Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  As Will glanced over Arran’s pale, gaunt, pained body, he saw the scars of past wounds. Arran watched him appraising his injuries, a tight, guarded expression on his face.

  “Why do they not like you?” Will asked.

  “I told you—I am stronger than they are,” Arran said. There was a bitter pride to the statement.

  Will nodded. Stepping closer, he used careful, gentle fingers to assess a large bruise on Arran’s side, trying to determine if there was any internal bleeding. Arran flinched, his fists clenched, body tense and trembling.

  “Why did you decide to join us?” Will asked, trying to distract the obviously uncomfortable young man.

  “Because she called me,” Arran said, his gaze dropping to the floor.

  “Eleanor?”

  Arran nodded, his eyes taking on a softer look. Will looked at the battered, emotionally devastated person before him, barely more than a child, so much like Conlan at that age. Memories flashed through his mind. Even before they were able to understand each other, Will had known how damaged Conlan was: the nightmares, the haunted looks. Over the years the hold those dark memories had over him had loosened, and occasionally he would let details slip. Even less frequently, he would openly tell Will about his past—enough so that Will had a good idea of what Daratus was capable of. The pain he could inflict went far beyond the physical.

  “Nobody has ever spoken to me like that,” Arran said. “Like I mattered. She was… gentle.” His eyes were distant. “When I forced my way into her head, I saw her love. I did not know a feeling like that was possible. What she feels for Conlan—for all of you—I did not understand. But I wanted to.”

  Will smiled. “Eleanor will be delighted to hear it. She considers you a friend.”

  Arran was silent, thoughtful, and when he spoke again he sounded confused. “Does Conlan love her?”

  Will chuckled, not looking up from his ministrations. “Oh yes.”

  “Then why does he risk her? If you had not escaped, Daratus would have given her an agonising death,” Arran said, his expression serious.

  “Well, in the original plan she was not meant to be captured. But she could not watch you and Merl hurt Conlan, so she took matters into her own hands,” Will said, feeling rather grateful that she had. In hindsight, the original plan would have been a disaster.

  “She disobeyed Conlan’s order?” Arran asked, looking a little horrified.

  “Eleanor struggles with people ordering her about. She has a habit of acting under her own volition,” Will said.

  “And Conlan tolerates this?” Arran asked.

  Will smiled. “Only where Eleanor is concerned.”

  “I do not understand,” Arran said.

  Will laughed. “Conlan is just as besotted with Eleanor as she is with him. As a result he gives her more ‘allowances’ than the rest of us get.”

  Arran raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Will opened his medical bag, taking out his antiseptic and material to apply it. As he was doing so, Arran saw his sketch pad.

  “You can read?” Arran asked, surprised.

  “Yes, I can, but that is actually my drawing pad.”

  “May I look?” The burning curiosity in Arran’s eyes was a duplicate of Conlan’s.

  Will hesitated for a moment. His sketch pad was personal. He put a lot of himself into it, and so far only Amelia and Eleanor had seen it—but he liked Arran and wanted to trust him. Maybe it was just the shadow of Conlan that he saw in the sharp hazel eyes, or maybe it was Eleanor’s insistence that he was special. But for whatever reason, he handed the sketch pad to Arran. At least it would give the man something to concentrate on while Will cleaned the wounds. And sure enough, Arran barely noticed what Will was doing as he stared at the drawings, slowly turning the pages.

  “She does not have the scar under her eye in this picture,” Arran said. Will looked over his shoulder; Arran was looking at a drawing of Eleanor from before they had been attacked, before Amelia had been hit with an arrow, before Nethrus.

  “No, the scar under her eye is recent,” Will said, his attention moving back to Arran’s side, where a long, partially healed, weeping gash across his ribs was going to need stitches. His body was trying to create a scab, but because of where it was, every time Arran stretched to mount a horse or lifted something, it was going tear open again.

  “How did she get it?” Arran asked.

  “Ask her—she will tell you all about it. I need to stitch this, Arran. It is going to hurt. Do you want to sit?” Will said, not interested in being dragged into a conversation about how Eleanor had acquired her scars, especially as most of them painted Conlan in a particularly bad light.

