The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  “Ahh, thank you,” Alford sat back up and motioned to the speaker, “Gerold-Lyrd, a question, if I may?”

  “Of course, my Lord Emperor,” Lyrd turned away from watching Milward and his guide make their slow way down toward the dais to look up at Alford, “What is it?”

  Alford considered how to phrase his question. Inwardly he was having a ball, watching Gerold-Lyrd's upset of the Council's apple cart was the most fun he'd had in seasons, especially since he'd been forced to declare war upon Grisham. It wouldn't do to have the young man die from an accident, like metal poisoning, for example. He raised an eyebrow and favored Gerold-Lyrd with a lopsided smile, “For the past half-hour you have accused the Imperial Council of nearly every crime in the Empire's lexicon short of barratry, and I'm almost sure if you carried Esquire after your name, they'd accuse you of that particular crime. So, my question is this, do you have a death wish?”

  Gerold-Lyrd blinked, “I ... don't understand Milord Emperor.”

  Alford leaned forward, “Politics makes a fine sword, but a poor shield.”

  “An interesting observation, is that a quote?” Milward stepped up onto the dais next to Gerold-Lyrd.

  More grumbles came from the seated Council Members. A few off to his right held a particularly angry tone. One of the loudest was a florid-faced fat man with quivering jowls sitting on the front tier. Each of the fingers on his hands sported a heavy gold ring fitted with a large stone, and they flashed as he folded his hands across his paunch, glowering at the Wizard, “Get that filthy vagabond off the dais! This is the Imperial Council, not a First Ring tavern!”

  General laughter greeted the derision, and the fat member settled further back into his chair, pleased with the results of his joke.

  “Members, please!” Gerold-Lyrd raised his hands in an attempt to restore order. The laughter died down, albeit slowly. When quiet finally reigned, the young Council Member turned back to face the Emperor, “This is no vagabond, as the distinguished Member asserts, Your Majesty, but a man of great learning, one of the Wizards of the north. I learned of his presence in Ort just a short while ago. There is every reason to believe he himself may have been present when the Empire was created. It is said the Wizards were instrumental in helping Labad win the Magik Wars. Perhaps it would be useful if the Council availed itself of his wisdom.”

  So, you're the one, Milward thought, I'd wondered who sent that queer little fellow out looking for me.

  Gerold-Lyrd's introduction of Milward brought the fat Council Member to his feet, “Your Majesty, please, must we be subjected to this farce? First the young whelp insults our integrity,our ethids, and now he insults our intelligence. It is common knowledge there are no Wizards, just as it is common knowledge that there is no such thing as magik. If we must endure this spectacle, at least issue the fellow a jester's hat and have him dance for his supper.” General laughter rippled across the Council Chamber as the fat man sat back into his chair looking insufferably pleased with himself.

  Milward lay a hand on the rapidly coloring Lyrd's shoulder and murmured, “Easy there lad. The worst thing you can do with a fool like that is to allow him to think he's baited you. Allow me to speak now.” He patted the shoulder and then released it, turning to face the assembled council.

  He looked down at his well-worn traveling attire and gathered a bit of his cloak in his free hand. Then he raised his eyes to those of the Council Members and graced them with a self-effacing smile, “I do look a bit of the vagabond, don't I?”

  A ragged trill of quiet laughter wafted through the chamber. The fat Council Member scowled, as if Milward was stealing his audience.

  “And of course it is wise to be wary of those calling themselves Wizards, but please be fair, gentle sires,” he stopped and struck a pose, “at least I'm not the tax man.” More laughter came, this time stronger. The fat Council Member looked uncomfortable.

  Milward waited for the laughter to settle and then raised a beseeching hand, “Allow me, gentle sires, I pray, to introduce myself and my mission. If, after due consideration, you find my plight to be unworthy, I will depart in peace and you will have done nothing more than to enjoy an old man's tale.” He brought his hand down with a flourish and finished with a bow that would have graced the elaborate balls held in the Ortian Court. Milward held that pose as he waited for the Council's reaction.

  At first nothing happened, and then from the back of the chamber came, “Hear him.”

  Then from the far right, “Hear him.”

