The Promised Ones [The Wells End Chronicles Book 1]

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The Promised Ones [The Wells End Chronicles Book 1] Page 30

by Robert Beers


  * * * *

  “You really are serious, aren't you?” Rolston looked across the table at his brother, the priest. “About hunting and killing dragons, I mean.”

  Vedder sipped from his mug of cider and wrinkled his brow in thought. “Absolutely. It is the will of Bardoc. Evil must be driven from our land. Surely you remember the church teachings?”

  Rolston lifted his mug of stout. “Most of them. I don't recall one of them mentioning dragons though, for either good or ill.”

  Vedder smirked in that superior way Rolston had learned to overlook while they were growing up. “I shouldn't be surprised that you hadn't. One needs to be anointed by Bardoc's spirit before one can delve the deeper mysteries of his word. Dragons are evil because of the form they take. They take on the appearance of evil because they are evil. It's simple as that.”

  “Circular logic.” Rolston downed a healthy portion of stout.

  “Only to those unenlightened.” Vedder's smirk reappeared as he sipped more of his tisane. “Really, Rolston, it's better if you leave the theological questions to those of us best suited to answer them.”

  Rolston put his mug down and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve, ignoring his younger brother's glare at the lack of manners. “Yes, well, I suppose that's the way religious matters are handled now-a-days. You know me, I've always been more interested in things a tad closer to the ground.”

  Vedder laughed out loud, causing heads to turn in the meeting room. “Seems to me you've lowered your point of view somewhat since then.”

  Rolston laughed with him. “What can I say? My life is crap.” He raised his mug and drank.

  After he finished drinking he set the empty mug back onto the table and looked at his younger brother quizzically. “You really serious about this dragon business, then?”

  “Of course I am.” The food arrived just then as Vedder finished his cider. “Another, please,” he asked, holding the mug to indicate what he wanted.

  Lunch was a couple of thick chops cooked in pastry, fried potatoes sprinkled with parsley and steamed greens garnished with diced red onions. Dark brown crusty bread with slices of creamy yellow cheese finished the serving.

  A comely serving girl brought Vedder his refill of cider. As she poured, she smiled at Rolston. “Why, hello, Rol. More stout for you?”

  He looked up at the girl. She had thick curly red hair that fell below her shoulder blades, large brown eyes with flecks of gold in a heart shaped face, white even teeth and a bosom guaranteed to provide adventure.

  “Why, thank you, Elssyn. That'd be nice.” Rolston handed her his mug.

  Vedder looked up from his plate and saw his brother watching the waitress work her way back to the bar. “You like that type?”

  Rolston turned back to face his brother and picked up a crust of bread. “What do you mean, that type?”

  “You know,” Vedder sneered. “Curvy, busty ... wiggly.” He made the last word sound dirty. “Women of that type only lead the unwary down the path of destruction.”

  “Oh, I don't know. Could be a fun trip.”

  “Rolston!”

  Vedder's older brother chuckled and held up a hand. “Peace, brother. So, you're serious about dragons being evil and it being your duty to go out, hunt them down and kill them.”

  Vedder sampled some of his chop. It was delicious. “I am. I feel it's my calling.”

  “All right.” Rolston cut into his chop and added a bit of potato to the morsel. “I know someone who might be able to help you in that.”

  Lord Souter, the Earl of Avern was, to Vedder's judgmental eye, grossly overweight, slovenly mannered, and ... he stank. “Why is it?” He thought to himself. “That fat people cannot control their body odor?”

  “So,” The Earl leaned back in his ornately carved chair as it creaked in protest. “Rolston has a priest for a brother.”

  Rolston stood, leaning against a back wall of the Earl's private chamber while Vedder sat. “Yes, and I love him, regardless.”

  Souter opened his mouth in a broad, fruity laugh. “Bwaahahahahaha, Rolston! You are a rascal. I think that's why I like you so much.”

  Vedder's smile was sickly. “Eh, heh. Yes, my Lord. My brother has always been the droll one of the family.”

  The Earl wiped tears away from his eyes with a linen cloth. “Well, at least one of the family is worth having around. He says you have a quest you need some help in fulfilling. What is it?”

