Robert Beers - Wells End 02 - Whispers Of War

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WHISPERS OF WAR

THE WELLS END CHRONICLES BOOK 2

By Robert Lee Beers

Writers Exchange E-Publishing

www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/

THE WELLS END CHRONICLES BOOK 2: THE WHISPERS OF WAR

Writers Exchange E-Publishing

PO Box 372

ATHERTON QLD 4883

AUSTRALIA

Published Online by Writers Exchange E-Publishing

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ISBN 1 876962 38 0

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation

to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the

author are purely coincidental.

Prologue

Over a thousand years have passed since Labad wrote his prophecy. Some say he used a dagger dipped

in his own blood. A peculiar writing instrument at the least, but if one examines the characters in the

prophecy closely, their color and line could have come from just such an origin. The Prophecy of Labad

has been a point of discussion among clerics, scribes and scholars through the centuries. Even among the

learned, there are those who say it is only legend, or that the dying King merely penned visions seen by a

man in the last throes of Garloc poisoning. Yet the prophecy is coming to pass and the Promised Ones

written of in its few terse passages are now among us. These are the last of the King's lineage. Twin

brother and sister imbued with the sympathetic magik of Labad himself and armed with his weapons.

Their names, Adam and Charity, have already become subjects of legend in their own right, he with his

sword, and she with her bow. Many of my colleagues may choose to dwell upon that part of the legend

alone, but there are others who have been placed into service to aid their endeavor, for the prophecy

itself bore powerful magik. I list them here: Morgan, who molded Charity into a warrior of supreme skill,

Milward, the last of the Wizards of old, who sheltered them while they were newly come into their task.

Hersh of Dunwattle, who took them under his wing and taught them skills of market, Flynn and Neely,

one-time thieves now stalwart companions of the lady Charity, Drinaugh, the first Dragon ambassador to

walk among men, and the wolves, once shy of all mankind except the Wizard Milward, now packmates

with Adam. They have had their part in this play, as did the Lady Thaylli, the only woman to ever ride a

Dragon. There is another player, but the prophecies are even less clear on this point. They intimate this

one is wields great power brought into being by circumstance.

This is not to say the path was trouble free. By no means, the perils of their journey were many and

varied. Within the caverns of the Dwarfs, they faced the dread Fire Wyrm, beyond the caverns, Trolls,

villainous Giants, bigotry and war. Through them all they persevered and survived, though often by the

sheer skin of their teeth. A petty war, begun by the machinations of the Sorcerer Gilgafed tore them apart

as he had planned and eventually placed the lady Charity into the tender care of Lord Cloutier, the vile

Earl of Berggren; her tribulation yet worsened by the belief that her brother lay murdered by the soldiers

of Avern. On the way to her time of trial she encountered Flynn and Neely, who upon witnessing her skill

with the long bow promptly bent their knee and swore fealty to their Lady. The worth of these two would

be proven repeatedly, even during the long two years she would spend as a prisoner within the Earl's

castle.

Despairing of finding his sister, Adam journeyed back to where he and Charity stayed with the Wizard

Milward. Together they set out on a journey to find Charity and to foster Adam's rapidly developing

powers, what the Wizard's call Shaping. On that journey the young man learned much about whom and

what he was, and of the awesome power he would wield. There are those who speak of a thing

impossible, a cavern of glistening diamond, formed by the strength of his will alone.

There are dark whispers that the one of whom the prophecies call The Destroyer is now walking among

us, if this is so, the time is indeed short. I have come across a particularly ancient vellum written in the

dead language of Angbar that speaks of The Destroyer as having once been a man born of the great

eastern whore. Who, or whatever she may be, one can only guess. I believe the Witches may be

speaking of a city. Other prophecies speak of it as having no soul of its own but filled with the thoughts

and lusts of many minds, black with death and decay, a twisted being that revels in pain, both in that

which it gives and that which it receives. Fear is said to flow from it in great waves and this does give

verification to the Angbar fragment.