  And then from the far left, “Hear him.”

  As the calls for the Wizard to be heard spread across the Council Chamber, the fat Member's scowl deepened. Gerold-Lyrd leaned over to Milward and whispered, “Beware Baxtr-Kin, Milord Wizard, he perceives you as a threat to his power.”

  Milward whispered back, “Which one is he?”

  “The fat one in the front tier, third seat to your left.”

  The old Wizard turned his head the fraction it took to bring Baxtr-Kin into view. “My word,” he murmured, “he is a fat one, isn't he?” He shrugged, “Don't you worry, my young friend, before this gathering is over, our friendly Councilor will have an entirely different opinion regarding me.”

  Milward turned back to face the assembled Members, allowing a slow smile to crease his face, “Thank you, honored Councilors of Ort, for allowing me the opportunity to share my words with your august assembly. Words can be like a fine meal for the soul, and,” he paused with a glance in Baxtr-Kin's direction, “I am sure that at least of few of you know well the pleasure of that pastime.”

  A smattering of chuckles rang out across the chamber. Milward was sure he heard Baxter-Kin's name mixed in with a few of them. The fat Councilor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and sent black looks in the Wizard's direction. He signaled to one of the aides standing in the wings and scribbled something onto a piece of parchment that the boy took quickly off the chamber floor.

  Milward noted the exchange and filed it for later reference, and then he added his own chuckle to those fading from the chamber as he raised his hand for attention, “Alas, I am not so fortunate to be one who can allow his belly to be his passion, as I am sure many of you honored sires share my fate,” He pitched his voice low for the last half of the sentence. Baxtr-Kin's scowl deepened, “No, ‘tis my unhappy destiny to leave this life to be able to count my toes. But that is not the reason I stand before you this day. No, honored Councilors of Ort, the reason I stand here today is for a far more solemn duty than the pleasures of the table.

  “War is a nasty pasttime,is it not? And therefore we leave it to those with the intestinal fortitude to stomach its gruesome details. But, I ask you, honored Members; must an entire people suffer for the wrongs of one man? I ask this because I know something about the reason for this war and of the man who began it.”

  A crusty looking Councilor seated near the back called out, “What do you propose we do, send the blackard an engraved note to come out peaceably to his hanging?” Chuckles scattered through the chamber along with a few, well said's. Baxtr-Kin's face grew a smug sneer as he nodded agreement with the heckler.

  Milward refused to rise to the bait, but smiled warmly at the old Councilor, “Actually, Sire Councilor, I would not be beyond trying such an enterprise. It certainly couldn't bear less fruit than what has been born so far, or have none of you received word of the earthquake that split the combatants in twain?” The murmur that followed the old Wizard's question gave him the answer he expected.

  “So, you did not know,” Milward smiled as if in pity. “Or you do not believe me.” He reached over and gripped his staff with both hands, leaning his weight onto the ancient wood. “Either way, it doesn't matter. As I speak, the Duke of Grisham sits comfortably within his nest like an old spider gloating over his meal. Tell me, how long will the Empire keep herself undefended because her armies are thousands of leagues to the north on a fool's errand?” He raised a hand to forestall comment, “That was a rhetori
cal question, but the point is made, is it not?”

  Baxtr-Kin felt he'd heard enough nonsense and surged to his feet as quickly as his bulk would allow, “So, Wizard, if indeed that is your title, are insults the only fare you're going to offer the Council? Honeyed words, spoken by a Lord or a vagabond, are still honeyed words, and insults buried within them still offer offense. I believe the time has come to show the proof of whom or what you are, regardless of young Gerold-Lyrd's sponsorship. And, I believe I have the support of the Council in this matter.” The fat Councilor planted both fists on his hips and scowled at Milward.

  Gerold-Lyrd stepped forward from his spot off the dais, but stopped when he ran into the Wizard's staff.

