The Promised Ones [The Wells End Chronicles Book 1] Read online

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  Copyright ©2002 Robert Beers

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  THE PROMISED ONES—BOOK 1 THE WELLS END CHRONICLES

  Copyright 2002 Robert Beers

  Writers Exchange E-Publishing

  PO Box 372

  ATHERTON QLD 4883

  AUSTRALIA

  Cover design by: Robert Beers

  Distributed Online by Writers Exchange E-Publishing

  http://www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/

  ISBN 1 876962 1 920741 17 8

  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.

  Chapter One

  The warrior knew he was dying. That arrow in his side had borne poison, most likely the blood of a Garloc, painted onto the head. The condition of the wound said as much. The skin around it was black and weeping. Besides that, his vision had begun to cloud.

  He tried to raise his head, but the effort was agonizing; lights swam before his eyes, and he fell back, gasping.

  A pale hand parted the flap to the tent, and his aide peered in. “My Lord, are you in pain?” The man held a cup of tisane laced with Opatia juice. It would kill the pain and more. Besides, what was a lethal addiction to a man already dead?

  “No, Moulton.” The warrior waved the drink away. He wanted to be lucid for his spirit journey, pain not withstanding. “Bring me some parchment and a quill.” A cough racked his body, sending pain shooting through his side.

  The little man put the cup down, and wrung his hands nervously. “But ... Sire. We have no quills, and no ink to fill them. We're still on the battlefield.”

  “Then just bring me the parchment, fool. I'll supply the ink myself. Go!”

  As his aide scurried out of the tent, King Labad lay back and closed his eyes. It was still there. He prayed to Bardoc for time enough to put words to what he saw. The future of his world depended on it, as did those who would come. His sword and bow lay on the ground alongside the cot. Per his instructions, the Dwarves until needed would care for them.

  Moulton reentered the tent, two leaves of parchment clutched in his hand. The hand trembled as he placed them on the King's chest. “I have the parchment, Sire, and ... and I could find no quill.”

  “Thank you, Moulton. Please leave me now.”

  “Yes, your majesty.” He turned to leave.

  “Moulton.” Labad's voice was a whisper.

  “Sire?”

  “I want to thank you for your service to me, but there is one thing more I require from you.”

  “Of course, my King.”

  “Let no one enter the tent until the Dwarves come. This will be your last act as my subject. As a reward, you may have the lands East of Bern. I trust you'll find them adequate for your needs?”

  “Of course, your Majesty. Thank you, Sire.” Moulton ducked his head in a series of obsequious bows.

  “Good. Go now.” He coughed again, as his aide backed from the tent.

  Labad was alone. He heard Moulton instructing the guards. A bit of a whittle that one, but a good man, nonetheless. He drew in as deep a breath as his weakened body would allow, and forced himself to sit up. The pain nearly drove him under, but he held his body upright by using a small shaping, breathing deeply and slowly, waiting for the muzziness to pass. His jeweled dagger, a gift from his wife, lay strapped to his thigh. Its blood grooves would make it a serviceable pen. He pulled it, and held the blade poised over the exposed flesh where his wound lay festering. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the point into the wound. Yellow-green pus poured out, accompanied by the smell of decay. Working the point in deeper, he twisted it while holding back the scream that welled up in his throat. When the tears left his eyes, he saw the red blood washing the last of the corruption away and, he slid the parchment into position. He dipped the tip of the dagger and began to write, dipping it again and again until the prophecy was recorded.

  Labad signed his name and title with the crest rudely sketched below, and then he lay back and sighed, releasing the shaping. It was done. The pain began to diminish, and he felt light, as if he were floating. A flavor of oranges lay on his tongue, and then the thought came. “So, this is death.”

  The storyteller finished his tale and reached to pick up his cup. He smiled at the sighs of contentment coming from his audience. You could always count on the village children to give a proper reading of one's skills. They only stayed if you weren't boring. Of course, the story of Labad's prophecy was usually good for a meal or two from their parents. He felt especially proud of the way the different voices came out this time.

  “Bravo. Bravo.” The applause came from a handsome woman on the outside edge of the crowd. He noticed her shift showed signs of wear as well as a number of cleverly sewn patches here and there where the material had been salvaged. Poor, he surmised. Poor, but too proud to stoop to begging. Poor, but clean in spite of it. She more than likely bathed in one of the many creeks that ran through the area.

  He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of her appreciation. “Thank you madam. It is always an honor to have touched the heart of one as beautiful as yourself with my simple words.” She smiled and flushed under his praise.

  The woman gathered the two children standing next to her to her side as she turned and walked away from the shade of the beech tree. It commanded the center of the town's market square. Sometime in years long past, a bench was built around the old tree. The storyteller leaned back against the trunk and smiled again at the village folk gathered in front of him. “Now, what would you like to hear next?”

  Charity looked up at the woman walking next to her. “Thank you for letting us listen Aunt Doreen.”

  “Yes, thanks a lot. I especially liked the part about the battle.”