  “No, I am fine,” Arran said, his attention moving back to the book.

  Will stitched the wound, pulling the skin tightly together, and was impressed when Arran did not react. He stared at the bloody marks across the younger man’s skin, blending with the scars of previously sustained abuse, not understanding how one human being could do this to another. Using a light, soothing touch, Will applied some of the white paste Kona had taught him how to make to the wound he had just stitched. It would stop infection and help speed up the healing process.

  The familiar stab of pain shot through him when he thought of Jarrick’s healer—so much knowledge, such a gentle, caring man. He had no idea if Kona had survived Eleanor’s earthquake, but he doubted it. Once again, Will pushed his feelings of loss and grief at the healer’s death deep down inside him. Eleanor’s guilt over Nethrus had nearly torn her apart, had taken some of the sparkle permanently out of her warm brown eyes. It was guilt he suspected she would carry for the rest of her life, and he would do nothing to add to that burden.

  As he reached down to take a fresh pad and bandage from his bag, a leaf landed on Will’s hand. He instinctively moved to brush it away, halting just before he touched it. The leaf was large, dried, delicate, and had been carefully pressed between the pages of his sketchbook.

  “Sorry,” Arran said, reaching out for the leaf. “It fell out.” He did not ask why the leaf was there. The drawing that went with it—Eleanor dancing and twirling as she jumped to catch the windblown foliage that fell around her—was explanation enough.

  Will rubbed the dry, fragile reminder between his fingers. Its deep red colour had faded, the lush waxy feel had dried to a papery texture, the veins stood out. He handed it back to Arran, who put it back between the pages it had come from.

  “You love her too,” Arran said, seeing the expression on Will’s face.

  Will smiled. “It is very hard not to love Eleanor,” he said quietly, thinking of Freddie.

  Will decided he had done the best he could to clean and treat Arran’s wounds, so he began packing his medical kit away. “You need to be careful for the next few days; do not rip those stitches,” Will said.

  Arran nodded, his attention still firmly held by the sketchbook. “You have a lot of talent,” he said as he carefully closed the book, wrapping the leather thong back around it. He handed the book back and gently rubbed his injured side. “In a lot of areas. Thank you for your help.”

  Arran looked down for a moment at the wet, shredded, bloody, dirty rags that had once been his Enforcer’s robe. Sighing, he reached instead for the clean shirt and trousers Moylan had bought in Prenderick. Once he had put them on, he looked even more like Conlan, Will thought, and the frightened child he was trying so hard not to be.

  Will smiled gently at him. “Are you ready to head back to camp? I cannot begin to tell you how much I want to sleep right now!”

  Arran smiled back. It was the first time Will had seen this amused grin, and it was more than Conlan could have managed at the same age. It gave him hope for Arran.

  Will arrived back at camp to discover Freddie trying to teach Amelia how to play poker using a Mydren deck of cards. Freddie was laughing and Amelia was looking at him with tolerant confusion. As Arran and Will came to sit by their fire, Amelia gave
Arran a wide smile; Freddie gave him a curious glance. Arran sat to the side, purposely ignoring them.

  Amelia shot Freddie a look; he sighed and got slowly to his feet. Then he walked round the fire and crouched down next to Arran, as apprehension filled the former Enforcer’s face.

  “Hello,” Freddie said in reasonable Dwarfish, offering Arran his hand to shake. “I am Freddie.”

  Arran looked from Freddie’s face down to his hand and back again.

  “I know who you are, Avatar of Fire. I do not need to shake your hand,” Arran replied solemnly.

  Not understanding, Freddie turned to Will.

  “Arran, Freddie is attempting to make friends. He is starting with shaking hands and telling you his name as an indication that he wishes to start over,” Will said.

  “Oh…” Arran murmured, looking at Freddie’s outstretched hand. Slowly he extended his own, tensing as Freddie grasped it. It was a moment before he spoke. “Hello, Freddie. I am Arran.”