  “No lad, this lesson is mine to give,” Milward's voice held a dangerous edge as he looked down at Baxter-Kin. “You want proof, do you?” Milward's hold on his temper, fragile at the best of times, had been severely strained by the fat Councilor's pugnacity. He seemed to swell to twice his size as he raised his hands and the wolf's head of his staff glowed brighter and brighter until it became painful to the eye. The wizard's voice boomed out in a voice like thunder, “Know you that I am Milward, last of the Wizards who fought alongside Labad in the Magik Wars. I walked this soil before your distant ancestors saw the light of day, and will do so long after your bones have turned to dust. Men stronger than you have quailed at the mention of my name with good reason, for they knew who stood before them. Mock not what you know not for you do so at you own peril!”

  As the Wizard's last words echoed off into the chamber, he lowered his arms and returned to his normal size, looking just as he had before, an elderly vagabond traveler, slightly bent at the shoulders. Shocked silence reigned over his audience.

  “Labad himself placed a charge upon me to watch over a certain portion of his legacy. This I have done so to the best of my ability, but by Bardoc, you people would try the patience of the Maker himself,” Milward said the last quietly as he once again leaned on his staff.

  Alford shook his head, both to clear his senses and the ringing in his ears. The old man, correct that, Wizard, had nearly deafened him. Who would have thought the stories he'd heard as a youth would turn out to be true?

  Baxter-Kin was almost apoplectic with rage. The fools around him had been cajoled with a magician's trick. The young whelp, Gerold-Lyrd was not going to get away with his attack on decades of scheming, graft, and dearly won power and privilege, not to mention gold. The initial shock of the old man's act had dropped him back into his seat, but he levered himself upright once again and pointed an angry finger at Milward, “Trickery, sirrah, no mater how elaborate, is still trickery, and not proof. I have walked this soil many years myself, and in obviously better circles than you, and I have seen your like before, often during the harvest faires where your kind playacts for the coppers the children throw at their feet.” He turned and spread his arms in an appeal to the assembled Chamber, “My fellow Council Members, are you going to allow yourselves to be swayed by the smooth tongue and carnival flummery of this rumpled fraud? I say, nay! Never will I let slip the knowledge gained by living and learning in the greatest city of this world, that says there is no such thing as magik or Wizards, nor should you. Be reasonable now,” he smiled beatifically, “do you really think what you saw actually happened?”

  A few of Baxter-Kin's cohorts raised their voices in shouts of, “No!” but the calls seemed to lack the strength of conviction. He nodded, as if the affirmation was unanimous, and turned to face Milward, “You heard the voice of the Council, trickster, what say you? Where is the real proof of whom or what you are?”

  “You sweating, fat bastard!” Gerold-Lyrd swung around Milward, startling the old Wizard out of the shaping he'd begun, and inadvertently saving Baxter-Kin's life, “How dare you treat a guest of the Council like that. You have shamed my house, and me and I am sick of the way you have corrupted what we do.” The young Council Member drew himself up and breathed deeply, “There is a very old custom we haven't used for generations, but it is still there, and I propose to use it now ... I chall...”

  “You will not!” Alford's voice rang out. Baxter-Kin didn't know it but his life had just been saved for the second time.

  All eyes turned to look at the Emperor, but rather than the anger they expected to see, Alford's expression showed amusement as he leaned forward, fixing his gaze upon Milward. “We will discuss your temper later, Gerold-Lyrd. Well, Master Wizard, it appears you and I have a few things to talk about.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gilgafed, the preeminent Sorcerer of the Northern world, stood in the pinnacle of his mountaintop fortress gazing out at the storm as it shrieked against the unyielding stone of his sanctuary. He could feel his doom now, stronger than ever, moving unceasingly across the steppes. Damn his arrogance! Damn his pride! Damn his stupidity in thinking he could control the Seeker. If it hadn't been for Cobain ... he brushed away the thought. Sending out the Golems had been an expensive waste of time. The creature hadn't even paused in its march; it merely absorbed the animating energy of the clay, leaving the steppe littered with hundreds of small terra cotta lumps that blew away in the evening wind.

  “Cobain!” He shouted his servant's name without taking his eyes off the storm. Somehow the primal ferocity of nature at its worst was comforting to him, it made the feel of things less ... ethereal.