War is now on the horizon. It is said the Southern Empire has formed an army whose numbers defy

description and they march north to bring the vengeance of the Ortian Emperor down upon Grisham and

her Duke.

The Duke's madness has killed many of those in his care and few will escape the time of judgment,

unless the Promised Ones fulfill their destiny.

Alten Baldricsson, Grisham Librarian

Chapter One

McCabe enjoyed the feel of the sunlight hitting his face and the small sharp pains the glare caused after so

many long months in the Duke's dungeon.

The steps leading down from the Ducal Palace he took leisurely, one at a time, while casting his new

senses for what he had touched in the far north. On the outer edge of sensation, he felt a quiver in the

ether and decided a small detour from his trip north would not hurt. The voices inside him shrieked at him

to leave the city now but he ignored them and began walking down the hill in the direction of that

tantalizing power, toward the Southern Gate Market.

Grisham's townsfolk fled from him as he approached, giving the former thief a wide path down the

twisting streets. Later, when asked, some of them would talk about an all-consuming desire not to be

there when the little man dressed in black passed. Pressing for more brought nothing but an invitation to

leave the table.

A beggar, crippled by a fever in his youth was unable to escape a brush of McCabe's finger. As the thief

moved on down the street a grinning mummy watched his departure, holding a placard upon which was

scrawled a plea for alms.

He worked his way through the area city dwellers called The Steps. A series of switchbacks steep

enough to require ladders in some sections. Thatched roofed inns, shops and cottages lined The Steps

with individual landings leading to each brightly painted front door.

The crowd fleeing McCabe's approach spread out into the various landings and streets as he passed

through the area. Most were able to stay out of his reach but those who could not were fed upon. Bodies

left in various contorted positions showed the passage of his wake.

From The Steps the last stairway led into a twisting street lined with pubs and joy houses called Adders

Alley. At its far end the alley opened onto the northern boundary of the Market Square. A Scrivener's

studio stood across from the gaudy entrance of a pub at the alley's mouth.

McCabe's vantage point in the alley's mouth gave him full view of the ten acres that made up the Market

Square. The sense of power that drew him came from somewhere to his right along the shops and

warehouses lining its perimeter.

He narrowed the focus of his senses until they rested upon a gathering even he found noteworthy. A

Dragon, a wolf pack, an old fossil with a respectable smattering of the power and a young couple, stood

some three hundred yards from his alley. The power that drew him emanated from the male half of the

couple. It was tantalizing, overwhelmingly so. Inside him, the voices shrieked again. This time begging

their host to go northnow , before disaster fell upon their plans. He ignored them in favor of the power

that emanated from the sandy-haired young man. It pulled him like a moth to a flame.

Swallowing his saliva, he flexed his hands hungrily and started across the square towards his prey. The

onlookers that had been gathering to gawk at the sight of a Dragon with its own wolf pack fled from him

like mice from a cat, many of them screaming.

Thaylli turned her head in the direction of the screams and released one herself as she fell back against

the wall of the Factor's shop. Her arm rose, pointing to the northwestern corner of the square.

All heads whipped around to where she pointed and they saw a small black figure walking across the

square towards them with a panicked crowd streaming away from it to either side. Milward began

forming a protective shaping and then groaned, falling to his knees and grabbing his head in agony.

The amulet against Adam's chest flared into a tiny sun burning him with its heat and he fell back, gasping

at the pain.

“Back, spawn of evil, back,” The Alpha wolf growled and bared his fangs at the approaching figure.

One of the younger pack members snarled and launched itself at McCabe's throat. A small yelp

sounded and the wolf's body fell to the market floor, shriveled.

Drinaugh spread his wings and called out to the wolves, “To me, to me, now, for your lives.”

Two of the other young pack members hesitated, snarling and snapping at the one who had killed their

packmate. The Alpha wolf's mate growled at them, “Do what the Skylord says, now!”

The pack retreated into the shadow of the young Dragon's wings and he furled them around until all the

wolves were covered.

Drinaugh looked back at the approaching figure. To him McCabe looked anything but dangerous, why

he was smaller than the girl who had ridden on his neck. A swat of his tail could probably discourage the

fellow from coming any closer; however, there was the corpse of the young wolf lying there.

