The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  “Here comes th’ first batch milord.”

  Captain Bilardi turned at the old Corporal's call and walked over to where he could see into the street below.

  “How many do you figure McKenit?” He watched the line of men and wagons as it snaked through the city street and into the Grisham barracks.

  “Ummmm. Not two ... No, not two ... three, no make that four, companies so far, countin’ ‘scripts. See, there's a batch still wearin’ shackles comin’ ‘round the’ corner,” the Corporal pointed at the far visible end of the line.

  “Four companies...” Bilardi murmured, “this early, tells me we'll probably see ten times that number before the week is out. Maybe as many as one hundred, counting conscripts if the press gangs do their job properly.”

  Corporal McKenit nodded enthusiastically, “Aye, that oughta bring th’ numbers up a bit, ‘specially iffn they gets as far as Bern er Berggren.”

  Bilardi pushed himself away from the parapet. “Right you are Corporal, right you are. Come with me, there is a minor problem in the stacks that needs seeing to.”

  They took the stairs to the street level and, after a brief glance to see if the guards at the barracks gate were at least semi-alert, made their way along the edge of the compound to the armorers warehouse.

  Captain Bilardi acknowledged the salute given him by the private in front of the door with a slight nod of his head.

  Corporal McKenit murmured, “Good lad,” as he brushed by and gave the boy a clap on the shoulder.

  The Sergeant behind the desk leapt to his feet when he saw who was coming through the door. “Captain in the house!” He called out as he came to attention.

  “As you were.” Bilardi looked more closely at the desk Sergeant, “Where's Sergeant Yeric?”

  “Indisposed, Sir!” The Guard Sergeant's eyes remained fixed on a point several yards in front of him.

  “'E means drunk Cap,” Corporal McKenit chuckled.

  “Very well,” Bilardi sighed. He looked away from the Desk Sergeant and waved a hand languidly, “As you were, as you were Sergeant, relax a bit. I feel like I'm talking to one of my father's statues. Do you have the current weapons inventory?”

  “Yes sir Cap'n, got it right here.” The Sergeant reached into the lower drawer in the right hand side of his desk, pulled out a thick sheaf of parchments and handed it to Bilardi.

  The Guard Captain checked the first page carefully. As with the majority of Grisham's military documents, castle scribes and illuminators initially prepared the inventory sheets. A drawing of the item and its name appeared on each line with a number of hash marks next to it, the drawing being for the convenience of those personnel unable to read, meaning most of them. One only had to compare the drawing with the item being inventoried and then mark in the right space once for each item in that category, all in all, a system simple enough to be nearly fool proof, nearly. Once, the Captain had a man flogged because he counted three score barrels of horse urine used in tanning leathers as wine. The lesson stuck and the error rate dropped exponentially.

  “I see we're low on line cutters,” Bilardi murmured, running his finger down the list. “We should have at least another four dozen, get five if you can by no later than next rest day.”

  “Aye Cap'n. We'll try.”

  “You had better do more than try, Sergeant,” The Captain's voice held no tone implying threat but the Sergeant's face tightened. Bilardi saw the result of his warning and nodded, “Good, now let's see the Stacks.”

  “I'll keep watch o'er th’ desk iffn ye want, Cap'n.” Corporal McKenit made as if to sit in the absent Sergeant's chair.

  Bilardi shook his head, “No Corporal, you'd best come along. We'll need a set of experienced eyes I think.”

  “Right'cho are Cap'n.” McKenit scuttled around the desk and fell in behind the Captain and the Sergeant.

  The “Stacks” were actually a series of multi-level pallets long enough and wide enough to hold everything from boxes of gloves to bundles of the twelve-foot long halberds used by footmen. Forty-five rows of these pallets made up what was known as the Stacks. The lighting was left to the oversized skylights set into the warehouse roof during the day and oil lanterns at night. A crew of fifteen guards maintained the facility. Those who saw Bilardi on his tour snapped to attention and sighed in relief if he passed them without comment.

  One warehouseman wasn't as fortunate as the others.

