The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2] Page 7

  Neely looked down at each of his legs in turn and grunted. They were almost completely healed, and in less than a third of the time he would have thought possible. He no longer needed the crutches now, but Flynn was right, it wouldn't be good to have to go through that itching all over again.

  “This is lookin’ like the place.” Flynn remarked.

  “Th’ place for what? Whatchoo talkin’ about Flynn?” Neely turned to the side and gave his friend a quizzical look.

  “The place where we built the raft. There's the Alder trees over there,” He nodded his head in the direction of the forest to their left. “Bet iffn we looked around we'd find the spot exactly.”

  Neely shuddered at the memory of the falls. “No thanks.”

  Flynn's next statement was interrupted by a shout from Sergeant Travers, “We'll camp over there, on that flat near the outcropping, just before that stand of Alder.”

  The Ortian troopers wheeled their horses to the left at the Sergeant's order and began the business of setting up camp for the night. Two set about preparing the fire, complete with its encircling ring of stones, another one tied up the line to tether the horses and the rest unpacked the tents and began erecting them.

  Charity dismounted and looked around at the bustle of activity. “Your men are well trained Sergeant.”

  Travers looked up from checking his mount's hooves. “I'd say the same about that cat of yours. Does she always ride behind the saddle like that?”

  The cat, in answer, jumped down and trotted off into the trees. Charity watched her until she vanished into the underbrush.

  “I didn't train her to do that, or anything else she does, it's all her idea. I don't think you can train a cat, either they allow you to be a part of their family or they ignore you.”

  “Hmmph,” Travers laughed, “sounds like some women I know.”

  Charity didn't feel like arguing the point but merely nodded and walked across the campsite to where Flynn and Neely sat watching the troops setting up the tents.

  “Busy little bees, ain't they Charity?” Neely pointed at the group with a twig.

  “Minds me more of ants,” Flynn said around the blade of grass he was chewing on. “Oy, here comes the Sergeant.”

  Travers approached them from the side opposite of where the tents were being finished. He held a bronze flask in his hand and a lopsided smile on his face.

  “What ho, Sergeant,” Neely called out, tapping the twig against his knee. “That flask looks promising. You come to share a dram or two with a couple of very thirsty men?”

  “I thought it might do at the end of a long ride,” The Sergeant said, as he settled down next to Neely. He pulled the stopper and stuffed it into a pocket of his tunic. Then he reached across Neely and handed the flask to Flynn, “Just a sip now, that way we'll all get a taste.”

  Flynn tipped a small amount of what was in the flask into his mouth and swallowed. His eyes bugged, his cheeks puffed out and then he let out his breath in a woosh, “Wwwwhhoooo! Oh Neely, you gotta try this.” He handed the flask to his friend.

  The tracker took the flask and sniffed it. He turned to look at Sergeant Travers. “Amberfire? How old?”

  The Ortian shrugged. “My da's a distiller. He set this batch up a bit before I was born. Say forty-five years ago.”

  Neely imitated a fish. “F ... Forty-five years?” He threw back a good slug of the potent brew. “Hoooaahh! Ohh that's smooth.”

  Travers took the flask and sampled some of it. “Yep. Good man, my da.”

  Both Flynn and Neely heartily agreed.

  Charity, hearing her name mentioned, looked up from checking over her bow. Sundown was still a good hour away and the smell of stew and firebread floated through the air mixing with that of the pipes some of the men smoked.

  Long shadows cast by the trees lay across the campsite like tigers stripes. Flynn and Neely were passing a flask back and forth with Travers and laughing at something they found extremely funny. Neely pointed at her and Flynn nodded, laughing all the harder.

  She put down the bow and walked around the campfire feeling slightly irritated. If they were telling stories again with her as the butt of the joke...

  Sergeant Travers looked up at her approach, slightly bleary-eyed. He accepted the flask from Neely's hand, took a pull from it, and then got to his feet after one failed try. “Good evening, milady. These companions of yours have been entertaining me with wonderful stories of your prowess with the bow. They have even assayed a wager on your skill, but I think this time they've ventured beyond the realm of falsehood into outright fantasy.”

