The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2] Page 5

Circumstance ran along the row of tents, sometimes deftly dodging around the kit of the soldiers moving into their new home during the muster. Chief Engineer Lemmic-Pries said the message needed to get to Colling-Faler within the hour. He should be able to get it to the Engineer Third in half that time.

  The Ortian military forces began arriving just after sunrise yesterday. The first to show at the edges of the camp were the cavalry along with the retinue surrounding General Jarl-Tysyn and his wagons. After them came the foot soldiers including a company of reluctant conscripts overseen by several heavy-handed noncoms. Because of this the engineers’ comfortable routine was reduced to chaos barely kept in check by the iron will of Lemmic-Pries. The Chief Engineer recruited Colling-Faler to oversee the settling in as his administrator Gaspic had taken to his own tent as the first companies began arriving complaining of a headache. Even though he was rated a mere Engineer Third, Colling-Faler showed a surprising amount of maturity for one so young, as well as a solid instinct for getting people to listen to him and follow his instructions. Besides that, the men liked him nearly as much as they disliked Gaspic.

  An eagle stooping for a ground squirrel spooked from its hiding place by a passing soldier caused Circumstance to take his eyes off of where he was running. It took just a moment, but that moment was enough. He slammed into a soldier backing out of his tent with an armload of supplies.

  “What th’ skrud?” The Ortian cursed, as he and Circumstance tumbled over into a tangle of arms and legs. Supplies flew up into the mid-morning air and scattered across the alley formed by the tents. The jumble of Circumstance and the soldier finished up against a teepee'd stack of spears and by sheer fortune avoided being impaled or cut by one of the razor-edged weapons as the stack flew apart.

  Circumstance felt completely mortified by what he'd done and was opening his mouth to offer an apology when a rough hand jerked him to his feet.

  “You dog-flickin’ brat! Lookit what you done ta me stuff! Whatcho go'n do ‘bout this flickin', skruded mess? I'll learn ya ta watch where ya go!”

  The boy tried to dodge the open-handed blow but the soldier's grip on his arm was like a vise and he could neither duck nor back out of the way. The pain exploded through his head and he saw lights flash before his eyes. Pain was a feeling he had little experience with. He'd always been in control before and his mother and Ethan never had reason to discipline him.

  Another blow rocked his head, this one harder than the first. He felt sick to his stomach and a knot of fear grew and blossomed in his chest. The smell of the soldier came to him in a mixture of sour rage and cloying perspiration. The man hadn't bathed in quite a while and his exertions added to the perfume.

  Through the tears filling his eyes he saw the hand pull back for another strike. A voice, from that place within him where the strange knowledge of the wild and magik lay, told him to strike and strike now. Circumstance knew, in that instant, that he could easily destroy the soldier. He was also afraid he would be forced to do so in order to live.

  The hand began its descent toward his head as he focused the magik to protect himself.

  “Leave that boy alone!” A hand jerked the soldier back by the scruff of his neck, causing his blow to pass harmlessly over Circumstance's head. Another hand reached out and released the grip on the boy's arm allowing him to fall back into the grasp of Colling-Faler.

  “Easy there lad,” The Engineer third eased Circumstance to the flattened grass that formed the floor of the alley, “Durston-Kres will deal with our friend for you.”

  The burly Engineer held the Ortian soldier at arm's length. The utter shock of being pulled away from his just punishment of the clumsy boy stunned him for a moment and he looked at Durston-Kres with uncomprehending eyes.

  “What in Bardoc's name do you think you're doing?” The Engineer shook the soldier as he asked the question.

  Durston-Kres’ grip was broken by a violent twist of the other's shoulders. “Whut th’ skrud d'you think yer doin'?” He stepped back and spread his feet in an aggressive posture. “Th’ brat had it comin’ runnin'’ inta me like he did.”

  “And for that you have a right to beat him to death?” The Engineer stepped closer to the soldier. “Your name and rank, if you please?”

  “Whut you want me name an’ rank fer, brain-boy?”

