The Promised Ones [The Wells End Chronicles Book 1]

by Robert Beers

  He picked up a rag and wiped the knife he was holding clean, then slid it onto the block. “Thank you, Hersh. You're a good teacher, that's all.”

  “Don't try to compliment my brother, Hersh. He's lousy at accepting praise.” Charity came into the workroom drying her hands. She had proved a quick study on the art of sausage making, and Hersh felt confident enough in her ability to follow his recipes that he had devoted most of his time to teaching Adam.

  “Aye, that I be finding out, lass.” Hersh clapped Adam on the back with enough force to stagger him. “But he's a good lad, in spite of that fault.”

  Adam's blush was apparent as he turned to wash his hands and put away the knives, cleaver and saw.

  Charity tittered and took Hersh by the arm. “Shall we depart from the blushing prince, milord? Methinks he desires privacy anon.”

  “Huh?” Then Hersh caught on. “By all means, my lady, let us heigh away, post haste.”

  They left Adam glowering next to the sink, and paraded from the workroom arm in arm.

  * * * *

  Ornette sat next to Willard, and tossed a meat scrap to the cat who caught it on the fly with her claws. Her tummy was decidedly rounder than when they first arrived in Dunwattle two weeks earlier. He picked another out of the bowl, and flipped it to the cat with his thumb. “I dunno, Willie, she don't seem to get the hint. Not that she ain't nice to me an’ all, but even when I brung her flowers, all I got was a ‘thank you, Ornette, they're very nice.’ This courtin’ stuff's hard.”

  Willard had no idea of what to say to his friend. Ornette was a year older, and far wiser in the ways of the world than he was. The lady in question, Charity, was, in his mind, far, far above his station. That Ornette even considered that he had a chance was achievement worthy of huzzahs in itself. He tried to compose an answer that would sound wise and worldly. “Well, Orn, You know I was the one whut brung her th’ hot water when she come into town.”

  “I know, Willie.” Willard had only told that story on a daily basis for the past two weeks.

  “Well, when she come out of th’ bath, I near saw her figgin, I did.”

  “I know, Willie.” Ornette tossed another scrap to the cat.

  “An’ she patted my cheek, she did.”

  “I know, Willie.”

  Well ... I be thinkin’ that maybe she might be, I'm only thinkin’ mind you, lookin’ fer a hero type ... maybe. You think?”

  Ornette considered his friend's suggestion. Much as he hated to admit it, Willie could have struck near the truth of the matter. Bardoc knows, he was no hero, not like her brother. He'd seen the size of the sword Adam wore when they first came into the shop. He also had no desire to arouse the wrath of the one who wielded that blade.

  He placed his hand on Willard's shoulder. “I reckon so, Willie.”

  * * * *

  Milward fumed, something was keeping him trapped within the vortex. The shaping had been blocked from completion. He traced the pattern of it in his mind's eye, inspecting the work as minutely as possible. Golden strokes mixed with silver, as was normal with this type of shaping. He turned his attention to the pattern below him, and found something that shouldn't be there, red strokes mixed in with the silver and gold as if someone had come behind him, and added to the painting. A name came to mind: Gilgafed.

  After promising the Sorcerer a very nasty surprise once he freed himself from his impromptu prison, Milward had to admit it was ingenious. This shaping would hold him to the end of creation and beyond unless he managed to find the correct way to erase the red. Use the wrong technique, and it would collapse upon him, leaving nothing but a small greasy spot on the ether.

  He focused his attention on Gilgafed's work, and began the slow process of tracing its path. He thought to himself. “One good thing. At least I can't get hungry here.”

  * * * *

  “Well?” The Baron snapped his inquiry at the shaking functionary as the man entered his chambers.

  “Avern, milord.”

  “What?!” The Baron's shout blew the messenger back a step. “Avern? There has to be a mistake. Spu and Avern have been at peace since they were trading villages on an unnamed lake. He was riding with the son of Avern on that very lake when he disappeared!”

  “There is no mistake, milord. He is most insistent on it, and his parents are demanding you declare war.”