  “Cobain!” Where was that fool? Gilgafed glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance to his chamber. The sound of running feet and a hoarse panting rose from the stairwells depths. The Sorcerer's servant appeared at the door and stumbled through, breathing heavily. The Sorcerer smiled knowingly, “Ah, there you are, what took you so long?”

  It took Cobain three tries to catch his breath enough to answer, “...but milord, it is seven flights. I ran all the way.”

  “Not fast enough, Cobain. Try harder next time. I don't relish having to call you twice. Where is it now?”

  Cobain did not have to ask what it was. McCabe's steady advance across the steppes had been the subject of conversation for the past week. The creature he'd become hadn't varied the track of his journey one iota. Any village or hunting encampment unfortunate enough to be in his path simply ceased to exist for six feet in either direction. “It is approaching the coastal range, Milord. Nothing stops it, nothing!” Cobain's voice rose to the edge of hysteria and then cut off as Gilgafed's palm slammed against his jaw.

  “None of that! Compose yourself, that's better,” the Sorcerer nodded and then turned back to watch the storm. “So far the creature has done nothing I could not have done myself, given the proper circumstances. If, and when, it crosses the range we shall see who has the greater power. Leave me.”

  * * * *

  As Thaylli, the wolf, and their unlooked for guests, approached the tunnel's back door, Drinaugh, Dragonkind's’ first Ambassador glided down through the clouds toward the forest east of Grisham. It was always so freeing for the young Dragon to rid himself of the Earth's shackles, but there was a feeling that overrode even the joy of flight, he was going to be seeing his young Wizard friend again. The incongruence of a Dragon having such feelings for a human was not lost on him, merely ignored.

  The undulating wave of green that was the forest roof came into view as he broke through the last of the cloud cover. A migrating V of Ringnecks honked in agitation as he passed. Below, patches of darker green showed where small clearings in the trees appeared.

  Drinaugh banked sharply to avoid flying too close to a circling Dunhawk. Coming out of the bank, a scent caught his nose. It smelled of magik ... and something else. He backwinged to slow his speed and then began circling, sniffing the air.

  Thaylli looked at Hodder, Stroughten, and Wuest in disgust. Over the past couple of hours she and the wolf had had to stop and give the trio time to catch their breath. If the three of them were any measure of the average man in Grisham, it was definitely high time she took her leave of the City. Adam had more of a man in a f
inger than all three of them had gathered together.

  The wolf looked over her shoulder at the panting men and growled a short statement, it sounded derisive.

  Thaylli nodded, “I quite agree. Even pregnant, it seems I'm pushing them too hard. Come on you lot, we've got to get going.”

  Stroughten looked up at her, his hands upon his knees, “Can't we wait a bit longer, Miss? You've run us ragged. I'm totally fagged.”

  “Leum's right, Miss, I couldn't crawl another inch, not even if there was a pile of food waiting at the end.” Wuest slid down with his back against the tunnel wall.

  Thaylli threw up her hands, “But I'm pregnant. I'm carrying this heavy pack and a baby. How can you be so exhausted when I'm not?”

  “You wasn't chased by a pack of bleedin’ Blood Crabs neither,” Hodder joined Wuest against the tunnel wall. “Just give us a bit more an’ we'll be right along.”

  Thaylli looked at the wolf, “How about I just tell my wolf to eat you?”

  “What?” Wuest bolted upright, all thought of his exhaustion gone. “What was that? You can't sic your beast on us! We haven't done anything to deserve murder.”

  “Gods!” Stroughten retreated further into the recesses of the tunnel, “We're gonna die, I know it!”

  Thaylli sniffed at their show of dismay, “Hmph, I knew it, you can move if you have to. You were just being lazy. Well, I'm not going to stand here waiting for you any longer, let's go.” She nodded at the wolf, who looked as if her own opinion of the trio had somehow managed to sink even further.

  “You skrudding witch!” Hodder slapped a hand against the bricks of the tunnel floor in frustration, “You did that on purpose! I've got a good mind to...”

  Wuest grabbed his friend's arm and kept him from rising, “Don't do it. Leum. She's right, and if you think about it, we all know it. There's no reason we can't get up now and follow along, no reason at all, but I've been getting this funny feeling, like it's just that I feel ... I don't know, beaten, I guess.”