  Vedder told him. Near the end of the tale, the fires of fanaticism caught and The Earl could see it in the priest's eyes.

  “Hmmm. Yes. Dragons, you say? Um Hmmm.” He steepled his hands and looked at Vedder over them. “Rolston, please help yourself to a brandy and get one for your brother as ... no? Oh yes, you're a priest, aren't you?

  “Dragons ... Let me think on this for a moment.”

  Rolston stepped over to the Earl's well-stocked sideboard and selected a black bottle with a soft satin sheen to its finish. He held it up to the light. “Mossett brown? Excellent year, as well. You're doing very well with your properties, Lord Souter.”

  The Earl acknowledged Rolston's praise with a limp wave of his hand.

  Vedder's brother walked across the room and whispered in his ear. “He doesn't believe in dragons, or anything else for that matter, but he does owe me a favor or two. You'll get your help.”

  The priest nodded, keeping his gaze upon the Earl.

  Souter lifted a finger while keeping the others steepled. “Pour me a goblet of that lovely elixir, will you, Rolston? Ah, good man.

  “As to you, my dear priest. Thank you, Rolston.” He sipped noisily from the crystal goblet. “As I was saying, as for you priest. Your brother is right. I don't believe in dragons.” He began to chuckle from deep in his belly. “Nor in anything else,” he added. “Oh, don't look so surprised, Rolston. You know I have excellent hearing.”

  He sipped again. “Ahhhh, yes. Excellent vintage, indeed.”

  “Now as to your problem with these so-called dragons.”

  “So-called!?” Vedder raised his voice in protest.

  “Lower your hackles brother. Let him finish.” Rolston admonished his younger sibling.

  Souter raised his goblet in salute. “Thank you, Rolston, but there is no need for your involvement. What would a religious man be without strong beliefs?” He sipped and then opened his eyes wide. “Why, he'd be me!” The Earl let loose with another of his fruity laughs.

  When the laughs settled into chuckles, and the chuckles into silence, he looked back at Vedder and pointed a finger at him. “Now, as I was saying, these so-called dragons of yours seem to be a simple problem to solve. I'll loan you one of the companies of my city guard for a month. Take them, find your dragons, kill the dragons, and come back. Seems simple, to me, at least.”

  “Solves one of your problems too, my Lord Earl,” Rolston said, as he finished his brandy.

  “Oh?” Souter said with raised eyebrows. “And what would that be?”

  “You pay off one of those weighty favors you owe me.” Rolston smiled.

  Souter smiled back and raised his goblet in another salute.

  * * * *

  Neely hummed along with the choral voices of the crickets and frogs as they sang to their prospective mates under cover of the night sky. Charity and Flynn were sleeping along with the horses. The cat sat next to Neely, watching his fishing line for potential action.

  “Gonna get us a big'un. Night's when they bites th’ best,” he whispered to the cat as he gently bobbed the line up and down, simulating the action of a bug swimming.

  The cat shifted on her feet and watched the action of the line. Then, for no apparent reason, she looked in the direction the raft was floating and meowed. She meowed again and walked to the front of the raft, her tail swishing back and forth in agitation.

  “Whatcho got there girl?” Neely abandoned his pole and stepped around the horses to the place where the cat paced back and forth. She was be
coming more and more anxious as the minutes passed. And then he heard it.

  “Oh, Deity. Oh, skrud. We're in for it now.” A faint roaring sound came to Neely's ears. Rapids. Possibly deep ones with waterfalls mixed in. They were too far off to see by the moonlight, which was small comfort to him.

  He shook Charity and Flynn awake. “C'mon. C'mon. Up, you gotta get up. Now!”

  “Huh? Wuzzat?”

  “Neely! What's wrong?” Flynn and Charity surged to their feet still groggy.

  “Rapids!”

  The single word, spoken harshly, drove the rest of the sleep from them. The cat meowed loudly at Charity, insisting that she do something about this. The horses wuffed, tossing their heads and stamping, they felt it too.

  “Great Bardoc preserve us all. Look at that!” Flynn pointed downstream ahead of the raft. Moonlight limned white off of a boil of froth, scant yards ahead of where they lay.