  The Baron considered his options. At best, he could only stall the enraged parents. Their money controlled the council, and the council controlled the collection of taxes that paid the bulk of Spu's soldier's salaries.

  “Alverd!”

  His aide came running."Yes, milord.” Alverd puffed.

  “Get me a messenger. He's to take a note to Avern, it will be ready within the hour.”

  * * * *

  “Spu!? You are absolutely sure he said, Spu?” The Duke was flabbergasted. “Take me to him. At once!”

  The Duke bent over his cousin. The boy's lips were still split from his dehydration, and his eyes wouldn't focus, but he looked a little better. Thank Bardoc for that. “Speak to me, boy. Who did this to you?”

  His cousin's eyes tried to track onto his face, and then closed. “My eyes won't work right.” He whispered.

  The Duke held his hand and patted it. “They'll come back, boy. Give it time. Can you tell me who did this to you?”

  “They ... they said they ... were from Spu. Said they were repaying us for violating the trade agreement.”

  “Spu...” The name escaped from the Duke's lips like a slow curse. There had been peace between the two cities as long as they'd existed. Avern was faithful to the trade agreement. Had always been. Now it was time for something new.

  * * * *

  “Gilgafed must have been practicing,” Milward thought, as he traced the path of the foreign shaping within his own. The red stroke fought him as he worked it, fading in and out of vision at random. “Yes, he must have been burning the midnight wretch.” Chuckling at his joke, he continued to trace the slippery stroke, matching his will against that of his enemy, picking at it cautiously but with a firmness of purpose. He had to be there for the twins, he had to be. According to the prophecy, unless he was badly mistaken, war was coming.

  * * * *

  Charity mixed the herbs and spices into the bowl of meat. A bead of sweat dangled from the end of her nose, and then released and fell into the mixture. High summer was upon them. It was now over a year since they'd fallen into this world. She thought about all the changes she and her brother had gone through since that time he stood there telling her how he'd defended her honor. Too many to count. She'd walked out of the woods a girl, and now here she was making sausages and entering into womanhood.

  Ornette came into the sausage hut carrying a box of cleaned entrails. “Da asked me to bring you these, Charity.”

  “Thank you, Ornette.” Charity paused in her mixing to wipe her face with a dry cloth. At least the boy had stopped calling her Miss Charity, though he was still looking at her with mooneyes every time she caught his gaze. She was considering asking Adam to have a talk with him; that is, if Adam didn't terminally blush with the effort.

  Ornette stood there a moment as if he had something he wanted to say, and then turned and left the hut.

  Charity fastened the end of one of the cleaned swine intestines to the nozzle of the sausage maker, and began feeding the meat and spice mixture by turning the crank. When the translucent tube was filled, she moved it to the counter, and began tying off links as Hersh had shown her months ago.

  Adam came in, wiping his face with one of the cloths he seemed to always have on him these days. “Are you about done? Hersh says we're having dinner at the Inn tonight.” He leaned over and sniffed her.” And, I think you should wash a bit before we go, don't you? You don't want him mistaking you for one of the hogs.”

  He ducked the thrown intestine, and called out to her over his shoulder as he headed back to the main house. “I'll wait for you on the porch. By t
he way, Hersh wants us to bring our weapons, don't ask me why; he wouldn't tell me.”

  “Our weapons?” She wondered. “Why would Hersh want us to bring our weapons? She hadn't picked up her bow in weeks. It felt rather good not to have the awkward weight of the quiver on her back. She looked in the direction of Adam's departure for a moment, and then turned to clean up from her sausage making before she went to take her bath.

  The Inn was crowded when they arrived. Charity's bath had felt good enough that she had lingered a bit, and an impatient Adam had to pound on the door to rouse her.

  Hersh waved them over to his table, and they wove their way through the crowd. Several people in the crowd called out to them, and a few of the younger women dimpled at Adam, whereas all of the younger men followed Charity's passage with an appraising look. Ornette shifted in his seat smugly as Charity sat next to him. He studiously avoided noting the fact that it was the only one left after Adam sat down.

  A serving girl brought them drinks. Charity looked up as she was leaving. “Uh, I didn't want ale.”