  A huge grin spread across Freddie’s face and he pumped Arran’s hand up and down, then stopped and released it when he noticed the fear on the young man’s face.

  “What are you doing?” Eleanor’s amused comment swung all their heads in her direction as she walked towards them.

  “I’m introducing myself to Arran,” Freddie said.

  “He knows who you are, Freddie,” Eleanor pointed out.

  “Yes, but I was doing it in Dwarfish!” Freddie said, unable to hide his pride. “I’m learning.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s great, Freddie! Then you’ll get to tell awful jokes in two languages.”

  Will choked down a snigger and Amelia burst out laughing, making Arran jump. Freddie gave Eleanor an amused smirk, and she gave him a sweet, innocent smile in return.

  Eleanor turned to Will. “Moylan brought something back from Prenderick that Conlan needs you to see,” she said.

  I just want to sleep! Will thought, but he nodded wearily.

  Eleanor led them back to where Conlan sat by the large fire. Mickle sat on one side of Conlan, Moylan on the other. On the ground in front of them were six large pieces of paper. Coming up behind Conlan, Will looked over his head, and Amelia gasped. Each of the pieces of paper had a large picture on it—portraits of them. ‘Reward Offered’ was stamped over the top of each, and their names were written underneath.

  Conlan’s picture was a good likeness—although the artist had taken some licence with the murderous look in his eyes. The image of Arran, his lip curled in a snarl, was also a good attempt. Freddie’s picture was obviously him, but this was mostly to do with the dark colour of his skin, which made him stand out. Amelia’s portrait could have been any woman with long, curly black hair, and Eleanor’s image looked nothing like her, but rather resembled a deranged, angry child with long, wild hair whipping around her like snakes.

  Will focused on his own picture and let out a breath of relief he had not realised he had been holding. It was all wrong. The chin was too square, the eye colour too dark, the hair too long and the black teeth and heavy sinister eyebrows simply fictitious. There was nobody who would assume on meeting him that he was the man in the picture.

  “Well…” Amelia said eventually. “I guess we should be grateful they don’t have an artist as good as Will working for them.”

  Conlan glanced up at her and gave her a distracted smile. “This does, however, mean we have to be a lot more careful until we get our ‘player’ disguises in place. I don’t think Eleanor should be the one going into Gallendary.”

  Will saw anger fill Eleanor’s face, felt the rant coming. But Eleanor closed her eyes, took a deep breath and swallowed it.

  “Conlan, that image doesn’t look anything like me,” she said quietly.

  “It’s close enough,” Conlan muttered. “The reward they’re offering is large. Those who would turn you in are not that interested in getting it right, they just want paying. Anyone who looks vaguely similar will be a target, and you’re a girl with long, dark hair and a scar under your eye.”

  “I can make myself look different,” Eleanor persisted.

  “You could grow a foot taller, Eleanor, it won’t make any difference. It’s just too dangerous. You’re not going!” Conlan said, pulling himself to his feet.

  “How about if I can guarantee that nobody will recognise me?” Eleanor asked.

  “You can’t do that,” Conlan replied.

  Eleanor smiled. “But if I could—if I could guarantee that nobody would look at me and match me to that picture in a million years, would you let me go?”

  Conlan nodded. “If you can convince me that nobody will recognise you, then yes, Eleanor, I’ll let you go. But if I decide no, you will accept it.”

  Eleanor nodded, grabbed Amelia’s hand and pulled her back towards the smaller fire. Will had a nasty feeling Conlan was going to regret the deal he had just made. Glowing green eyes watched Eleanor go and Conlan sighed, sitting back down.

  “Will, yours is the only picture that looks nothing like the real thing,” Conlan said in Dwarfish, looking back at the posters before turning to Will. “Would you be okay with going into Gallendary tomorrow to send the letter to Remic?”

  You’re underestimating Eleanor, Will thought, but he nodded.

  “Moylan can go with you, okay?”

  Will nodded again and yawned.

  Conlan smiled. “Go get some sleep. We can talk about the details in the morning.”