  “Grab a pole, Flynn. Charity, untie the horses. Move, girl!” Neely pulled one of the steering poles out of its holder and crouched at the ready.

  “Untie the horses? But ... they could drown.” Charity looked at Neely, unsure of what she heard.

  Neely felt he had no time to argue. “Horses swim better'n people, an’ they can't tip the raft over iffn they're not tied to it. Better for them, an’ us. You ready, Flynn?” He called out, as Charity leapt to get the horses tethers loosed.

  “Don't wanna be, but I am.” Flynn's voice came from the other side of the raft to the right of the horses.

  Neely glanced at Charity. “Make sure those packs are secure, Charity. They'll go flyin’ iffn they ain't tied down.”

  “Here it comes.” Flynn yelled out.

  The horses’ screams mixed in with those of Charity and the cat as the front of the raft fell out from underneath them. Neely just barely kept his feet underneath him, but Flynn met the raft with his backside as it slammed back into the Ort below the short falls.

  Charity clung to the lashings that held the packs to the raft. The cat yowled in banshee voice all twenty of her claws dug deeply into the canvas of the packs.

  Wilbut, Neely's mount, slipped to his fore elbows and would have tumbled off the heaving floor of the raft if Flynn's draft horse had not been between him and the edge. Charity's mare spread her legs for additional support and voiced her displeasure at the top of her lungs.

  Flynn scrambled back to his feet, grabbing his pole just as it was bouncing into the rage of the rapids.

  The volume of sound was tremendous. They had to scream to be understood.

  “Just try to keep us off th’ rocks.” Neely yelled out, as he and Flynn manned their poles on either side of the raft.

  It hurtled down the river, lurching and jumping like a drunken toad. They were all drenched to the skin. The cat looked like she'd been half drowned. Flynn and Neely exerted themselves, using the poles to push the raft past the larger rocks. Grinding sounds came from underneath as the bottom framework scraped and bounced off the smaller ones below.

  No one spoke; even the animals now kept silent as their once peaceful floating platform lurched, bounced and twisted its way through the maze of rapids. Spray washed across its passengers constantly, and Flynn and Neely had to take care in bracing themselves as the floor of the raft grew slick with the water sweeping over it.

  A large black boulder loomed up out of the shadows. It split the river in twain. The roar of high falls came from the left side.

  Charity cried out in terror, as did the horses. The cat hissed.

  Neely screamed to Flynn. “Push, man! Pole us to the right! If you love life, do it now!”

  Charity clung to the packs, unable to do anything but wail her fear to the winds. The cat cried with her. The mare nuzzled the back of her hair in an attempt to comfort her.

  “Harder, Flynn! She's not movin’ enough!” Neely strained at his pole, striving to edge the raft into the right hand flow of the rapids.

  Flynn didn't answer, but bent all his massive strength into the task of saving their lives.

  The raft moved to the right, but Neely saw it was not enough. They were going over the falls unless something was done, and done now. He looked over at Flynn and at Charity, his smile bleak. “You keep an eye on her, Flynn. She's somethin’ special.” He stepped off the raft and into the water. with his right hand gripping the outermost log of the raft at the front.

  “Neely!” Charity's scream tore the heart right out of him, but he could do nothing about that now.

  His boots scraped and tore at the rocks lining the river bottom, but the extra leverage of his position allowed Neely to push the left front corner of the raft just enough so that it caught the right hand current. He could feel the left current pulling him, and he reached out desperately for the pole Flynn held out to him.

  “C'mon, Neely, grab it!” Flynn called out over the roar of the falls.

  “I ca-” The rest of Neely's words vanished in a white mist of noise and water as the raft tipped into the right hand channel and away from the sure death of the falls.

  * * * *

  Vedder turned in the saddle to watch the double line of uniformed men marching behind him. “I knew this day would come,” he thought to himself. “A man of my quality can remain in obscurity only so long.”

  The Earl of Avern, Lord Souter, was a man of his word, even if he was an unrepentant slob. The twenty guardsmen behind him were proof of that. They were a quiet bunch, which suited him just as well. He needed strong arms and steady hands, not conversationalists.