  Hersh motioned to her with his right hand. “Shh, missy. Leave it. I'll drink it for you. She'll be back.”

  Charity looked at the foaming goblet. “But I didn't want it.”

  Adam sipped his. He'd acquired a taste for the nut-brown beverage over the weeks he'd spent with Hersh learning his trade. The big man liked to spend his lunches talking about the butcher's life while he downed prodigious amounts of sausages and ale. Adam discovered one was usually more than enough for him, and he'd developed a technique of nursing it along, enjoying the bittersweet flavor. “What's the occasion, Hersh?”

  The big Butcher leaned forward. The table creaked as it adjusted to the load. “Rumors, lad, and I be hoping that's all they be, too.”

  Charity moved Ornette's hand back to his own lap. “Rumors of what?”

  Hersh drained his ale and picked up Charity's.” War, lassie, war, and I be sayin’ no more just now. Wait till our Lord Mayor speaks his peace.” He downed half the ale in the goblet, and set it down with a thunk.

  A dandy leaned on the table, and spoke to Hersh in a slurred stage whisper.” Hersh, old man, they're saying Avern is marshaling all of the Dairylands even to Southpoint. Hundreds of thousands of Lancers, and they're threatening to burn Dunwattle to the ground!”

  Hersh leaned over and took the dandy by his ruffled shirt. “Belcon, you place too much faith in those drunken friends of yours, and you're drunk now. I'll be hearin’ no more rumorin’ comin’ from you this night, or I'll be workin’ on a new sausage recipe. Are you understandin’ me, Belcon?”

  The dandy nodded vigorously, suddenly sober.

  In spite of the seriousness of the occasion, Adam and Charity could not help smiling at Hersh's admonition to the dandy. Ornette sat there, wide-eyed.

  “Avern is the city on the southern shore of Firth Lake, isn't it?” Adam had been trying to learn about the geography of the lands about them, though most of the folk in Dunwattle knew nothing of the lands beyond the two major cities of Spu and Avern. Some of them, like Belcon, had traveled throughout the Dairylands, even as far as Southpoint, thousands of leagues to the southern tip of the Western lands.

  “Aye, lad, it is, and even if Belcon's ramblings had a grain of truth to them, we'd not be seein’ any lancers until late harvest, if even then.”

  “Look. There's the Mayor.” Charity pointed to the landing where the stairs to the upstairs rooms made their ninety-degree turn.

  The Lord Mayor was a red-faced man of an age with Hersh and Jully the Innkeeper. His surcoat was made of a wine-colored velvet that showed patches of wear at the elbows. His plus fours were of a fine make, but slightly dusty along with his buckle down shoes. The Lord Mayor did not appear to be a man who shirked a bit of labor when it was necessary. The size of his paunch showed he gave the same consideration to his supper table, as well. His florid face sported bushy orangeish eyebrows and mutton chop whiskers that were losing the battle to the creeping white hairs of middle age.

  He rested a hand on the banister, and struck a pose that said, I'm not here just for show folks, give an ear. “People of Dunwattle. I've news that all of us must pay heed to.”

  A voice from the back of the room called out. “We knows that Harry, skip th’ polytick an’ just tell us plain. We ain't afeared ta fight iffn’ we's gots to.”

  The Lord Mayor relaxed from his pose and put both hands on his hips. “I know that voice. Keep to your pigs, Sammmel Gruen, and I'll keep to what the Baron's father put me here to do.”

  “Besides eatin’ Hersh's sausages?” There was general laughter at that. The Mayor's penchant for the savory links was well known.

  The Mayor reddened and called for quiet. Hersh stood and echoed the demand. The room stilled, and Hersh sat down and motioned for Harry to proceed.

  The Mayor cleared his throat. “I have heard grave news, friends” A shabbily dressed man next to Ornette opened his mouth, but shut it at a glare from Hersh. “As some of you may have heard, there are rumors of war circulating.” Murmurs of agreement. “I have the sad duty to inform you that the rumors are founded in fact.” A gasp washed across the room, and then everyone began speaking at once.

  He raised his hands for silence, and the clamor wound down like a balloon slowly losing its air. “Last week a messenger went south to Spu with the usual packet of scrolls, papers and some coin for banking. He arrived back here yesterday with terrible news.”