  “You would Adam.” Charity interjected. “You spend enough time fighting Darzin and his friends.”

  “Hush now.” Doreen put a hand in front of Adam's mouth before he could answer his sister back. “I'll be hearing no arguments from you two. Especially not after such a fine story.”

  The twins subsided reluctantly. The truth was, they liked arguing back and forth. Outside of playing in the old forest behind their Aunt and Uncle's cottage it was their favorite pastime.

  Doreen began humming an old melody as they walked. The twins recognized it as the one she sang when she was feeling particularly happy. Charity joined in humming the harmony part bringing a pleased look from her Aunt and a raised eyebrow from her brother.

  A mud ball spattered against Charity's shift accompanied by howls of jeering laughter.

  “Darzin!” Adam whirled to face the direction the mud ball came from. “I know that laugh. He's in for it now.” He balled his fists and began walking towards a heavyset youngster with blond hair and pimples who was dancing back and forth on his toes while pointing at them. A number of boys of varying sizes were gathered behind Darzin also enjoying the joke. As the mayor
's son he held a certain status among the village youth and used it to his advantage. Adam and Charity, like their Aunt and Uncle, refused to act the way people of their economic station were supposed to, thus making them natural targets to bullies like Darzin.

  “Adam! Stop right there. Don't you stoop to their level.” His Aunt put a hand on his shoulder, halting his journey toward mayhem.

  Charity looked at the ruin the mud ball made of her shift. Even though it was made of flour sacks, the small blue flowers in the field of white made it her favorite. Tears started to flow.

  Darzin saw the result of his work and laughed all the harder. “Haaaa. Look at that. I made the little bitch cry I did. Wassa matter hunny bun? Did yer rags git all messy?”

  Doreen gripped Adam's shoulder harder. “Pay no attention to him Adam. It's only words they can't bruise you. Be bigger than they are.”

  “But...”

  “No.”

  The next mud ball hit Doreen in the back. “He's all yours Adam.”

  “You let him do what?” The man shouting at Doreen stood over six feet tall, had thinning hair with a touch of gray and deep blue eyes which at the moment looked anything but friendly.

  “I already told you Bal. I lost my temper. That little monster ruined my only good shift, not to mention Charity's as well. You don't know how sorry I am.”

  “I'm sorry too Uncle Bal.” Charity looked up at her Uncle trying to look like she meant it. It had felt so good to finally see Adam get his own back, the bully got what was coming to him.

  “Adam?” Bal looked down at his nephew.

  He got a stubborn look in return.

  “Adam!”

  “All right! I'm sorry too, I guess.”

  “You don't sound it.” His Uncle muttered.

  “Please Bal. He, I mean, we were provoked.” Doreen brushed at the dried mud on her shift as it lay in her lap. “This is going to take a lot of washing.”

  “Don't try to change the subject Doreen. As much as he's a disgusting little beast, Darzin is still the Lord Mayor's son. You letting Adam bloody his nose may have bought us a lot of trouble. We don't need that and you know it. You also know why.”

  “I think I broke it.”

  “What?” Bal turned unbelieving eyes on his nephew.

  Adam shrugged. “I think I broke it. I heard something crunch on that last punch.”

  “Oh that's just lovely!” Bal threw his hands up into the air. We're going to have to move, again.”

  “That's ok. I don't like it here anyway.”

  “Charity!”

  “Neither do I.” Adam looked up at his uncle, ready for the worst.

  Doreen looked at Bal. “I suppose my feelings make it unanimous.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, at the very least I'm going to have to talk to the Mayor about this. I don't want him sending the watch after us and I'd better stop by the butcher's, he owes me wages for most of this month. I've a feeling we're going to need them.”

  Charity stood and walked over to the single window in the cottage. “I am going to miss the forest.”

  * * * *

  “I don't care if you are sorry. That hooligan nephew of yours broke my boy's nose!” The Lord Mayor's normally florid face was beet red as he shouted at Bal. “He could have killed him! That boy should be locked away like the wild animal he is.”

  “And Darzin's hurling mud balls at Charity and Doreen bears no weight in this?” Bal tried to keep his voice level in spite of the Mayors rage.

  “You leave my boy out of this! He's the victim here. That slut you're married to and that little tramp have no bearing in this at all!”

  Bal's voice was deceptively quiet. “What did you just call them?”

  The Mayor caught the look in the tall man's face and knew he'd overstepped dangerously. He backpedaled rapidly. “N ... now Bal. You know my temper sometimes gets the best of me. I didn't mean to be insulting. You may be poor, but I know you're a man of letters and far too intelligent to resort to violence where reason can prevail.”

  “Then you had better start reasoning with me soon Lord Mayor. I feel my letters slipping a bit.”

  “I ... see.” The Mayor swallowed and looked at Bal once more. He seemed to loom taller than before and those shoulders did look awfully broad. “Uh ... well ... boys will be boys I suppose.” He worked at making his voice light and brisk. “Just the results of highjinks getting a little out of hand, shall we say? I mean, no one was really permanently injured, were they?”

