Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  But eventually the party atmosphere dissipated, and Arran and the Protectors went to find their blankets, leaving only the five of them awake. Six, Will corrected himself: Davlin sat a little behind Eleanor, quiet and out of her way, but very much awake and vigilant.

  In the glow of the fire’s banked embers, Eleanor told them about her trip to Gallendary and the letter she had sent, asking Remic for what they had needed. She told them how kind the jewellery shop owner had been, providing them with the feast they had just eaten. The jeweller had promised a reply from Remic by midday the next day and had suggested that they should return then with horses to pull the carts and equipment they wanted.

  Conlan spent some time questioning Davlin and Eleanor about the town, much as he had Moylan. His line of inquiry focused on the number of Protectors patrolling the streets, evidence of any resident Enforcers and anything that appeared suspicious or out of the ordinary. Conlan stopped his questions only when he realised that Eleanor, still wrapped in his cloak, her head on his chest, had fallen asleep. Amelia also slept, her head tucked under Will’s chin, and Freddie’s snore had being sawing in and out for nearly an hour.

  “You did an amazing job today,” Will said quietly in English. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner what you had in mind?”

  Conlan gave him a knowing look. “What? And miss out on all that platitude-laden reverse psychology?”

  Will snorted in amusement. “I was trying to help,” he said in mild remonstration.

  Conlan gave him a warm smile, full of gratitude and affection, an easy smile that owed its existence to Eleanor, although his slowly unfurling humour was a revelation that both Eleanor and Freddie had taken a hand in. Will had caught glimpses in the past of the quick-witted self-mockery and occasional dry observation. Yet this relaxed banter, the flashes of the confident, charismatic leader Conlan was going to be… these were gifts. Ten years with me and I’d just about got you to hold a conversation. One year with Eleanor and your sparkling repartee would stun a talk show host. I let you down, Conlan, I’m sorry.

  Unaware of Will’s pained thoughts, Conlan effortlessly lifted Eleanor, taking care not to wake her, and shuffled himself down so he could sleep. He pulled the little pixie into his arms, running light fingers over her rapidly healing face, sighed and gently kissed her forehead.

  “Night, Will,” he murmured, resting his head next to Eleanor’s on his outstretched arm.

  The Mule

  It was well before dawn when Conlan woke them all the next morning. The rain had stopped, but the air was stagnant, damp and chill. The darkness, barely touched by the glow of the fire’s embers, made them appear to each other as nothing more than deeper patches of slow-moving shadow as they yawned and stretched themselves awake. Elroy muttered that it was so early even the birds still slept; his firm voice sounding overly loud in the dark, Conlan explained that it was important that they were battle-ready at all times and that this only came with endless practice and a clear, alert mind.

  Conlan then led them all through a gruelling set of exercises, during which it was obvious there would be no sympathy for those who had drunk too much the night before. Using his night vision, Freddie let Conlan know who was slacking off and when. Will was amused by the Protectors’ growing horror as they realised there would be no respite, that even the dark would not hide them. Another important point was being made to these would-be ‘King’s Men’—a term they already whispered to each other, thinking Conlan could not hear them. Their ‘king’ had not banned them from drinking, nor even advised them against excess; neither the ban nor the advice would have been popular. He simply made no allowances for those feeling the effects of overindulgence.

  No lecture on sobriety needed, Will thought, smiling at Conlan’s ingenuity.

  The Protectors’ low level of fitness was actually quite shocking. Will had expected to be the one struggling, but with the exception of Davlin and Moylan, the other men were puffing, blowing and complaining bitterly amongst themselves long before he began to feel the strain. When, after several hours of stretching, balancing and intensive general exercise, the sun rose on grey—and in some cases, green—faces, blood-shot eyes and dragging, exhausted bodies, Conlan broke them off into pairs, giving them each a wooden stick ‘sword’. Will found himself paired with Mickle. The man’s short grey hair was in careless disarray, and he wore a dark, glowering look on his weather-beaten face. He regarded Will from narrowed eyes.

  “Something the matter, Mickle?”