  Again, Will nodded and trudged back to where he had left their bags.

  “What’s going on?” Freddie asked as he followed.

  “Ask Eleanor,” Will murmured.

  Not knowing where Eleanor had taken Amelia, but assuming she would turn up eventually, Will pulled his blankets from his saddlebags and, stretching out next to the fire, closed his eyes.

  He was vaguely aware of conversation a little while later, but working out what was being said was too much effort, and he drifted off into deep, blissful oblivion.

  The Maiden

  Slow awareness of his surroundings woke Will. Muted conversations flowed around him, and the wonderful aroma of spiced damper bread tickled his nose over the fainter, but ever-present smells of smoke, damp vegetation, horses and unwashed men. He had slept well and felt rested. The headache was gone and his energy balanced. His body still had a few aches and pains, but they did not seem to matter as much. Amazing what a good night’s sleep can do for you.

  Stretching slightly, he reached for Amelia and found only empty blanket. Had she come to bed? Unusually, he had slept so deeply that he had not noticed. He blinked, opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing his hands through his hair. The sky he could see through the gap in the forest canopy was the dark grey that spoke of eventual heavy rain and hid the sun. It made judging the time difficult, but from the activity around him it was clearly long past dawn. I slept really well!

  “Good morning, brother,” Kip greeted him from his makeshift kitchen on the other side of the fire.

  “Good morning, Kip. Have you seen Amelia?”

  “She left earlier with Freddie, I think to wash.”

  I really should join them.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” Kip asked. “The second bread bake is almost done.”

  Will’s stomach rumbled and he smiled, nodding his head. Washing can wait.

  As he finished his third large piece of bread and honey, Will wandered across the camp towards the space Mickle had found to set up his bow workshop. Halfway there, he came to an abrupt stop as Davlin marched into the clearing, dark eyes hard and an impassive look on his face. He was dragging a young boy along by a fist full of his short, dirty-blond hair. Davlin headed toward where Conlan sat cleaning and sharpening his sword by the fire; curious, Will moved to join them.

  Alerted to Davlin’s arrival by Arran and Moylan, Conlan got up and went to meet the strange pair, a frown on his face.

  “What is this?” Conlan asked.

  “
I found him creeping round the edge of the camp,” Davlin said.

  Will looked at the child. Thin, filthy and bedraggled, he looked maybe twelve or thirteen, possibly older but small for his age. The entire left side of the boy’s face was bruised and swollen. Blood oozed from his nose, from a gash above his left eye and from his left cheek, where a large, raised, deep-purple bruise had swollen to such an extent the skin had split. The blood mingled as it ran down his face, ending in a steady dribble onto his shirt.

  Punched several times, Will guessed, looking at the injuries, feeling a stab of pity. He’s a mess.

  “Was the beating necessary?” Conlan asked, raising an eyebrow at Davlin.

  The man shrugged. “He tried to run.”

  “And you are…?” Conlan asked the boy.

  His eyes fixed on the ground, the boy said nothing. Davlin grabbed the collar of the boy’s worn, badly fitting shirt, let go of his hair and shook him violently.

  “Answer him!”

  The moment the shaking stopped, the boy stamped a bare, mud-covered foot down on his captor’s booted one and tried to squirm away. The action seemed to annoy Davlin more than hurt him, but he grabbed the boy’s shoulders, spun him round and backhanded him. The boy collapsed with a whimper. Casually reaching down, the Protector grabbed the boy’s hair again and dragged him back to his feet.

  “I can do this all day,” Davlin said with soft menace.

  “Ellis,” the boy muttered, spitting blood to the ground. “My name is Ellis.” His voice was low, muffled, as he tried to talk around his damaged face.

  “What are you doing here, Ellis?” Conlan asked gently, giving Davlin an angry glance.

  Davlin pulled the boy’s head up and Ellis glanced slyly at Conlan’s face from underneath his fringe.

  “What are you doing here?” Ellis shot back.

  Davlin gave the boy a swift kick in the pants, and Ellis yelped, rubbing his bottom.