  “You, stop right there!” The Captain quickened his steps and moved to the pallet where a guard was putting short swords from it into a canvas sling laid out onto the floor.

  The guard froze with a sword halfway to the sling. “I done nuthin’ wrong! Tell ‘em Sarge, you know I done nuthin’ wrong.”

  Bilardi stepped closer, a cold smile growing on his face, “I wasn't accusing you of doing anything Private, but one wonders why your reaction is so ... guilty.” He moved his right hand to the rapier at his hip.

  The young guard looked to the right and the left as if seeking a way out. There was none. Nor did any of the others who'd gathered to check out the disturbance appear willing to help. He backed away from the Captain still holding the short sword.

  “It's all over Private, Where are you going to go? Look around you. Do you think any of these men are going to help?” Bilardi advanced on the retreating warehouseman. “You've been stealing weapons and selling them. Why? Why Private, for money? Why have you been bleeding Grisham? Why? Answer me, damn you!” The last came out in a shout along with his rapier.

  The Private knew he was already dead but something within him said he had to try anyway.

  His first attack brought a sneer to Bilardi's mouth, “Oh come on Private, surely you can do better than that. At least hold your weapon properly, it's not a knitting needle, you know,” to demonstrate he opened a gash along the hapless warehouseman's left cheek, “see?”

  In answer the Private swung wildly, but his eyes were closed and Bilardi easily stepped aside. The warehouseman's forward momentum exposed his right side and the Captain used the opportunity to run his rapier into it at a slightly upward angle, piercing the heart. Red blood spread across the warehouseman's shirt as his eyes glazed over. His knees buckled as he released his hold on the sword. It clattered to the floor just before the body hit.

  “Quick work there, Cap'n.” Corporal McKenit said.

  “I did what I had to do, McKenit,” Bilardi grated. “It is nothing to be cheery about.

  He wiped his rapier on the Private's tunic.

  “Oh no sir,” McKenit exclaimed, “as you say, nothin’ to be cheery about, that's fer sure.”

  The Captain turned to face the Sergeant who was staring at the body on the warehouse floor. “What about you Sergeant? Do you see anything here to smile about? A man steals the weapons from under your nose, and you do nothing about it?”

  The Sergeant gulped but otherwise remained mute.

  “Well, Sergeant? I'm waiting for your answer.” Bilardi tapped him with the tip of the saber. “Speak up. I don't have all day to wait on you.”

  “I thinks this is th’ first deader e's seen Cap'n,” Corporal McKenit said. “Looks like e's bout ta lose ‘is lunch.”

  “Yes, he does, doesn't he?” Bilardi murmured. “Very well Sergeant, have someone clean up this mess. Also, make sure this ... object lesson is well circulated throughout the men. This pilfering will cease, now! Any one else caught stealing from Grisham will get the same treatment.”

  The Sergeant nodded his head mutely.

  “Looks like we's done ‘ere Cap'n.”

  “Yes Corporal, I believe we are.”

  * * * *

  Low fog cuddled up against the pier like a white cat seeking a warm lap. It looked as if Bardoc himself had stuffed the harbor with cotton. A few gulls squabbled for perch space atop the exposed pilings not already occupied by pelicans. The salty fish-tinged scent of the docks lay in the still air inviting early risers to join the fog in its slow walk along the shore.


  Vessels lined the pier, each dock filled with a boat, sloop, or dinghy. Since word of the coming war spread, shipping had dropped to a bare trickle of what use to be. Few captains felt brave enough to try their luck on the open sea. What shipping did go on was confined to traffic between Grisham and the port of Bern on the northwestern shore of the sea-sized bay north of the great city.

  The figure trudging toward the dock on the far Southern end of the pier cared little for the beauty of the fog or the lack of ongoing commerce. A few dockworkers, up early enough to try their hand at catching breakfast looked up at his approach. They saw an old man with the look of a Wizard about him. The ornately carved staff he held in his right hand tapped a counterpoint to the click of his heels against the oiled wood of the boardwalk. Most of his face was hidden within the deep cowl of his cloak so they saw little of the expression he wore. If they had they would have sent up a quick prayer, for the face of the old man was one of sorrow and death.

