Looking confused, Arran nodded his acceptance of her apology, but he wisely chose to stay quiet.
“Eleanor, I am disappointed and angry. We will be discussing this later. However, right now, you can make yourself useful. Go and fetch Will’s medical bag; it appears your actions have caused quite a few injuries,” Conlan snapped.
Eleanor stood and flashed him a wounded, miserable look before heading back to their caravan.
“She tells you nothing happened, and you just believe her?” Mickle asked with a bitter sneer.
Conlan turned to glare at him. “I have known Eleanor a long time. She is many things, but stupid is not one of them. If she wished to bed Arran behind my back, she would not have chosen to do it in broad daylight in the middle of camp. I think her actions were, as she asserted, prompted by a misguided sense of duty and concern. Actions she would not have had to have taken if you had done your job, Mickle. You asked for the position of captain, citing your experience and age. Arran is one of my men—he took the same oath you did and is, in fact, taking an even greater risk than you are to be here. Why was he not given a place to sleep?”
The question was soft, quiet and deadly. Conlan had purposely backed the man into a corner. But the way Mickle was staring back at Conlan, with a calm, detached, slightly superior manner… it gave Will a bad feeling.
“Enforcers are not to be trusted,” Mickle said with utter conviction, as if that answered Conlan’s question.
“Arran has my trust,” Conlan snapped. “I practice magic too, as do the Avatars. Does this make us all untrustworthy?”
“No, it is just him I want nothing to do with,” Mickle said, in the same calm voice, with the same confident stare. He was not going to back down, Will realised.
Arran’s head dropped; he looked dejected but not especially surprised. “Conlan,” he said, hurt and misery clear in his voice. “I am causing problems. I will leave.”
Conlan smiled at him. “No, Arran. You gave me your oath; I do not release you from that.” He turned back to Mickle. “Mickle, you know what I am trying to achieve, you know what I am fighting and this sort of bigotry is part of it. If you are unable to show tolerance, you are free to go. Although I am confused as to why you were here in the first place.”
Mickle smiled; it was not a pleasant expression. “I was a Protector for twenty-five years. I served the Lords well and had no complaints. Until four years ago, when my home village was hit by a disease. There is a cure, but it is expensive. It was cheaper just to destroy the village and kill the inhabitants to stop it from spreading. They forced the villagers into the tavern…” Carefully lowering his right arm, Mickle used his left to point an accusing finger at Arran. His voice lost some of its calm for the first time, taking on a deep hatred. “And he burnt the building to the ground. He murdered four hundred and thirty-eight men, women and children—including my wife, our three boys, their wives and my six grandchildren. The only reason he is in my presence and still breathing is the oath he made to you. So do not presume to stand there and lecture me on my job. I am here to kill the Lords of Mydren. In four years of waiting, you are the first opportunity I have had to take revenge. I am uninterested in this dream of mutual tolerance you have, and might I add, you show your youth in your beliefs. You want an Enforcer near you? Fine. He can sleep in your cart.”
Conlan’s emotionless expression was back on his face, but Will could see the tension in his body. Mickle had insulted him. Conlan had pushed his authority, and for the first time, someone had bitten back. Will saw the frown on Eleanor’s face as she arrived back, carrying his medical supplies, and he knew she had worked out this was a big problem. There weren’t too many ways out of this situation that would not require Conlan to kill Mickle.
“Arran, is this true?” Conlan asked, his voice carefully neutral.
With Will’s help, Arran stood. “Yes,” he admitted without emotion.
“Is Mickle’s village the only one you destroyed?” Conlan asked.
“No,” Arran answered. “During that summer we wiped out three villages to stop the disease from spreading.”
“How many did you kill?” Conlan asked coldly, and Will began to wonder where this line of questioning was going. It was certainly doing nothing to improve Mickle’s image of Arran.
“Several thousand,” Arran said.
“Did you enjoy it?” Conlan asked.