  “Humor me,” Durston-Kres’ smile was anything but pleasant.

  The soldier took another step back and then straightened as he cracked his knuckles. “Awright, not that it'll do yer any good. I've taken on two like yers at oncet. Din't even breath hard doin’ it neither. Name's Greenstone, Corporal Greenstone ta yous.”

  “Thank you.” Durston-Kres followed that with a straight right that snapped the Corporal's head back, lifting him off his feet. Greenstone landed inside the tent behind where he'd been standing, breaking the support pole as he slid into it. The heavy canvas settled down over the Corporal leaving only his boots exposed. Durston-Kres walked over, reached down and dragged him out of the mess.

  On the other side of the tent the soldier who'd been occupying it prior to Greenstone's plowing into his naptime crawled out from under the canvas and stood just in time to see the Engineer send Corporal Greenstone back into the remains of his tent with a last roundhouse blow. “What in the flick's going on here?” Other soldiers were now looking out of their tents or standing around the small drama unfolding before them.

  Colling-Faler checked Circumstance one more time to make sure the boy was ok. “A little discipline private, nothing you really need to concern yourself with.”

  The soldier looked at Durston-Kres pulling Greenstone out from beneath his ruined tent. “This is where I was gonna sleep tonight. I think that's a bit of concern.”

  Durston-Kres held the unconscious Greenstone up where the private could see his face. “You know this fellow?”

  An expression of distaste crossed the Ortian soldier's face. “Yeah, I know him. What about it?”

  “Ah, I see he's a friend of yours.” The Engineer let Greenstone fall to the grass.

  “Bosom buddies, I'm sure,” Colling-Faler said as an aside, eliciting a chuckle from Circumstance.

  “Awright. I can't stand the guy, ok? Far as I'm concerned you can pound ‘im into jelly. I got a tent to fix. He's all yours.” The soldier turned back to his tent.

  Colling-Faler stepped forward drawing Circumstance along with him. “Just a moment.”

  The soldier paused and turned to look at the Engineer. “What?”

  The Engineer Third held the boy before him. “I want you to take a good look at this lad. Mark his features well, all of you.” He raised his voice to carry to the rest of the watching soldiers. A good-sized crowd had gathered for the entertainment.

  “This is Circumstance. This fellow,” he pointed at Greenstone, “thought it good to take his temper out on him. As you can see it was a bad idea. I suggest none of you try the same. Am I understood?”

  No one in the crowd answered.

  Durston-Kres planted a toe into Greenstone's side and rolled him over. “The Engineer asked if you understood him.”

  The crowd of soldiers answered at once. “...Yeah.” “...Sure.” “...You got it.” “...No problem.”

  “In fact,” Colling-Faler continued, “I want you to spread the word throughout the camp. If a hair of Circumstance's head is harmed, I will have the one who harmed it, and those who could have prevented it and didn't, up on charges that will have them cleaning up after the horses until their grandchildren die of old age. Do you hear me?”

  This time the crowd answered in unison and in the affirmative.

  The Engineer Third nodded his satisfaction. “Good.” He looked down at Circumstance. “Come on lad, we'll see about those bruises.”

  “Thank you.” The boy took Colling-Faler's hand and allowed the Engineer to lead him to the medical tent. Durston-Kres followed, keeping an eye on the soldiers as they left the area.

  What the Engineer Third didn't know wa
s Circumstance said thank you for more than one favor done to him. The killing prevented had not been his.

  * * * *

  McCabe woke to pain, lovely, beautiful pain. From what he could tell, every bone in his body was broken in at least one, if not two places. It also appeared, from the vantage point of lying on his back that he was in a fairly deep crater. Where the crater was, was anyone's guess. He could have summoned the use of his new senses to find out, but he preferred to just lie where he was and enjoy the agony that shot through his shattered body.

  The voices within were quiet. It seemed that they too wished to savor the sensation of pain along with their host.