  Rawn finished the knot he was tying and looked up at the sound of footsteps. A figure was descending the ladder to the dock he shared with two others. Phalup and Gruen were still in their pallets he imagined; sometimes, old bones prefer it that way when the fog rolls in. A lopsided smile split his homely face when he saw who it was.

  “A grand good morrow t'ye m'lord, so ye've decided to let ol’ Rawn ferry ye once more, eh?” He stood to let Milward enter his boat.

  The old Wizard kept silent and Rawn shook his head as he worked the lashings free from their pilings, Wizards, they've their own way of doin’ things. In deference to his state of being, and wanting to keep it that way, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  Beneath the fog, the surface of the strait lay smooth as a pane of fine glass and Rawn's small craft slid from its slip without a sound. Once away from Grisham harbor and into the strait proper, the old ferryman settled back into the familiar rhythms of tiller and wave with barely a glance at his silent passenger.

  With Rawn's long years of experience, the trip across the strait from Grisham's docks to the great library perched on the heights above the eastern shore proved uneventful and reasonably short.

  Milward exited the craft and flipped a coin towards the ferryman. Rawn caught it with one hand and opened his fingers to look at it, “A gold? Thank'e, m'lord, thank'e.”

  “Consider it a reward for your silence.” Milward turned back in the direction of the long stair that climbed the cliffs and began walking, his staff again tapping out that odd counterpoint to the sound of his heels.

  Rawn pushed off the dock with the pole he kept for that purpose. Wizards is passin’ strange folk, he thought, generous sometimes, but passin’ strange.

  The steps climbing to the library had been carved in the distant past. They curved upwards, cutting through the tough stone of the headland upon which the library stood.

  A few terns, setting their nests started slightly as the Wizard passed and then resettled. Tending to their eggs was more important than scolding old men.

  At the top of the stair the path split. To the left, arcing around a natural abutment, the path changed to thick slabs of inset rose marble leading to a covered patio set against the cliff's edge. During the days of the Empire, royalty was wont to meet there and enjoy the spectacular view, while discussing matters of state.

  To the right the path snaked through canyons of natural rock and the man-made walls of the library's outbuildings until it opened up into the expansive grounds fronting the main building.

  A long-silent fountain stood in the center of the open forum fronting the library. Milward paused for a second and gazed into the rainwater collected in its basin. A scum of light green algae coated the surface of the water. He reached down and stirred it with a fingertip. So much for the plans of men and Wizards, he thought, look where my temper has brought me.

  He flicked the collected algae off his finger back into the fountain and walked up to the library door. Using the head of his staff he knocked three times on the oversized oaken panels.

  Inside the library Alten Baldricsson, the Librarian, lifted his head at the sound of the knock. A small flicker of annoyance passed over his face, discarded as soon as it was born. The two prophecies on his desk would wait well enough as they had for centuries past. He received too few visitors as it was for him to start ignoring them now.

  The knock sounded again. “I'll be there, I'll be there. These old bones don't move all that quickly you know,” Alten muttered his complaint to the door as he made his way through the scattered chests and crates in the anteroom he'd been using to sort some of the older materials.

  Another knock sounded at he opened the door. “Milward, This is a surprise! I didn't expect you to return so ... What's wrong? You look terrible.”

  “Can I come in?” The old Wizard's voice came out as a bare whisper.

  Alten stepped aside to allow his oldest friend to pass, “Of course, of course. You know you never have to ask that of me. Come in, I've a nice pot of tisane at the boil.”

  Milward's brief grin did not reach his eyes. “That would be nice.”

  He stepped into the foyer and walked past the Librarian who closed the door and then hurried to catch up. “What is it Milward? What happened?”

  “Let me drink first old friend, then we'll talk. I need something to settle my insides.”

  Alten nodded, “Certainly, I've left the pot in the kitchen, you know the way.”