Arran gasped, his face blanching under the blood. “No, Conlan, no! It was horrific.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Arran dropped his head. “The first time, I did not truly realise what was happening. But afterwards, when I discovered the extent of what I had done, I said ‘no more.’ They beat me unconscious several times, and I still said no—magic should not be used this way. I would have let them kill me, but they switched their attention to the others—their other captives with magical talent. They were just children… and they tortured and abused them without mercy.” Arran took a shuddering breath. “I know, to save several thousand, I should have sacrificed them, but I just could not bring myself to do it.”
His face still hard and emotionless, Conlan turned to Davlin, who was sat on the floor, trying not to show his pain as Eleanor examined his bruised ribs with gentle fingers.
“Davlin, how many have you killed for the Lords of Mydren?” Conlan asked.
His eyes meeting Conlan’s, Davlin stiffened at the question. “A great many,” he murmured softly. “And no, I never took any pleasure in it,” he added when Conlan opened his mouth again.
“I have killed many, too,” Moylan said quietly, joining the conversation. “Very few actually deserved it.”
“I killed a pregnant woman when she tried to stop me beating her husband,” Elroy said quietly, his expression haunted. “I never intended her death, but of all the lives I have taken, hers hurts the most.”
Conlan turned back to face Mickle. “Many of us have killed for the Lords of Mydren. It was not something we wanted to do, but we did not feel we could resist. That is what I want to give the people of Mydren: the opportunity to resist. The power to say no. The only difference between Arran and Davlin or Moylan or Elroy… or me… is that Arran killed people you loved.”
Mickle blinked owlishly, as though he was struggling to process this information and understand the concept.
“I know what it is like to lose someone precious to you,” Conlan continued, in a soft, non-threatening tone. “I know how grief can taint everything you see, hear and do, until the world becomes a dark, empty place. You are right to be angry, you are right to seek justice—but do not blindly paint us all with the same colour. Arran, too, is a victim. It is the Lords of Mydren that have earned your disgust and hostility.”
There was a short silence.
“I have never killed anybody,” Kip piped up, watching Mickle with wide, frightened eyes.
Conlan graced him with a fond smile. “And I hope that you never have to, Kip.”
“What happens now?” Mickle asked, giving the impression he did not care about the answer.
“That is up to you, Mickle,” Conlan said, some of the edge coming back into his tone. “Attacking Arran, regardless of your reasons, was a step too far. I cannot have you as a captain for my men. I now assign that duty to Will.” He nodded at Will, who returned the nod, accepting his new role. “However, if you believe you can work to improve your attitude, I will offer you a second chance. You are also free to leave if you wish to. I will release you from your oath; you need only ask.”
“You would trust me not to return to the Protectors and tell them everything?” Mickle asked, shocked.
Conlan gave him a cold look. “I have no choice but to trust you. I will not force you to stay if you do not wish to, nor take your life just to ensure your silence.”
“This weakness will be your undoing,” Mickle said. It was no snide comment, but a serious attempt to give Conlan the benefit of his experience. “If your enemy gives you the opportunity to kill the
m, take it.”
Conlan tipped his head to one side. “Are you my enemy, Mickle?”
There was a hard silence as the two men stared at each other. Around them the others moved as little as possible; only Eleanor, helping Will tend Arran’s wounds, made noise as she whispered to Arran, who shook or nodded his head in response.
Eventually Mickle sighed, his voice tired when he spoke. “No, Conlan, I am not your enemy.”
Conlan nodded.
Mickle smiled, although it did not fully push the grief and pain out of his eyes. “If I stay, what will be my punishment?” Mickle asked quietly.
Conlan paused, holding Mickle’s gaze again until the older man dropped his head. “Mickle, you should know by now, I do not lead that way. I want your respect, your loyalty—I do not want your fear. However, if you do decide to stay, I believe apologies would be in order.”
“I think your avoidance of discipline another weakness,” Mickle said. “But apologies would be harder than taking a flogging. May I have some time to think about my choices?”
“Certainly,” Conlan allowed.