  “I am the captain of his men; I should not have to train with them,” Mickle huffed, a growl of disrespect clear in the Dwarfish as his hefted his wooden sword in a rather menacing fashion. “Conlan has no idea how to lead Protectors.”

  Will shrugged. “Maybe it is not Protectors he wishes to lead. Perhaps he wishes to show you how you can be more than that.”

  Mickle gave him a flat, disgusted look—one that made Will rather childishly want to stick out his tongue in response—then turned to listen as Conlan gave them instructions on what he wanted. He got them to slowly walk through various moves as he and Freddie circulated, making small corrections, comments and, in Freddie’s case, lots of hand gestures, but mostly just watching and assessing.

  Mickle proved to be stronger and quicker than Will had expected, but his style was still heavy and clumsy. He had a habit of overcommitting, an unforgivable crime in Conlan’s eyes, which gave extra force to the swing but left him open to any opponent who was lighter on their feet. As Will looked round at the sparring pairs, few of the others impressed him either. He knew these Protectors were not the elite guard—although he had his suspicions about Davlin—but if the fighting expertise being demonstrated was representative of the general level that Protectors could muster… well, going into battle against them suddenly lost some of its ability to terrify him.

  During a short water break, Conlan and Freddie had a quiet, involved conversation just out of earshot. Will felt a pang of jealousy; it would always have been him Conlan would have come to in the past. Get over yourself! This is a positive thing. Conlan needs to rely on you less! Will was still trying to convince himself of this as Amelia brushed her energy against his and came to sit beside him.

  I’m glad Conlan is working with Freddie on this. He’s a great teacher, and these Protectors could certainly do with the help. She gave Will a peck on the cheek and handed him a water pouch as she snuggled up next to him. Will took several deep swigs; he had not realised how thirsty he was.

  Mickle has all the style of a lumberjack. A real swordsman would make fast work of him, he agreed.

  Amelia sighed. At least he knows how to swing a sword. I don’t think Arran has even held one before.

  He’s powerful without a weapon. Maybe they thought that knowledge would make him too hard to control.

  Before Amelia could respond, Conlan and Freddie walked back to where everyone sat around catching their breaths. Conlan began talking, and Will automatically translated the Dwarfish into English for Amelia.

  “We have a lot of work to do before I am going to be happy with your sword skills. I am going to break you into groups according to your skill level and assign you an instructor who can best help you. You will be working with this person for several hours every day. I know there will be language difficulties, but I expect everybody’s willing cooperation.” Heads nodded as Conlan ran his eyes over them before continuing. “Good. Elroy, Teris, you have similar skill levels—I am putting you two together, with Freddie as your instructor. I would also like Freddie to take over Davlin’s role as your direct superior in charge of camp security. I expect you to assist him.” Both men nodded their agreement as they moved to stand with Freddie, who gave them a friendly smile.

  “Moylan, you and Davlin are the most competent. I am putting you together with Eleanor—”

  “What?” Moylan spluttered. “I do not understand. You just said I had skill, yet you assign a girl to teach me? I know why Davlin has earned this dis
respect, but what have I done to deserve such treatment?”

  Fuming, Eleanor marched over to Moylan. Davlin ran to get in front of her.

  “Get out of my way,” she muttered.

  Davlin shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a lazy smile. Exasperated, she shot Conlan a peeved glance, but he was looking thoughtfully at Moylan. Will was just wondering what would happen when Eleanor finally lost her temper and decided to force Davlin aside, when Conlan spoke up.

  “Moylan, I will make a deal with you,” he said quietly, his eyes hard. “We shall have a sparring match. If you can score three points against Eleanor before she scores three points or disarms you, I will train you myself. If you fail, you will gratefully accept the help Eleanor will provide.”

  “How is that fair? If I damage her, Davlin will kill me,” Moylan retorted.

  Conlan smiled, but there was no humour in it. “Eleanor needs to practice her sword skills, just as the rest of you do. Davlin will not intervene or retaliate for any injuries she gains in these practice sessions. When you are sparring, she must rely only on her own weapon and reflexes. So—do we have a deal?”