  One of his legs twitched, the healing had begun. A world of possibilities had opened up before him. Apparently he could not be killed. At least not by any means he could think of. But he could still feel the loving caress of his mistress, pain. McCabe felt his bones realigning. The agony was building to a point where he would become giddy. Small giggles escaped his lips and he bought his fingers up before his eyes to watch the wriggling bones as they realigned.

  A memory of the sandy haired young man came to him. Next a picture of the blinding radiance as it erupted from the man and impacted into him, beginning the journey to this place. He wondered what power it would take to do such a thing, to have that power ... He asked the voices how to do so and they began to teach him.

  Chapter Three

  Haberstroh watched calmly as her poison worked on the hapless traveler. By now the mixage should be burning its way through his entire body, shredding the blood vessels, rupturing the organs, and causing exquisite agony. “Yes,” She thought to herself as a crimson fountain erupted from what was left of her victim's mouth, “this one worked well.” A little Garloc blood, some wine and a few special herbs; she'd have to remember this blend for future use.

  She stood and walked stiffly over to the body. It was already beginning to dissolve, including the bones. Soon all she would see would be a flattened outline of clothing suggesting what once lay within it.

  Haberstroh the Hag, was what they called her. The name had been affixed over a century ago when she, even then, looked much the same as she did today. The memory of that naming burned within and added fuel to the hatred boiling in her heart. Even brighter burned the memory of her late husband. Garloc he may have been, but he was hers and they had no right to kill him.

  The child of Elf and Garloc, Haberstroh was the result of a mating that should never have born fruit. The couple, spurned by both races, was driven north and east until they found refuge at the edge of the great swamp that lay at the southwestern edge of the Verkuyl Peninsula. There Haberstroh remained, long after the death of her parents. Spurned, like they were, by the races she bore the blood of; but at least neither of them were murderers like men. It was they who had hunted and killed her mate. Now she did the same to them.

  An affinity for Witchcraft and potions showed itself early on in Haberstroh's life. One of her earliest memories was of putting together a mixage to cure her mother of a wasting phage by cooking a few different kinds of mosses down into their hidden essences.

  Poisons especially became of great interest to her and she mastered their dark secrets quickly. The book of recipes begun in her youth now measured nearly a hand's breadth in depth. Bound in human skin and warded with arcane sigils, it was her greatest treasure. By allowing the occasional traveler or merchant to pass through her lands unmolested, she spread the word of her special talents into the rest of the northern world. Through this she was responsible for the untimely demise of nearly five dozen men of high position that just happened to be in the way of a rival's advancement. A few Elves had succumbed to her mixages, but they mattered little. It was the men she loved killing, even if it was by proxy.

  Haberstroh bent and gathered up the remnants of what had been a hunter searching for game along the edges of the swamp. She chuckled a bit at that, even now, it was the swamp that held the reputation and not her. Perhaps it was because she was only half the size of the men she killed. Perhaps it was her obviously advanced age. Perhaps it was that those who used her services for assassination kept her name secret within their circles. Whatever the reason Haberstroh took full advantage of it.

  She stepped outside the hut and peered at the sky. The day was nearly three-quarters done and that hunting party would be by soon to purchase their medicines. A pity she wouldn't be there to see them used.

  * * * *

  “And you're sure she's the one closest to term?” The crone nodded in a series of sharp motions to the Sorcerer's aide's question. Cobain marked the stall number on the tablet he carried for that purpose.

  A withered hand stopped him as he turned back toward the corridor that would take him out of the gloom of the caverns. He looked into the rheumy eyes that silently pleaded with him and shook his head, “I'm sorry, Dagbare, it has to be.”

  Out of the caverns, Cobain climbed the stair that wound it's way to the heights of Pestilence where his master, Gilgafed the Sorcerer, resided.

  Gilgafed. Across the world the name was used to frighten small children into good behavior. The saying, “Watch what you do, Gilgafed will take you to Pestilence for his supper if you're bad,” kept many a precocious youngster awake at night.