  They walked side by side through the Library, neither one of them speaking. Alten pushed open the door but allowed Milward to enter first. The scent of the tisane filled the room with its citrus-cinnamon aroma.

  “This is my own recipe Milward, you'll find it'll sooth what troubles your insides, then we can talk about what's troubling your soul.” Alten dipped a mugfull from the tisane pot into a couple of crockery mugs he pulled from the cupboard nearby.

  “Thank you.” The old Wizard took one of the cups and sipped.

  Alten sat across from his friend and shared a long period of silence along with the hot drink.

  Milward put his empty cup back onto the table and looked at his friend with tortured eyes, “I've lost him, Alten, that damnable temper of mine, I let it get the best of me and now he's gone.”

  “Who's gone?”

  “The young man who was with me before, the one the prophecy speaks about. He's gone. I drove him away with my temper, with my fear.” The old Wizard picked up his cup and looked into it, “May I have some more?”

  “Of course,” He refilled the cup, and as Milward drank, Alten peered at him closely. “You mean the young man who's to be the next Emperor? He's the one you're talking about?”

  Milward looked up. “Yes, he's the one, and because of me he's turned from it. He's put himself into the hands of the Grisham City Guard. Now he'll probably get involved in this petty war that's coming. Any chance of him fulfilling his destiny has flown out the window.”

  “Apparently, old friend, you've read the prophecy of Labad but didn't read it.”

  “What? What are you talking about now?” The Wizard's voice sharpened.

  “Ah, ah, Milward, that temper of yours, remember?” Alten admonished. “Take a moment and listen to what I'm saying. That letter written to your young man and his sister they found with the original prophecy said something about them being of his blood, Labad's blood. They are royalty old friend and he will be Emperor. I feel it in my bones. He'll take the job, don't you worry.”

  Milward sipped a bit more of his tisane. “A prophecy Alten, or just a feeling?”

  “A feeling, but there's something else, something I was reading when you knocked. Bring your cup and come with me. Both the cook and Felsten are in the city doing their shopping so we're on our own here.” Alten picked up his cup and left the kitchen.

  “Might as well see what the old fool's talking about,” Milward murmured as he mimicked his friend's actions and followed him back through the hallways to the chest crowded anteroom.

  �
�Over here,” Alten motioned the Wizard over to the reading desk set before the high cathedral windows. The morning light shone onto the open volume on the desk. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams. “This one I found while cleaning out one of the older rooms. It has some rather interesting things to say about the Empire.”

  In spite of his depression Milward found himself developing an interest in the Librarian's find. “Is it one of Labad's writings?”

  Alten shook his head, “No, that's what caught my eye first. It's Dwarf and I think there's more of their work in these chests over here.” He pointed to a jumble of chests and crates off to the left. “Some of this stuff dates a few thousand years before Labad, before there even was an Empire.”

  “Dwarf you say,” Milward mused, “In all the centuries that I've had dealings with them I've never heard an inkling of a turn toward the prophetic. As far as I know even the Dragons are unaware of this,” He fingered one of the pages of the Dwarf prophecy, “But what does this have to do with Adam?”

  “Before we go into that, tell me about the boy. Why does his going off on his own distress you so much?” Alten leaned on the reading desk with an elbow as he regarded Milward over the rim of his cup.

  The old Wizard seemed to collapse within himself and a long sigh escaped through his beard, “As you must know, the boy is magik, being of the Blood he couldn't be anything else.”

  Alten nodded.

  “What I haven't told you is just how powerful his magik is.”

  “Surely he can't be stronger than you.”

  Milward's laugh sounded bitter and forced, “I wish I had half his strength. If he ever lives to fulfill his potential ... Alten, he can't control a nits worth of his power and what he does use is so far beyond my capabilities I can't even begin to comprehend it.”

  He sighed, “I'm not rightly sure what happened. It started when we left you. Now that I think about it, it seems to have come from an outside source. I'll bet it has something to do with what that fool Gilgafed's been playing at. It affected Adam a bit too, but it made me crankier than an old boar with the trots, and because of that I've driven Adam off to play soldier.”