  “Not as far as I can tell.” Bal concurred, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps they wouldn't have to leave after all. “Why don't we just leave it at that?”

  “Yes, yes. For the best, really. For the best. Well, I must be moving on to other matters.” The mayor checked his vest watch. “The village won't wait on my inattention long you know. A Mayor's work is never done.” The Lord Mayor's tone became more jovial as he felt himself edging back from the precipice.

  Bal smiled dryly. “I'm sure. Good day to you Mayor.”

  “Good day. Good day.”

  “Blustery sort of fellow, isn't he?”

  “Huh?” Bal looked down from the steps of the Mayor's office to see the storyteller looking up at him. “What are you talking about old father?”

  The old man chuckled lightly as he reached up and scratched at his beard. “Old, I may be. But I'm neither frail nor deaf. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't that the Lord Mayor's voice I heard not too long ago bellowing something about hooligan's and sluts? Wasn't it your nephew who was involved in a bit of a dust up with a certain fat man's son just this afternoon?”

  Bal took the last of the steps to the street. “You have me at a disadvantage old father. You seem to know more of me than I know of you.”

  The storyteller extended a hand. “A name is a good place to start. I've worn a number of them through the years, depending upon the occasion. On this one you may call me Naught.”

  “It means Nothing. A strange name to go by.” Bal reached out and took the old man's hand. “Bal.”

  “Yes, I know. Husband to Doreen and adoptive parent to twin brother and sister, Adam and Charity, though they call you Uncle.”

  Bal felt his stomach tighten. This old man knew too much about he and his family. “Why?” He asked.

  “A great deal of meaning in such a small word.” The old man who called himself Nought said, thoughtfully. “Do you mean to ask why I'm here, or why do I know you and your family's names?”

  “The answer to both would be good.” Bal answered. “Along with the answer as to why this amount of interest in a man as poor as I.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Nought bobbed his head in agreement. “Will you walk with me? It's a lovely afternoon, and I'd rather not spend it parked in front of the Mayor's steps, if you don't mind.”

  The old man turned and began walking down the village street in the direction towards the cottage Bal and his family stayed in. A number of the village folk who'd listened to his stories hailed him as they passed by. Bal noticed the genuine pleasure the greetings gave the old fellow, and revised his opinion slightly, though a core of suspicion remained.

  They'd walked nearly to the edge of the village before either spoke. It was Nought who broke the silence. First, by clearing his throat, then, “You needn't worry Bal. I'm not the one you're worrying about, nor am I one of his agents.”

  “Then how...?”

  The old man hummed in thought for a second. “Umm, maybe it's best I don't go into that too deeply as yet. What I can tell you, though, is that the one who placed those two lovely children in your care once called me friend.”

  Bal's eyes widened. “Then you would be...”

  “Not another word!” Nought snapped. “You've no idea who, or what may be listening. Those children are far too important, and you know it. This meeting is risky enough as it is.”

  “I said much the same, not too long ago.” Bal replied, half to himself. “Very well,
storyteller. Nought you wish to be, and Nought you'll remain, as far as I'm concerned, but you've answered both my questions.”

  The old man nodded. “Good. Now tell me. Why did you teach them to read, knowing what trouble such a skill would bring them? You can barely afford the rent on your cottage, much less buy them books.”

  Bal turned and looked the storyteller in the eye. “That's why we chose Beri. The school here is free to whoever chooses to go, young or old. A man, or woman, can learn to read and write, free of tariff. Besides, can you think of a more remote place? The people here don't even believe in Dwarves.”

  “All very noble, I'm sure.” Nought grunted sourly. “So you raise a pair of children who fit their economic status about as well as an Eagle fits a chicken yard.”

  “And Doreen and I do?” Bal bristled. “I'm no charlatan, and neither is she. What would it look like with them speaking as we do, yet illiterate? Then you'd have no eagle in the yard, but a goose.”

  “Or a pair of them,at least.” Nought clapped Bal on the shoulder. “No, there's no fault in what you've done. In fact, it may be for the best.”

  Bal's eyes widened. “A premonition?”

  Nought shook his head, causing the long white hair under his floppy hat to swing about. “No, merely hope. An educated guess, if you will. Even in this world, a bright mind and a willing heart may grow to accomplish greatness, or, at the very least, a modicum of success. They appear to be good children, by any means.”

  “They're more than that. They stand head and shoulders above the best this village has to offer. I think that has a part in the trouble they've had with some of the children here.”

  “Envy grows a bitter crop at best, Bal, and if they face the road I think they will...” The old man let his voice trail off, but Bal finished the statement in his head, and swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

  “What do they know of the world outside of their little village?” Nought asked casually, as they passed the stable master's shop.

  “Almost nothing, I must confess. We've never spoken of our lives outside the village or of the Empire.” Bal shrugged. “We thought it best to concentrate on teaching them how to read and write, as well as some mathematics. Well, that and woodcraft, as well. Doreen and I won't live forever.”