He turned to ask Adam what he should do but his friend was occupied with the old Wizard.

Milward still knelt on the ground, waves of pain and nausea swept through him and his head felt as if it

would soon burst from the pressure.

Adam tried to get him to stand. “Milward! Come on! You've got to get out of here, now!” The old

Wizard merely groaned and shook as with palsy.

Thaylli fought the waves of terror that swept through her and bolted from the shop's wall to where her

man knelt with Milward. “Adam! Please! We've got to go, that thing's going to kill us!”

“Don't you think I know that? Milward's frozen here, like ... like he's been struck down.”

Thaylli shrank back from Adam's anger. “Why yell at me? I didn't do anything.”

“Don't waste foolish anger on your companions,” Milward's voice was a weak groan and audible only to

Adam's ear. “Only the power of a shaping can save us now.” He collapsed in Adam's arms.

Adam watched the figure walking across the square towards them. A shimmering presence seemed to

be moving with and around it like the echoes of a score or more insubstantial beings. An impression of

intense evil flowed over him and nausea tried to overwhelm him. This must be what downed Milward, he

thought, and then he saw the corpse of the young wolf. It was the one who had hunted with him, the one

who had became his friend. A mist, red, like the one that came over him when he pummeled that bully

drowning the kittens, rose up.

Adam did not even feel the headache that usually ensued with a shaping. All he wanted to do was blast

the man who killed his wolf into as many small pieces as possible. Every fiber of his being formed into

what shot out of his hands.

Folk looking into the square found themselves blinded for a few moments. The brilliance of the shaping

went beyond white into a color that could only be described as pain. Thunder exploded into the square,

sending those in it to their knees. Next, came a sound like that of a gigantic waterfall, as air rushed in to

fill the void McCabe's body left as it vanished over the horizon.

Miniature tornadoes created by the disturbance completed the destruction of goods and stalls within the

market square, and a rain consisting of what had sat in those booths pelted those below for several

seconds. The air was scented with a pungent mix of spice and vegetables.

Milward recovered instantly and looked at Adam with something akin to fearful awe, “Bardoc's balls,

boy! What in the nine hells was that?”

Adam did not answer the Wizard's question. He stood there, unmoving in the same position he held

when the shaping erupted out of him. He was becoming less fond of his path in life, and his chest hurt

where the amulet burnt him.

Running footsteps came to him from his back and his left, unbidden, another shaping rose up to destroy

the threat when Thaylli threw herself against him, sobbing.

He put his arms around her, not knowing what else to do. When Charity was upset he could say, “Buck

up, It will be all right,” and give her one of those lopsided grins she found so amusing. This, this was

different, entirely different. His feelings concerning Thaylli were a major part of the emotional stew

churning within him.

“Adam? Adam!”

Milward's tone brought him out of where his thoughts wandered and he turned to see what the old

Wizard wanted. “What is it?”

“Your tone is a little sharp for addressing an elder, Adam.” Drinaugh looked at him mournfully while he

allowed the wolves to leave the shelter of his wings.

Adam looked up at the Dragon's face. Drinaugh's expression said volumes about the value of an

apology.

He looked down again, avoiding Milward's eyes. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. That ... thing killed my

friend Milward! Loo ... look at what's left of...” His shoulders began to shake and he turned back to

Thaylli. This time, she comforted him.

The wolf pack left the shelter of Drinaugh's wings and padded over to where the corpse of the young

male lay. As one they pointed their muzzles skyward and howled. The sound of their voices carried an

intense feeling of mourning, sadness and loss. The pack expressed as one being the feelings of all. Tears

coursed down Adam's cheeks unhindered by shame. He felt as if he should be howling with the wolves.

The vigil continued for several minutes and then stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The wolves

lowered their muzzles and then turned to walk out of the city. Adam watched them go, holding on to

Thaylli's hand.

“They know you need to stay here Adam.”

He could hear the tears in her voice and nodded his understanding.