  Travers’ words, even though spoken with the slurred formality of one teetering on the edge of drunkenness, rocked Charity. She blinked and said cautiously, “Wager? What wager?”

  “Why as I said, about your ability with the bow. They claim you can center any target you see ... And some you can't.” Travers looked back at Flynn and Neely, both of them wearing loose-lipped grins. “Isn't that so?”

  Neely belched, “Pardon. Might as well pay us now Sergeant. Ain't a target you kin pick she can't hit.”

  “Easy money, I'd say.” Flynn chortled.

  Charity folded her arms under her breasts. “Oh really? And how much did you wager? I don't recall you having much in the way of coin.”

  Flynn nudged Neely in the ribs as he tipped more of Travers’ Amberfire down his throat.

  Neely crossed his arms in mimicry of Charity, “Naw, but we got horses, they're worth a couple a golds apiece, easy.”

  “The horses? You bet the horses? Mine too?”

  Travers sat back down and grabbed the flask out of Flynn's hand. “She can't do it. I might as well take ‘em now.”

  Charity's sigh sounded long-suffering, “What's the target?”

  Flynn and Neely slapped each other's hand in celebration while the Sergeant set up the shot for Charity.

  As Charity collected and strung her bow, he walked away from the campsite toward the line of trees off to the far side of the flat. By the time he reached the trees, Charity began to develop some concern over whether or not she'd stepped in it along with her two friends. Travers’ chosen target was a small piece of red leather tacked to the trunk of a lonely Madrone mixed in with the Alders and Beeches. The red of the leather was akin to the color of the tree's trunk. At the three hundred or more paces distance she'd be expected to be shooting from, there was little chance of even seeing the target, much less hitting it.

  “You're not thinking of backing out, are you?” Travers watched her face as they walked back towards Flynn and Neely.

  “Not on your life Sergeant, I'm rather fond of my horse. I'd rather not have one of your men riding her, thank you,” Charity pitched her voice to be as confident as possible, in spite of her feelings.

  When they reached where Flynn and Neely stood, the rest of the troopers came over to see what was going on. The Sergeant informed them of the bet and more wagers changed hands. To Neely it looked like they were split about half-and-half between whether she'd make the shot or not.

  One of the troopers sidled over to Neely and clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm sure gonna enjoy th’ saddle you got on that nag o’ yourn, mine's ‘bout worn through.”

  The tracker shrugged as he watched Charity string her bow, “Wouldn't be so quick off th’ mark iffn I was you. She ain't shot yet an’ it's the second mouse whut always gets th’ cheese.”

  Charity finished stringing her bow and turned toward the target. It looked even further away than she thought. She could see the Madrone, barely, but could only guess as to where the leather target was on the tree.

  “Got a problem?” Travers chuckled as she peered out over the course.

  “Just checking my bearings, Sergeant,” Charity was becoming a little irritated with Travers’ smugness. He was so sure he'd set her an impossible bet he was probably spending the money in his mind already.

  “G'wan miss Charity, you kin do it,” Flynn encouraged her f
rom where he sat.

  “Yeah, let's lighten their purses,” Neely chimed in. The rest of her audience held their peace other than a bit of sotto voiced commentary between a few of the troopers.

  Charity pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it to the string. She looked out at the target once more. Her gut still swirled with feelings of apprehension but there was no backing out now. She was sure she'd miss the tree as well as that tiny patch of leather. Could she even send an arrow that far?

  “You kin do it, Miss Charity, we knows ya can,” Flynn's jovial voice came through her thoughts and eased a lot of the weight that had been settling down on her shoulders.

  “Thank you Flynn,” She said to herself as she brought up the bow and drew back the string. As the knuckle of her thumb touched the point of her jaw that feeling of knowing the target came over her. She loosed the arrow, renocked another and released again all in one smooth motion. Then she turned to face Sergeant Travers without even bothering to see if the first arrow hit or not. “Pay them,” She told him and walked away.

  Travers and his men ran to the target site with Flynn and Neely stumbling along behind them.