Mickle gave a respectful nod, then turned and walked away, all eyes on him as he disappeared among the trees.
“Do you think he’s coming back?” Eleanor asked in English.
“I don’t know, and I’m meant to still be mad at you, so don’t talk to me for a little while, okay?” Conlan said, managing to make the cordial English words sound harsh and cold.
Eleanor sighed and turned back to cleaning the gash above Arran’s eye.
Not at all happy about Eleanor being the scapegoat in this situation, but understanding the necessity for it, Will gave her a sympathetic smile.
The day rushed past in a seemingly endless list of tasks. After helping Eleanor patch up their injured, Will needed to assess the men under his charge. He was rather horrified to discover that not only was their cart an utter tip, but that the sword training, hand-to-hand combat and general exercise plans that Conlan had asked for had not even been drawn up, let alone adhered to. Knowing the reliability limits of his memory, Will used the back of his sketch pad, silently mourning the loss of paper, to make notes on everything that needed doing and details about the men themselves.
He unobtrusively interviewed each one and was surprised by the talents they collectively possessed. He had assumed that the creation of the soft furnishings and player outfits had been driven by Amelia—she had, after all, made her own clothes in the past and adjusted clothes to fit both him and Conlan—but it had turned out that a lot of the technical advice and guidance on their endeavours had been provided by Elroy, whose mother had been a professional seamstress and had taught her only son all she knew. Teris and Moylan, too, surprised him: both had been stable boys before joining the Protectors and knew a great deal about caring for horses and their equipment.
But much to his horror, Will discovered that, with the exception of Davlin, none of them could read or write—a problem he intended to rectify as soon as possible. He was also shocked to discover just how young many of them were. Kip, Elroy and Arran were still in their teens, and Moylan and Teris their early twenties. Will tried not to dwell on this. They had grown up in a different world and were most likely self-sufficient adults before they were sixteen. Yet it nagged at him; he had a small impulse to acknowledge that they were just children, that he was old enough to be their father. Not King’s Men… more like Lost Boys… But he worked at burying his paternal feelings. These men were soldiers, fighters, those he and Conlan would be putting into harm’s way; and while he cared for them and their safety, he could not afford to get sentimental about it.
At lunchtime, Will went to check on Amelia. She had insisted she was fine—and with her faster Avatar healing time, he knew this was the case—but Will had asked her to spend the day with her feet up just to be sure. So she had taken some of the sewing that needed finishing and set up a little workshop on the couch in their cart. Will arrived to find that Kip had brought her lunch. A small bunch of wild flowers tied with thread lay next to the bowl of stew and hunk of bread.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, trying hard not to show her just how worried he was.
Amelia shrugged. “Like I told you this morning: I’m fine, the headache is gone, there’s nothing wrong with me.”
Knowing she was irritated and tolerating this enforced rest solely to humour him, Will tried to lighten the mood. Smiling, he nodded at the flowers. “It looks like I have some competition.”
Amelia giggled and nodded. “And so far, Kip is winning. I can’t remember the last time you gave me flowers!”
Will gave her a mock look of hurt. “But my darling, I brought you flowers this morning.”
Amelia looked confused, and Will gave her a cheeky smile, pointing at a vial of liquid on the table. “That painkiller starts life as a very beautiful purple flower called lepdrac.”
Amelia snorted. “Practical—but not very romantic.”
Will sat down at her side. “I didn’t know you were in need of romance.”
It was Amelia’s turn for the cheeky smile. “A woman is always in need of romance!”
Will pulled her carefully into his arms, her face turned up to his, an adoring smile spreading across it.
“Then it appears…” he said softly, bending in to kiss her forehead, then pulling back and continuing as if there had been no interruption, “…that I have let you down… ” He bent in to kiss her nose. “… failed to satisfied your needs…” He leant in again, kissing her lips, slipping his tongue between them, tasting and swirling in an intimate and utterly familiar way. He loved the passion she met him with, the moans she allowed to escape and her fingers moving through his hair. He could tell she wanted to go further, but common sense eventually prevailed, and she gently pushed him back.