  They were into their second day of the march, moving south along the western slopes of the spine, and Vedder could not have been more content. Bardoc would be smiling upon him now, and soon he would send his god the gift of the dragon's destruction.

  * * * *

  Charity woke to a rough tongue rasping the tip of her nose, and a claw-tipped paw tapping at her eyelid. She groaned and rolled halfway over, throwing an arm across her face to block out the sun. Then she remembered and bolted upright. She could hear the faint roar of the falls in the distance up river. They must have clung to bits of the raft in spite of all that the rapids threw at them. She thought of the horses. The poor horses.

  “Neely!” She turned around and around searching for her companions. “Flynn!”

  There was no answer. She heard a sound to her right, up the bank from the river. She spun, crouched and ready to do battle. The mare whinnied softly at her and tossed her head, sending the long hair of her mane flying.

  Charity ran to her horse and threw both arms around the mare's neck. “You're alive. You're alive. Oh, I'm so glad.” She hugged harder and the mare nuzzled Charity in return.

  “Let's go see if we can find Flynn and Neely, girl.” Charity took hold of the mane and swung herself onto the mare's back. The horse tossed her head once more and then moved off at an easy trot toward the beach and the bend in the river beyond the tall grasses.

  The cat ran ahead of the horse, leaping from rock to log amongst the debris scattered along the river's edge. A lot of it was what used to be the raft they worked so hard at building.

  Charity saw one of the packs and dismounted. The oiled canvas was ripped in a few places, but otherwise it was in serviceable condition. The glint of tin showed through one of the rents. “Flynn's pots and pans.” She stood and craned her neck, looking for a sign of the big man.

  The cat meowed, calling Charity's attention to where she stood atop a large pile of the alder logs that used to be the base of the raft. Some of them showed where the dowels holding the logs together had snapped.

  “Flynn! Neely!” Still no answer.

  The cat meowed again. Charity tried skirting the pile but the bank to the left of it was too steep and finished in a grassy ledge nearly twice a man's height above her. To the right was the river so she remounted the mare and they waded through the shallow waters around the debris. More of the packs appeared on the other side. A couple of them, further down the beach appeared to be
totally intact.

  A susurrus of sound drew Charity's attention to a series of sandy mounds topped with grasses like dark green tufts of spiky hair. She nudged the mare with her heels and they worked their way across the sand to the mounds. The sound became clearer and coalesced into soft, bubbly snores. She recognized the sound.

  “Flynn!” She was off the horse in an instant and at the big man's side. He groaned and grumbled as she tried to wake him. “Urrglmmff! Lemme sleep. C'mon!”

  “Flynn! Up! It's me, Charity! You've got to get up!”

  He opened one eye and held a hand up to shield it from the sun. “Miss Charity. That you?”

  “Of course it's me, you big oaf.” She threw herself into his embrace. “I thought you were dead!”

  He hugged her back. “Takes more'n a bit of rapids to kill an ol’ lug like me. Hey, don't cry. Miss Charity. We made it.” He patted her back as she sobbed into his shoulder.

  Charity cried out her relief for a while until she was able to control herself and pull away, allowing Flynn to stand.

  He looked over the area where she'd found him. Sandy hummocks topped with clumps of the spiky grass formed a wide crescent of broad beach along the river. A couple more of the packs lay on the beach just inside the line of the water.

  “My bow! My quiver!” Charity's squeal whipped Flynn's head around. He saw Charity sprint up to one of the packs at the river's edge and stoop to collect her possessions. She waved the bow and quiver over her head as if they were hard won trophies. The quiver, miraculously, still held a couple of arrows.

  Flynn pulled the other packs from the water's edge and went through them. “Most of th’ stuff's still in pretty good shape, considerin',” he said. “Sure could use th’ horses. Did you see th’ others when you found that mare of yourn?”

  “No.” Charity shook her head. “And I didn't find her. She found me.”

  She walked back to the mare, looping the strap of the quiver over her neck and shoulder as she walked. “I'm going to go further down stream for a ways. Could you go up stream toward the falls? We've got to find out if Neely made it or not.”

 

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