  Neely yelled out as he approached the Ortian troopers standing before the Madrone, “Don't you touch nothin', now. We all gotta see iffn she came close'nuf ta swing th’ bet.”

  “We ain't touchin’ it,” One of the troopers muttered. “Don't think I ever wanna touch it.” The last came out flavored with a bit of awe.

  “Lemme see.” Flynn shouldered his way through the press and then called over his shoulder, “Neely, you gotta see this.”

  The tracker pushed a couple of the troopers aside in order to get to where the big man was. “What? Whatcha see? Oh, mama ... Bardoc preserve us.”

  “I don't believe it. I ... flickin’ don't believe it.” Travers stood in front of the Madrone shaking his head.

  “Better believe it, you owe us a stack of coins.” Neely held out his hand before the Sergeant.

  Flynn grinned hugely, “Consider it payment fer a show Sergeant. Lotsa folk ‘ud pay good money ta see a shot like that.”

  Travers nodded numbly as he reached into his purse. Charity's first arrow centered the leather patch. Her second arrow had as well, splitting the first like a Sammla Fruit.

  * * * *

  “Half now, half when it is done? No, little man. All now ... or you can find someone else for this deed.” The speaker sat across from Hodder and Stroughten in the place Wuest usually occupied while sharing an after hours drink. His eyes held a coldness Hodder had never seen before. He wasn't sure if he was more afraid of the Duke or the black haired man facing him, the one who still hadn't touched his drink.

  Stroughten raised a hand. “Now, no need to do anythin’ hasty, you'll get yer gold, but fer it all ta be paid up front we's gonna have ta wait fer Avin ta add his into th’ pot.”

  The fellow smiled, but it never reached his eyes, “As you say, we will wait, but...” He toyed with the rim of his glass, “waiting will cost another gold.”

  “Another gold?” Hodder's exclamation caused heads to turn in the pub.

  “Ssshhh,” Stroughten reached out and covered his friend's mouth, “you want everyone in th’ pub knowin’ whut we's doin'?”

  “Mumph mheh wamphh nufnr mmoll,” Hodder mumbled from behind Stroughten's hand.

  “Perhaps if he promises to speak a bit more circumspectly you'll take your hand away,” The black haired man said quietly, his saturnine face nearly expressionless, his lips barely moving. “Won't you little man?”

  Hodder nodded quickly and Stroughten pulled his hand back. “Whut was you goin’ on about?”

  “Another gold, Leum, he wants another gold,” Hodder hissed. “Where we gonna get that?”

  “Your friend has yet to show. You can ask him, when he gets here.”

  Hodder sent a glare across the booth. “You never gave us your name,” He accused.

  “I didn't, did I?” Their guest sat back and looked at each of them in turn. His voice dropped to a sibilant whisper, “Get used to it. You,” he nodded at Stroughten, “contacted me with an offer of a job. Assassination never comes cheaply, regicide even less so. In addition, I've found my clients’ memories ... lacking, when it comes time to collect the bill. So my policy is payment in full,” He looked at Hodder, “regardless of the price.”

  “But fifteen golds? No, sixteen?” Hodder remembered to keep his voice low.

  The assassin turned his eyes toward Stroughten, “Your little friend is too full of “buts".”

  “Tis a high price but we'll cover it,” Stroughten muttered. “Deed's got ta be done, no way ‘round it.”

  A cold smile greeted the gangly man's statement. “You're sure on this?”

  Wuest's arrival forestalled his friend's reply to the assassin.

  Stroughten was the first to remark on the Duke's aide's appearance, “Avin, you look like death herself! Sit, have a drink.”

  The Duke's aide sat and said, “Ale,” to the waitress as she passed the booth.

  “Gods, Avin. What happened? Did he skin another one?” Hodder leaned forward as he peered at his friend's pale features.

  “No, not that, fortunately.” Wuest grabbed the ale as soon as it touched the table and downed a good portion. “Bring another. No, no skinnings, not today. Today he told me his intentions, for us, for Grisham, for the world.”

  The black-haired assassin sat quietly, listening for anything he may be able to use later.