  Moylan looked Eleanor’s tiny, delicate body up and down and nodded, a confident grin spreading across his face. Immediately the men moved into a large circle around Eleanor and Moylan. The young, red-haired Protector towered over the little pixie, but Will could not help feeling sorry for him. He had no idea that his comments had singled him out for an object lesson in the direct application of feminism.

  “Eleanor,” Conlan said in English. “Remember, this is sparring; don’t hurt him or his pride too much. I’m trying to make a point, not humiliate him. Let him get a strike against you before you disarm him.” Eleanor rolled her eyes but nodded. She assessed Moylan while Conlan gave the sparring rules they had been using as a group for years before the Protectors arrived: No blows above the neck. Each ‘hit’ was a point, and the first person to three points was the winner. However, disarming your opponent was an immediate win.

  Oh, poor Moylan, Amelia said, watching the man smile at the Protectors around him, weighing his stick in his hand.

  Once he had explained the rules, Conlan moved out of the centre of the circle to act as referee. Moylan approached Eleanor, his sword held relaxed in his left hand, his right hand extended in a strange show of good sportsmanship. Confusion crossed Eleanor’s face for a second before she reacted by moving quickly to her left, out of Moylan’s reach. Moylan froze and turned slowly to face her.

  “Have you no honour, child?” he asked.

  Eleanor shrugged. “Would you stop to shake your opponent’s hand on the battlefield?”

  Moylan snorted. “Of course not!”

  “Then why do it now?” Eleanor asked. “All it does is further distance what you are doing whilst sparring with what will happen in reality, and this reduces the effectiveness of the training.”

  Will smiled; Eleanor was quoting Conlan. She had even copied his usual tone of strained tolerance. Moylan did not seem to appreciate it, but Eleanor ignored his look as she continued.

  “When this fight is over, I will happily shake your hand, but right now I intend to beat you.”

  And with that, she attacked in a flurry of body strikes that Moylan struggled to deflect and which slowly backed him up, reducing the space within which he could manoeuvre. Moylan realised what she was doing and feinted a stab to her left side. Eleanor twisted, deflecting the stick, which gave Moylan enough room to step round her, while pulling his weapon swiftly back and aiming a jab for her chest. Eleanor bent gracefully back; his target no longer there, the force of Moylan’s jab made him overreach, taking him off balance. Eleanor continued her bend and, hands to the floor, she executed a perfect backflip.

  Will had seen this before—it had been done to him—and he knew the little pixie was quite capable of kicking Moylan’s ‘sword’ from his hand and disarming him. But Conlan had asked her to let Moylan get a point before she did this, so she just continued her movement, smashing the surprised man’s stick to the side as she came to her feet, then giving him a sharp crack across his right shoulder as she withdrew. Moylan hissed in pain, rubbing his arm and taking several steps back.

  “One point—Eleanor,” Conlan said, making no attempt to hide the pride in his voice.

  Moylan stared at the girl before him, the newfound respect in his eyes quickly replaced with hard determination. Taking a firmer grip on his stick, he launched his attack—but it was bold, too bold. Ordinarily, Eleanor would have made him pay for his lack of finesse. But on this occasion she was a little slower to react. She took the point of his ‘blade’ along the length of hers and, when she slid her footing round to escape the trap he was looking to create, left herself open for the smack across the back that made her stagger forward, grunting at the pain.

  “One point—Moylan,” Conlan said.

  Eleanor gave him a pointed look and he offered a small nod. She had done as he had asked, allowed Moylan to survive this with some of his self-respect intact. Now she could finish it.

  Backing up towards the edge of the circle, Eleanor’s eyes tracked Moylan as he swaggered before his audience, a smug smile on his face.