A growl came from the Alpha wolf and Drinaugh tapped Adam on the shoulder with a finger.

Adam looked up at the Dragon. “I heard him.” A blush warmed Adam's cheeks.

“What did he say?” Thaylli asked.

“That's wolves for you,” Milward shifted his stance putting more of his weight against his staff, “Practical

to the end.”

“What ... did ... he ... say?” Thaylli stamped her foot while glaring at her companions.

“They are a practical people, as the Wizard said.” Drinaugh lowered his head to where he could whisper

in Thaylli's ear. “The wolf repeated what his mate had said earlier. They expect Adam to prove his

leadership by siring a litter with you. The last was just a farewell.”

Thaylli watched the pack walk out of the ruined gate and then break into a run. She blew out her cheeks

and then turned to look at Adam. “Well, I'll be a wet hen.”

* * * *

“Look at that boy go.” Colling-Faler twitched a thumb at Circumstance as he ran past with a sheaf of

elevation sketches clutched in his hand.

“Yes,” Lemmic-Pries looked up from his perusal of a set of building plans with the suspicious look of a

cafeteria, “even Gaspic is being turned around now by the boy's attitude. He actually said thank you to

him the other day.”

Colling-Faler raised an eyebrow, “He did? What did Circumstance do? Erect the General's

headquarters all by himself?”

“No,” The Chief Engineer chuckled, “nothing quite so elaborate. You know how Gaspic sets impossible

deadlines for himself that only he cares about keeping?”

“Uh huh, so?”

“So he finally decided to set one that could only be met if he managed to be in two places at one time.

The boy overheard our favorite administrator bemoaning what the cruel fates did to him and stepped in.

With that imaginary blade hanging over his neck he really had no choice in the matter, at least the way he

sees things. Circumstance not only completed his part of the task on timeand error free, but he did part

of Gaspic's as well. He's an amazing kid.” Lemmic-Pries shook his head as he refocused on the plans

before him.

* * * *

Mashglach tapped a talon against the small crystal bell balanced on the top right corner of the podium.

The Dragons assembled in the expanse of the great hall heard the sound. It began as a silvery hum that

seemed to come from every corner of the hall and built into a pealing tone that slowly faded into soft

echoes and memories of better times.

Dragons of every shape, size and color filled the great hall. At the bell's sounding they all turned from

their individual conversations to face the front where the Winglord's platform rose.

“The Winglauch is now begun. Let all who have business before the Dragons prepare to raise their voice

in truth,” Mashglach tapped the bell one more time.

When the tone faded into its sweet afterlife the chief Dragon raised his wings to their full extent, “Who

has business before the Winglauch? Let them come forth.”

“I ... I have something to say,” Shealauch stepped forward aided by a push from his mother, Temidi.

A number of Dragons voiced quiet encouragement.

Mashglach looked down at the young Dragon and nodded, “Come forward young Shealauch and tell

your tale.” He indicated the assembly with a sweep of his right arm, “The Winglauch will receive your

words.”

Murmurs of agreement and approval of the young Dragon swept through the hall as he worked his way

up to the dais that held the podium.

The Winglord smiled as Shealauch paused just before the dais, “Come Shealauch, step up to the podium

and tell your tale. All of Dragonglade waits for you.”

Shealauch took the three steps to the dais as Mashglach moved aside, opening the way to the podium

for the young Dragon.

“Ummm...” Shealauch cleared his throat and swallowed nervously as he looked over the assemblage in

the great hall. Paintings of great moments in Dragon history covered the walls of the hall and he tried

focusing on them in order to reduce some of the stage fright threatening to overwhelm him.

“Ummm...” He tried once more.

“You said that,” The mutter came from within the front rank of Dragons accompanied by a flutter of soft

laughter that rippled through the hall.

It helped to reduce the tension as well as the young Dragon's stage fright. He drew in a deep breath and

released it slowly. He was ready now. “I saw a small party of the beings who call themselves men below

me during a time of flying over the lands to the north and west of Dragonglade. It was my first sighting of

them since the Wizard and his apprentice came to visit us.”

