reference to this Adam? What little I've learned of him says he is from an area that would apply to both.”

  “You make my point for me,” Bilardi said, just prior to draining half of his brandy.

  “Perhaps,” Mallien conceded, “Perhaps not, there is the matter of the prophecy.”

  “Pfagh,” The Duke snorted, “Prophecy is for weak-minded fools and aged philosophs. It is nothing more than shallow fantasy useful only in controlling the masses.”

  Mallien scowled slightly, “You border on heresy Your Grace.”

  “Good,” Bilardi finished his brandy, “I was hoping to. Someone has to shake up that comfortable little world you clerics have built for yourselves. There really is more to life, Mallien, than little boys’ bottoms, you know.”

  The piggy eyes narrowed, “You go too far, Duke Bilardi, jestful heresy is one thing, but...”

  “Why Magister, I would have thought your skin to be far thicker than that,” The Duke interrupted with a consoling tone. “Has my gentle probe pierced your heart?”

  Mallien composed himself with visible effort. “By no means, Your Grace,” he smiled, “No more than my mentioning your only son's friendship with the man who will one day sit on the Emperor's throne upset you. Were you aware he has allowed this Adam to resign his commission from the city guard?”

  “No, I was not aware of that,” Bilardi said flatly.

  “Oh,” the cleric's smile broadened, “Then you also haven't heard that he is nowhere to be found in the city. Not a one of my sources has turned up a thing. It's like the young man has vanished into thin air and this in a city completely under siege.”

  To Mallien's surprise, this bit of information did not enrage the Duke. Bilardi nodded slowly and pursed his lips as if in consideration. Then he stood once more and walked over to the decanters. “More brandy?” He asked, holding up the crystal vessel.

  “No, thank you Milord,” Mallien responded, hiding his surprise with the ease gained through years of experience.

  Bilardi noted the cleric's response with another nod, poured some more of the potent liquor and regained his chair, “So, your inquisitors can't find the boy. What has this to do with me? For that matter, why should I even care? He is none of your business, he's my son's business, and that business is his alone, since he is the Captain of the Guard. This siege you mention has become a farce. Have you seen any Southern barbarians rampaging through Grisham's streets? Has your larder become bare due to our lines of supply being cut? Pfagh,” Bilardi snorted again, Mallien had the distinct thought that it was the Duke's favorite expression, “As wars go, this one has become severely disappointing.”

  “I am so sorry Your Grace is disappointed,” Mallien said blandly, “But whether or not you choose to be involved, this Adam is most definitely the church's business.”

  The Duke looked up with interest. “Oh? Why?”

  Mallien leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his lap and assumed a pious expression. “If one is too assume the mantle of clergy, than one must also assume, at least, a passing acknowledgement of the hand of destiny, that hand being guided by the divine Bardoc. I took the liberty of reading a copy of Labad's prophecy. What little I've learned about this young man moves me to some concern. One interpretation would have him pulling down the present government as it stands and replacing it with one of his own.”

  “And that concerns you, does it?” Bilardi murmured. “As long as I've known you Mallien, the only faith you've ever shown is in the power of gold and its ability to further your own perverted ends. Now, you're quaking in your fat over the distant possibility some young blade could be fulfilling Labad's prophecy? Why?”

  Mallien smiled once more, “Milord Duke, when one is dealing with the divine, it pays to hedge one's bets.”

  * * * *

  The image of Adam and his friend leaving the Grisham guard office faded as Milward passed his hand across the bowl of water. Good, very good, he thought, now if Bardoc would just help a bit with the timing ... He looked up, “I'm not pushing, just suggesting.”

  Milward had ridden into Ort proper alongside Garld-Jens upon the Ortian's cart. Once the direction of the palace had been pointed out, the Wizard excused himself and hopped off, waving goodbye to his riding companion. The Officer ignored him.

  Ort was a city of broad, tree-lined streets and imposing white buildings. The sheathing material was of granite containing specks of mica that glinted in the sunlight. Birds completely unlike those of the northlands flew from tree to tree, calling to each other in lilting voices.

  Unlike the inhabitants of the north, Ortians were orderly people, and their city reflected that trait. No street vendors accosted him in an attempt to make a sale, rather, neatly lettered signs graced the fascias of each building informing passersby which shop lay within and what could be bought there. Many buildings had, the Wizard noted, within them more than one shop. He thought the concept rather strange and unwieldy. Who would want to have all their shopping centered in one building? Where was the adventure?

  Milward caught sight of a group of the city's inhabitants across the street as he prepared to cross a major intersection where six streets converged upon a circular plaza. The plaza held a statue of Labad set into the center of a fountain that fed a many-terraced waterfall. The city dwellers were talking amongst themselves and pointing in his direction. Like most Ortians, they differed in appearance to the peoples of the north. Their skin tended toward a golden olive in tone rather than the pale pinkish-beige of the north. Their hair was nearly uniformly black and straight, with the current fashion having the hair left long in the back and cut to tightly frame the face. They wore loose robes of shimmercloth printed with bright pictorials of flowers and birds, making Milward's travel clothes appear rather shabby in comparison.

  A notion suggested itself and Milward agreed, being in a mischievous if not gregarious frame of mind. He nodded in the direction of the gawkers and proceeded across the boulevard toward them. From the startled looks it appeared most of them were not expecting this move, though a couple of the watcher's faces held sneers. This should be diverting, he thought.

  One of the sneer wearers stepped forward from the group and held up a hand as Milward stepped out of the street. “Hold yourself there, fellow.” There was a pause before “fellow", as if the term was meant to be insulting.

  “Hold myself where?” Milward kept his tone light.

  “There, as I said,” the dandy waved at Milward with a limp, languid hand.

  “There?” Milward said, with an incredulous voice, “I must say, that's awfully personal, and we haven't even gotten to
know each other yet.” A number of the group behind the dandy snickered.

  A flush built up in the young man's olive complexion. “Don't be impertinent, fellow. Do you know who you're dealing with?”

  “You say that as if I should care,” Milward leaned on his staff as he studied the man's face. “I don't recognize you, should I, care, I mean?” This brought out more snickers, and one outright laugh.

  The dandy drew himself up, though the effort seemed less sure.

  “He's not the oaf you thought him to be Litjen-Pul, be careful, or you'll lose what little dignity you have left.”

  This comment from the oldest appearing member of the group increased the flush in the dandy's face and the thin brows narrowed in anger. He drew back his hand to deliver a backhanded blow but upon delivery it struck Milward's staff instead.

  “Owww!” Litjen-Pul howled, as he massaged his bruised hand. He glared at Milward, “You did that on purpose!”

  “And what was that slap you aimed at me, an accident?” Milward moved back into his slouch, leaning on his staff, “You're lucky I don't spank you, spoiled children usually need that, obviously, you weren't.”

  The one who'd warned his friend earlier laughed out loud, “Come on, Litjen-Pul, it's clear you're outclassed. Let the ancient go and let us be on our way.”

  “No, I won't,” the dandy hissed at his friends over his shoulder. “I won't be insulted in this manner. No country oaf, no matter how old, is going to do that to me.”

  Milward figured he'd had enough of the fellow and formed a small shaping, releasing it with a snap of his fingers. A tiny cloud, black and roiling, formed over Litjen-Pul's head. It growled with high-pitched thunder. The laughter of his friends died as if cut off by a slamming door.

  The Wizard smiled, it wasn't a nice smile. “What an incredible thing,” he said, “One little cloud and the lot of you are struck dumb.”

  “Holy Bardoc, preserve us,” the one who'd been talking to Litjen-Pul breathed, “The man's a Sorcerer.”