  Cobain was born into the Sorcerer's service nearly four decades ago. Actually, his mother and a few kitchen workers with the ability to hold their tongues hid him from Gilgafed for the first three years of his life. Those tongues eventually were part of the appetizer the Sorcerer served up to his Ogren. The child's mother was their dessert. The toddler he placed into the care of a nurse who oversaw the young Cobain's indoctrination into the world of Pestilence. On his fifteenth birthday he entered into full time service as Gilgafed's personal manservant. Ten years after that, he was trusted to be in charge of his first of the Sorcerer's special dinners.

  He reached the landing with its twin brassbound doors, each of them large enough to allow passage of a medium-sized Troll or a large Elefont. The left-hand door stood ajar allowing some of the soft golden light the Sorcerer favored to wash across the black marble of the landing floor. Passing through, Cobain stepped into a world of sybaritic excess.

  Red velvet drapery swagged between feet-thick cream marble columns. Paintings, richly framed and lit by ingenious lamps, graced the walls of both the chambers and the hallways. Gilgafed denied himself nothing when it came to the pleasures of the flesh, whether they would be of the ear, the eye, or the table. Young women padded softly upon a variety of errands. Cobain ignored them as a fixture is ignored when seen on a daily basis over an extended time.

  Cobain made his way through two chambers, down a hallway wide enough for four men walking abreast and then turned left into a narrow hall. Several yards down the hall he turned right onto an alcove leading to one last flight of stairs that brought him to his Master's window upon the world.

  The Sorcerer's private chamber seemed Spartan in comparison to what lay below. The walls were unadorned expanses of the white-flecked black rock of the mountain. A floor-to-ceiling window on one side opened onto a balcony. Blue sky and the ocean looked back.

  Along two other walls stretched a series of shelves forming the library. A number of thick volumes actually did reside there, though it was best to not look too closely at the hide they were bound in. Besides the books, the shelves housed several varying sizes of ceramic and glass canisters; some with lids covered in arcane symbols and sigils, others simply covered. Still others sat open to the air of the chamber and shared their perfume with the room.

  Gilgafed looked up from the open volume that lay at his desk. “Ah, Cobain. Which one?”

  “Dagbare confirmed what I already believed, Master, Friella is the one. Her term is due one phase prior to the new moon.” Cobain referred to the notes in his tablet.

  The Sorcerer marked his place in the volume and closed it, releasing a small puff of musty smelling dust. “So, after all these years, you still balk at m
y choice of meat.”

  Cobain nodded.

  “I see.” Gilgafed stood and walked around the black desk to lean against it. He crossed one boot over the other and toyed with a small, carved figurine he picked off a stack of vellums. It bore the resemblance of an Elf child. “Perhaps it is time you learned a bit of history, sit down in that chair.” He pointed to one of a set off to his right as his servant turned away from the window.

  “No, master. I ... Can't.” Cobain was aghast at the thought of sitting in his master's presence.

  “I ... Said ... SIT!” The Sorcerer roared.

  Cobain sat.

  “You can do whatever it is I want you to do.” Gilgafed glared at his servant for a moment and then allowed his face to relax into a brief smile. “Besides, I feel like telling this tale.” The hand not holding the figurine traced over the web-like pattern of scars marring his right cheek.

  “I was born four thousand years before the magik war. Then the Dragons still dealt with man. They had another thousand years to go before their isolation began to take hold. The village I was born into was built upon the typical Elf lines; mud and wattle huts with the sewer being a shallow ditch running through the middle of it. After almost five thousand years they've changed little, the same mud and in some cases probably the same drek running down the street.

  “Like all Elf children I was small and bandy-legged as a child, but not as small as the female children so I had someone to bully when the older children were through bullying me. My mother and father fed me, but ignored me outside of enforcing my adherence to Elven culture. In short, men ruled, women obeyed and the weak died. I was lucky in that I was born male.

  “Back then Shapers were far more numerous than they are today, I did manage to get something right during the Magik War. My village boasted two, one worked fire as his element and the other, spirit. I apprenticed myself to that one. Not because my parents wished it, nor for any other reason than a vague feeling that this male could teach me something the other could not.