  “How bad?” Hodder gulped some of his own ale.

  “He's beyond mad, he's evil, dangerously evil. The madness just adds to it. He wants his war; in fact he started it to teach a lesson to the Ortian Emperor. What lesson, I don't think even he's sure of now, but he's going to teach it, oh yes. Even if we all have to die in the learning.”

  Both Hodder and Stroughten nodded.

  The assassin leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows. “This madness you speak of, what form does it take?”

  Wuest noticed the addition to the usual contents of the booth for the first time since sitting, “Who're you?”

  “Ask your friends,” The black-haired man said with a wave of his hand.

  Wuest looked at Hodder and Stroughten.

  “Th’ killer,” Stroughten said around a mouthful of beer.

  “What?” The Duke's aide started as if the man next to him had suddenly developed fangs and bat wings.

  “He said, the killer.” Hodder reached out and pushed Wuest's ale closer to him. “Here, finish this, you've all the color of a bleached sheet.”

  “The killer ... the killer...” The Duke's aide mused. “Oh!” He said, brightening a bit, “you're the one. How much do you need?”

  The assassin's smile was less chill this time. “Sixteen will do. Consider the price a ... humanitarian gesture from one who's motivated by a strong sense of civic responsibility.”

  Hodder snorted, “Civic responsibility, my puckered ass.”

  “Hodder!” Stroughten hissed. “Mind who you're speaking to.”

  “Leave off,” The assassin chuckled, “It seems I was mistaken in my estimation of your little friend. I respect his courage, even if it does come at a price, sixteen golds to be exact. Do you have them with you,” He looked at each of the conspirators in turn before adding a raised eyebrow for Wuest, “or need we go our separate ways?”

  “No, no need for that. I knew what we were planning would be expensive. I have the coins right here.” Wuest reached into his overtunic and pulled out a small purse, it clinked when he placed it on the table in front of the assassin.

  The man's eyes widened slightly, “Sixteen? Are you a seer as well?”

  “Looks like more'n sixteen,” Stroughten said quietly. “Where'd you get ‘em Avin? We addin’ thievery ta killin'?”

  “My life's savings—over ten years of scrimping, eating leftovers in the Duke's kitchens, buying nothing unless it was absolutely necessary and sometimes not even then. There's
twenty-four golds in there, my Lord Lifetaker. They are all yours if you believe you can deliver this city from the demon plaguing it.”

  The assassin opened the purse and looked inside, “The agreement was sixteen and sixteen is all I'll take. Use the rest to build another nest egg. I'll not deprive a man of his last secant and I'll not pad my belly on another's hopes.”

  Wuest took back his lightened purse. “When?” was all he said.

  Hodder and Stroughten leaned forward.

  “When,” The assassin repeated while toying with the gold coins in his hand, “When, where and how is my concern, employer. All that need concern you is that once paid, the contract will be fulfilled. Prepare yourself for a new master, by this time on the next moon the Duke of Grisham will be no more.”

  Chapter Four

  The foreman in charge of repairing the southeastern gates surveyed the ruin before him and shook his head.

  “We kin do th’ job, Errold,” His construction chief said.

  “Of course we can do the job. Will we do it in time? That is what worries me. You've heard the stories, Mordun, just as I have, an army stretching from horizon to horizon. Great gray beasts, near tall as that Dragon that did this!” He waved an exasperated arm at the gap where the gates used to hang.

  “You just make sure I's got th’ men an’ th’ tools Errold, I'll git it fixed fer ya. In a fortnight yer won't even know they wuz ever down in th’ first place,” Mordun hitched the thick tool belt encircling his oversized belly, “an’ that's a promise.”

  Errold watched a crew of workers put the finishing touches on the left side scaffolding and then turned to walk back to his temporary office on the site. “Make it a week and I'll be happier.”

  “A week?” The pot-bellied construction chief followed his superior, “Ain't no way we kin get it done in a week, not without we hire extra men an’ do round th’ clock shifts. Maybe not even then.”

  “We may not have a week Mordun. Do what you have to and pay what you have to. Just get it done.”

  * * * *