  Don’t give her that much space! Will squirmed, resisting the urge to shout advice. He recognised the look on Eleanor’s face. Any minute now…

  Eleanor dug her toes in, and on light, soundless feet, she charged. The little pixie was halfway towards Moylan before he even registered that she had moved. He reacted in a panic, swinging his ‘sword’ point out towards her face. But at the last minute, Eleanor dropped, left leg extended, as if she was sliding into ‘home’ underneath Moylan’s erratic defence. As she slid past, she flicked her stick up, giving his wrist an almighty wallop; his hand released his sword, flinging it into the air and over his head. Coming to a stop behind him, Eleanor was back on her feet, and—having caught his ‘sword’—had both weapons levelled at him before he even managed to turn fully and face her.

  She’s so fast.

  So are you, Amelia, when you relax into it enough to let instinct take over, Will replied.

  “Disarm—Eleanor wins,” Conlan said.

  Rubbing his wrist, Moylan glared at Eleanor. “She used magic! She cheated! There was never any way to beat her!”

  From the expression on his face, Conlan appeared to have anticipated this reaction. He gave Moylan a lethal look.

  “Eleanor does not cheat, and this is the only time you will be forgiven for making that comment,” he said, the growl under the Dwarfish menacing. “However, to clear up any doubt, I will prove this to you. I am just a man, am I not?”

  Moylan nodded his head, although he did not look entirely certain. Conlan’s glowing green eyes—a side effect of the Avatar energy he carried—gave evidence to the contrary.

  Conlan smiled grimly. “Then I will spar with Eleanor and show you how a man, with the right training and mindset, can beat her.”

  He held his hand out, and Eleanor handed over Moylan’s wooden weapon. The still-angry man moved to sit in the circle around them. Eleanor stepped back a little and she and Conlan circled each other, watching, planning.

  “Be careful, Conlan,” Eleanor said in English. “One day you’re going to lose.”

  Conlan nodded. “It’s every teachers dream for the student to surpass them—but it won’t be today.”

  “I know how many bruises you still have from our visit to Katadep. I don’t want to hurt you,” Eleanor said with a worried frown.

  In answer, Conlan made a quick two-step advance with his point at her face, slapping her ‘blade’ aside, aiming a jab to her left shoulder.

  Will loved watching Eleanor and Conlan spar. It was like a graceful, deadly dance. They were so in tune with each other, it required a huge amount of skill from each of them not to foreshadow their intentions.

  Eleanor twisted her shoulder down and to the side, dropping her body and sweeping her right leg out, hoping to take
Conlan’s feet out from under him. Conlan anticipated, neatly jumped her leg, and gracefully deflected the ‘sword’ away from his hip, then spun through, pushing her blade down, destroying her defences and twisting suddenly back to give her a firm blow across the ribs under her sword arm.

  “One point, me,” Conlan said, the Dwarfish gloating.

  Eleanor moved lightly back, one hand rubbing her side, a pained expression on her face. But Conlan gave her no time to collect herself and launched another attack, the rapid crack of stick against stick like gunfire as it echoed off the trees.

  Will looked at the wide eyes and rapt attention of the Protectors. They were possibly seeing true mastery of the sword for the first time. These were the fighting arts of a gentleman, and the training needed to be able to fight this way was an expensive and closely guarded secret among the ruling elite of Mydren. Will had once asked Conlan why, and the explanation had been than it was easier for the rich to keep the peasants under control if they knew they outmatched them in a fight. And having just witnessed the heavy, ill-timed, plodding style the Protectors seemed to think passed for skill, Will suspected the speed, precision and endlessly graceful movement demonstrated by Conlan and Eleanor must be a revelation. Was this why Conlan chose to do this? Does he want them to see the talent he has and the ability he would like them all to possess? As an example, it was visually very powerful. They fought in silence, with total concentration, whirling, twisting, slashing and stabbing.

  In the end, it was Eleanor’s footwork that let her down, an area where she was not yet as adept as she would have liked. Recovering from a series of feints and jabs Conlan had delivered, Eleanor moved forward on the wrong foot, leaving her defence open to the painful thrust to her stomach, hard enough to double her over. Sliding down her blade, Conlan trapped her sword hand and twisted it at the wrist, making Eleanor gasp in pain and drop her sword as the ‘blade’ of Conlan’s weapon came to rest against her throat—a killing stroke had the stick been steel.