There was a muttering and nodding of heads as the assembled Dragons digested the bit of recent history.

Shealauch continued, “I thought it would be fun to look at them more closely and maybe to talk with

them.”

This time the muttering contained mixed approval of the young Dragon's actions.

“I realize now that was a mistake,” Shealauch said contritely.

“Tell them how you came to be wounded,” Mashglach urged him on.

The young Dragon nodded, “As I dropped into a lower flight layer they sent these things Niamh called

arrows up at me. Two of them stuck me in the foot and the tail. The pain was surprising and I almost fell

out of the sky. I didn't know what to do. I thought they were all friendly.

“I also had no idea I was bleeding so much. I mean, it was just my foot and my tail. I didn't know about

the large arteries being there.”

“Just tell us what happened, Shealauch. We'll discuss your lack of attention in class later,” the Winglord

said dryly, which brought another ripple of muffled laughter from the assembly.

“Sorry,” Shealauch's facial hide flushed pinkly with the intensity of his blush. “After the arrows pierced

me I flew back to Dragonglade as fast as I could. Things were getting blurry by the time I reached the

glade and I don't remember the landing, not much about it anyway.

“The next thing I remember clearly is my mother and Niamh tending to me.”

“Someone had to,” Timidi sniffed loudly and then subsided upon receiving a glare from Mashglach.

Shealauch looked at the Winglord who encouraged him with a nod, “Ummm, well, that's all of it really.

The Winglord called for the Winglauch and here we are.”

The young Dragon backed away from the podium and then made his escape back to the comforting

wing of his mother. Mashglach retook his place behind it, tapped the bell once lightly, and then stopped

the chime with a forefinger, “We have heard young Shealauch's witness of what caused his injuries. This

is the first time in our recorded history that any of the younger races has attacked a Dragon. Not even

Gilgafed during the Magik Wars dared such a thing, but just such a thing has now happened. It is only by

the grace of the Creator that Timidi's child survived to give testimony today.

“Now,” he paused for a moment, “is there anyone else in this Winglauch who wishes to have his or her

voice heard upon this matter?”

Chabaad stepped to the front and raised his right hand, “I, Chabaad, have something to say.”

Mashglach beckoned the mature Dragon forward, “Speak your peace.”

“The other races, those who call themselves Men, Elves, and Dwarves live lives far shorter than we

Dragons do. We need to remember this, especially in times when we are forced to deal with them. It has

been over a thousand years since the Magik Wars. That is the last we had much to do with those other

than our own kind outside of the occasional Wizard or lost traveler. Is there agreement on this?”

Chabaad swept his gaze across the other Dragons in the hall. Many gave no visible response one way or

the other as to his question, but enough of them nodded either to him or to the one they stood next to in

the assembly.

He grunted, satisfied with the answer and then continued, “Because of this difference in life spans, we

Dragons have a tendency to discount, or in some cases ignore altogether, events in the world that may

resolve themselves within a few seasons or a few years. Our perspective is a different one than those of

the younger races.

“However, in this instance, I do not believe Dragonkind can afford to act similarly. Shealauch's having

been attacked and his resulting injuries are a symptom of a larger problem that has yet to manifest itself in

this world. We, if we choose to wait and see as before, will be remiss in our responsibility to the younger

races at the very least. At the worst,” he paused for effect, “we may bear silent witness to our own

destruction. This is not the same as deciding on changing a planting schedule.”

The last word in Chabaad's speech threw the Winglauch into turmoil. Mashglach had to tap the bell

several times before the tumult began to settle down, “Enough of that! The Winglauch is a place for sober

discussion and resolution.” He leaned forward, putting some of his weight on the podium, “This is not a

classroom where favorite theories are bandied about for the entertainment of students. This is a serious

matter that Chabaad brings to our gathering and it bears much weight when placed with the witness of

young Shealauch.”

The Winglord looked into the hall of now silent Dragons, “Is there anyone who has a view supporting or

opposing Chabaad's words?”

For several long moments, the hall remained quiet and then several hands rose into the air.