“I don’t think I should be satisfying your needs, if you are unable to satisfy mine,” she said, her manner haughty, but with a sparkle of mischievous humour in her eyes. “Besides, I have a lot of work to do.”
Will smiled. “I’ll have to see what I can do to rectify this inadequacy.”
Amelia nodded, failing to hide her smile with a stern look. “That would be a very good idea.”
“Have you seen Conlan?” Eleanor asked, coming up behind Will.
It was late afternoon, and Will was sat on the ground near Kip’s cooking fire, surrounded by their supplies, weapons and provisions, making as detailed an inventory as possible.
“He went off for a walk with Arran after our balancing session, as you suggested. He’s not come back yet,” Will replied, not looking up from his counting. “Why?”
“Because Freddie just contacted me from the outer perimeter. Mickle is heading back into camp, and I thought Conlan might want to talk to him,” Eleanor said. The message was delivered in a studiously flat monotone. She had taken some mild ribbing from the others about being stupid enough to ‘sleep’ with an Enforcer and some downright rude comments from Teris that Davlin had put a stop to before Eleanor got the chance. Will suspected she had reached the end of her humour and did not relish a continuation of the subject when Mickle returned.
Nodding, Will put his pad and pencils to one side and stood, dusting dirt off his trousers. “Someone should talk to him; I’ll meet him. Can you and Davlin go and find Conlan? Freddie will be able to tell you which direction they headed off in.”
Eleanor gave him a smart salute. “Yes, sir.”
There was no disrespect in the move, but for some reason it still felt wrong. Will gave her a tight, uncomfortable smile, and Eleanor turned to leave, looking confused as she tried to work out what she had done to upset him. Will would have stopped her if he could have given her an adequate explanation.
Moving quickly across the camp, Will intercepted Mickle as he walked towards the main fire, giving the man a friendly smile of greeting.
“Hello, Mickle.”
Mickle stopped and dropped his head. “Will,” he acknowledged in
a voice Will did not recognise as Mickle’s; he sounded contrite, miserable—human.
“You missed lunch, but I think Kip has some leftovers, if you are interested?” Will said.
Mickle gave him a pained smile. “Thank you, but I do not think I could eat right now. Where is Conlan?”
“Eleanor has gone to find him; he will be here soon,” Will said.
Mickle nodded. “Lady Eleanor did not go behind Conlan’s back, did she? Conlan gave her permission to spend the night with Arran.”
Will had no idea how to answer the question, but Mickle took his silence as a confirmation anyway.
“Conlan has a remarkable amount of trust in her,” Mickle commented. “A woman… and yet I think about what my wife could have achieved in a world where she was trusted, encouraged and educated… She was a very smart woman. Something I should have told her more often…”
Will heard the pain in Mickle’s voice, saw the absent look of someone with his mind firmly elsewhere, and chose not to respond. Without really thinking about it, Mickle, still deep in thought, wandered over to the fire, sat down and turned his distant focus into the flames. Will sat next to him, but Mickle had said nothing more when, ten minutes later, Conlan strode back into camp. Arran, Eleanor and Davlin followed him. He sat on the other side of Mickle as the others drifted away, giving them some privacy.
“Hello, Mickle,” Conlan said, his voice and expression giving away none of the apprehension Will could see in the stiff way he held himself. “Have you made a decision about your future?”
Mickle nodded finally, bringing his head up and holding Conlan’s gaze. “I have thought about my life, and the misery and pain I have inflicted. I do not want this to be all there is. I still want the Lords of Mydren gone, and you are still the best way to achieve this—but I also want to make Mydren a better place. For everyone. I think your odd view of women has been influenced by spending too much time with two very remarkable ladies, and I think you will find it difficult to control Mydren if you give ordinary men and women the power you talk about… but I am willing to be more open-minded about these concepts.”
Will (Book 2) Page 20