  “What news?”

  The Mayor favored the interruption with a frown. “As I was saying, Terrible news. The Duke of Avern has declared war upon Spu, and murdered the Envoy the Baron sent him.”

  Another gasp but no clamor followed this news. “This happened two weeks ago, which leaves us little time to prepare for what may happen to our town.”

  Hersh spoke to the twins in an undertone. “This is what I feared, which is why I asked you to bring your weapons. There is every chance we be seeing Avern's scout parties in Dunwattle this very night.”

  “I thought Spu and Avern were friends.” Adam leaned in so he could speak to Hersh without disturbing those who were listening to the Mayor's plans for the defense of the town.

  “Aye, they have been, for as long as anyone can remember.” Hersh reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Hush, now. Let's see what Mayor Harry has to say.”

  The Mayor had moved into the positioning of key members of the community to defensive placements around the town. “...Now old Thom, you'll be best on the church tower with that eye sight of yours to see if trouble's coming our way. Fredl, if you can set up along Doggin's wall, I think...”

  Adam took hold of Hersh's arm. “I think Charity and I should go back to the shop, and see if we can do something there.”

  Hersh looked to Charity to see if she felt the same. She nodded. He blew out his cheeks in a gusty sigh. “Very well, then, it's a good thought, lad, go to it. You go with them, Ornette.”

  “But Da...”

  “None of that! Get going.”

  The Mayor's voice continued behind them as they left the Inn."...Now Elizabetta, like it or not, we'll be needing a lot of bandages. If you can gather some of the ladies and...”

  * * * *

  “Ahhh, here we go.” Milward found the working end of the red stroke.

  “Oh ... blast him to the pit, and give him a double case of the stones.” He cursed Gilgafed under his breath as he found the knot at the end. It was complex in the extreme. Gilgafed had painted it closed after sculpting a trap within its many folds. Milward knew he could get out eventually, he had too many centuries of experience, but would he get out in time?

  * * * *

  “Pour me another, will you, Cobain?” Gilgafed held his crystal goblet out to his servant. He could feel the wizard's frustration as he tried to break out of his trap. It was a stroke of good fortune that he had happened to be scrying as the wizard shaped the traveling. He had never worked so quickly before, and just now was
recovering the energy lost in his spell, a hasty, but very nasty, effective block to the end of the traveling vortex that held a lovely little boobytrap within its thread. He maintained a link with his shaping so he could enjoy his old adversary's frustration.

  Cobain filled his master's goblet with more of the blood red wine he favored, and waited. Gilgafed sniffed the wine and held the crystal goblet up to the light, and then drank. “Adequate, Cobain, adequate. Leave me, now, I have some contemplation that needs to be seen to.”

  Cobain bowed out from his master's presence. Gilgafed sat in his chair, his fingers lightly tracing the scars that crept across his cheek.

  * * * *

  Cloutier leaned over his bed, and gently patted the cheek of the maiden that lay across his bed. She did not respond to the pats. Cloutier sighed, and left the bed to go over to where his clothes lay. His master's power allowed him free reign within his tastes. Too bad they led to so many disappointments.

  He pulled a silken cord next to the armoire, and then began dressing.

  His manservant showed up as he was settling the gold circlet onto his brow. “Ah, there you are, Youch. What news of my little war?”

  “None since the last pigeon, Milord.”

  Cloutier adjusted his cravat.” Very well. Have my luncheon prepared. I'll have the baby asparagus, suckling swine and new potatoes. Oh, and Youch?”

  “Milord?”

  He pointed to the maiden in his bed. “Find me another one, will you? That one is broken.”

  * * * *

  Charity finished inspecting the last of her arrows, and placed it into the quiver with the others. She looked at her brother. He was running his thumb along the edge of his sword. “Adam?”

  “Uh hmmm?”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  He put the sword down and looked at his sister. Sometimes her ability with the bow caused him to forget that she was still a very young woman. “I really don't know. I'm hoping this is all a scare that doesn't come to pass, but I'm afraid we're going to find ourselves involved in the middle of a war.”