Oscglach, an ancient Dragon so old that white showed on his muzzle, walked slowly to the front of the

crowd. Those Dragons with hands raised lowered them as they saw him pass.

He shook his head at Mashglach's invitation to take the podium and instead turned to face the

Winglauch, “You know me, I am Oscglach. A few millennia ago I was Winglord before the tragic

Naublouch and our wise Mashglach. My view differs from that of the noble Chabaad. I believe this is a

lesson we all may learn from, if wisdom is still the path for Dragons. He mentions time and how our use

of that time may decide our fate. In that aspect, we agree. The interpretation of that aspect is where we

part ways.”

A few murmurs followed Oscglach's statement but he ignored them as he continued, “I have lived for

seven thousand years, though you are already aware of that bit of information, I find it is still good to use

as an illustration of where my opinion is founded. During that time, it has been my privilege to see the

traditions of Dragonglade proven valid repeatedly. Time, rather than being our enemy, will in all

probability be our greatest ally in this matter. What enemy can assail us here? What foe could pull down

the glory that is Dragonglade? No, learned Chabaad is in error in this matter unless I miss my guess.”

He paused and paced to the left a few steps and then returned to where he'd been standing, “Prudence

and long tradition suggests to us it would be best to do what we have always done when it comes to

dealing with the younger races, wait and see. There is always the possibility their next generation will

change for the better. After all,” he spread his hands, “their lives are pitifully short in comparison, are they

not? I see no reason why we must change our way from what has been proven to serve us well up to

now.”

“That's because you never had a child fly home punched full of holes!” Timidi pushed through the

assembled Dragons and stood before Oscglach, her nose twitching in fury.

“Timidi!” Mashglach gasped at the female Dragon's lack of manners.

She rounded on the Winglord, “And you! What good does this gathering do for us when the ones who

... assaulted my Shealauch are still out there waiting to shoot their arrows at some other helpless

Dragon?”

“Silence!!!” Mashglach's roar snapped Timidi's mouth shut. “Great Gakh female, have you taken leave

of your senses? Shealauch's injury is the reason we're here now. Hide and Tail! What do you think this is

all about?” He waved a hand in the direction of the other Dragons.

Timidi kept her peace under the glare of the Winglord.

Mashglach held his gaze on her for several seconds and then nodded, “Very well.” He raised his voice

as he addressed the Winglauch, “Is there anyone else who wishes to speak?”

* * * *

“Lookit ‘im,” Muttered the Avernese guard as he sipped from his bowl. “Sittin’ off by hisself, thinks e's

too good fer the’ rest o’ us ‘e does.”

“Keep yer voice down Aerny and eat yer breakfast,” The one to his left said, as he hid his moving lips

behind the pipe in his hand. “Tha knows ‘is nibs there's a friend o’ th’ Baron? Well, e is, an’ it'll be yer

‘ead on th’ spike, not ‘is, iffn this little field trip goes wrong.”

Aerny sipped another mouthful of soup as he watched Vedder. The priest was huddled with his hands

crossed in front of his knees, staring into the fire he'd insisted be set up several yards away from those the

guards were using. “Makes yer wonder, ya know?”

“Wonder whut?” The pipe smoker blew a cloud into the firelight.

“Whut goes on inna head like that?” Aerny finished off his soup and tossed the bowl against his pack.

“Probably workin’ on ‘is next sermon, I'll bet.”

Vedder stared into the flames of his campfire as they danced into the morning air. This was it, he was

sure of it now. A Cardinalship at least would be his once word got out of his triumph over the evil the

Dragons represented. It seemed amazing to him how ignorant most people were concerning the ways of

evil. Well, soon he would have his proof of how Dragons abducted young children and used them in

obscene rituals before devouring them at their perverted feasts.

One thing did surprise him though. Dragons were much bigger than he thought they would be.

* * * *

“Well, Sergeant, are you going to tell us what this enlistment nonsense is all about?” Charity blew on her

tisane to cool it and then patted on the log next to her indicating where he should sit.

Robert Beers - Wells End 02 - Whispers Of War

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