Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  Conlan grinned. “A good king does not ‘control’ his kingdom, Mickle—he guides it. So, does this mean you will be staying with us?”

  Mickle nodded. “If you will still have me…”

  “Yes, Mickle,” Conlan said. “I still want you here. You are a valuable member of our group.”

  “Thank you,” Mickle said, and Will could hear the gratitude in the man’s gruff voice. Mickle coughed before continuing. “I believe I have some apologies to make. I think I should start with Arran.”

  “Please be kind to Arran, Mickle,” Conlan requested softly. “He has just received some rather shocking news.”

  Intrigued, but perhaps not wanting to appear rude, Mickle forced the curiosity off his face and nodded solemnly. As he climbed to his feet, he was forced to move his right arm, and he gasped in pain.

  “When you are ready, Mickle, come and see me,” Will said. “I will treat your arm.”

  Mickle gave him a distracted nod and headed over to the cooking fire, where he could see Kip and Arran sat talking.

  “Think he’s going to change?” Will ask Conlan in English.

  Conlan watched Mickle thoughtfully. “I hope so.”

  “Conlan, if Mickle is forgiven, does that mean I can be, too?” Eleanor asked, the low snarl through the word ‘forgiven’ making it a plea for mercy.

  Conlan turned. Eleanor stood behind him, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked so unsure, so fearful. Will was shocked to find that he could not work out if this was a faked response for the benefit of those around them or a true reflection of her state of mind.

  Guilt flared in Conlan’s eyes and he opened his arms to her. Eleanor ran into them, settling herself onto his lap. Davlin followed her, sitting across the fire from them, making every effort to ignore them. He pulled out two of the small, lethal knives he kept on him and began sharpening them. Conlan watched him for a moment before pulling Eleanor closer.

  “Thank you my love,” Conlan whispered, speaking English, but emitting an almost cat-like purr of pleasure.

  “For what?” Eleanor asked.

  “For fixing my mistakes.”

  Eleanor smiled, resting her head against his chest. “You’re very welcome,” she replied, giggling as he nuzzled his nose into her hair.

  “So, Will, you’ve been counting things all day; what state are we in?” Conlan asked as Eleanor stretched and relaxed against him. Will knew why Conlan had led with this question, and he was not willing to let him off the hook so easily.

  “First, you can tell us how it went with Arran.”

  Conlan sighed. “About as well as can be expected. I had no proof to offer him—odd facial tics notwithstanding. I hardly believe it myself. Arran was shocked. He didn’t outright call me a liar, but he wanted to know what I thought I would gain from telling him I was his brother.”

  “And what did you say?” Eleanor asked.

  Conlan tightened his arms around her slight body, resting his chin on her head as he stared into the fire. When at last he spoke, he sounded distant, wistful.

  “I told him that I hoped to gain a brother.”

  Feeling a little bad for making Conlan talk about something he was obviously uncomfortable with, Will moved the conversation on to more mundane matters. They discussed the training of their men, their supplies and the need to move on soon. Will explained where Mickle had been slipping up and how he intended to solve the problems. Conlan agreed with nearly all of Will’s plans and ideas, especially his desire to teach the men to read and write.

  “And I think I need to be sleeping in their cart,” Will finished.

  “No, Will,” Conlan said, a little too quickly.

  Confused, Will frowned. “Why not?”

  Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Conlan fidgeted. “Because Amelia isn’t going to want to live with a cart full of soldiers, and she’ll kill me if I agree to let you leave her alone at night in our cart.”

  Surprised, Will stared at Conlan. “You’re afraid of Amelia?”

  “Yes,” Conlan said. “Where you’re concerned? Most definitely—yes!”

  Eleanor sniggered.

  “Shush, you!” Conlan whispered as he lightly kissed her cheek, then looked at Will. “Of course, if you ever mention I said that, I’ll deny it.”

  “Why don’t you move Freddie into the other cart?” Eleanor asked. “Arran and Davlin can move into ours. That way Will has eyes and ears on his men, and Freddie can practice his Dwarfish. Have you heard him recently? He’s really improving.”

  “That’s a far better idea,” Conlan agreed, and Eleanor beamed.

  Still amused that Conlan was afraid of Amelia’s wrath, Will nodded his agreement. Leaving Conlan and Eleanor by the fire to steal a few moments of time together, he went back to finish off his inventory.

  He was just putting everything away as the sun began to set. Freddie, Elroy and Teris came in from their patrol of the camp, and the most wonderful smells were coming from Kip’s cooking fire. Tired, but trying not to show it, Will took his sketchbook-turned-ledger back to their cart. Amelia raised an eyebrow at him as he entered.

  “So, Doctor… am I allowed out to go to dinner?” she asked innocently.

  Before Will could reply, there was a firm knocking on the cart. Bemused, Will opened the door; Mickle and Teris stood on the steps.

  “Please may we come in and apologise to Lady Amelia?” Mickle asked.

  Will nodded and let them in. Once inside, Teris stepped forward.

  “I am sorry I hit you, Lady Amelia. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I know now I should have followed my own conscience. I am too used to following orders; it is a failing Conlan says I need to overcome.”

  Will translated the Dwarfish into English for Amelia. There was a pause.

  “Whose orders are you following now?” Will asked with quiet malice into the silence.

  Teris turned his head, and for one frozen fraction of a second Will caught something in the blue eyes that met his: a dark, violent anger that Will instinctively knew hid cowardice. Then it was gone, replaced by an anxious distress.

  “Teris is here because it is right—although I may have suggested it to him,” Mickle said before Teris could reply.

  Not having understood the Dwarfish exchange, Amelia answered Teris’s apology. “I accept your apology, Teris, but touch me again, ever, and you’ll regret it. Are we clear?”

  She kept her expression firm as Will translated her words. Teris nodded emphatically in response and moved back so that Mickle could take his place. Teris did not look at Will directly—he seemed to be watching Mickle and Amelia—but Will got the distinct impression he was being observed.

  Mickle bowed his head. “Lady Amelia, I did you a great wrong. Teris was acting on my orders, and it was my plan. I am so sorry. I let my hatred of Arran justify hurting others. I am so sorry; please forgive me.” Will translated the words of apology.

  Again there was a pause as Amelia stared at the salt and pepper hair of Mickle’s bowed head.

  “Eleanor told me what happened to you, Mickle,” Amelia said, her eyes full of sympathy. “As you’re still here, I assume that you’ve decided to change your attitude and behaviour. I forgive you this once, Mickle, but I expect better from you in the future. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Again Will translated. Mickle raised his head and gave Amelia a pleased smile that was so at odds with Will’s experience of the man that it was like he was seeing him for the first time. Perhaps I am.

  The apologies completed, Teris left, and Mickle asked Will if he would look at his arm. After a little poking and prodding, Will was satisfied it was most likely a fracture, not a break. He proceeded to make a splint, binding it carefully to give Mickle the best chance of it healing properly, and told him not to overuse the arm. Mickle thanked him profusely, apologising to Will for not giving him a fair chance, and promising that he would do so in the future.

  Dinner was a quiet affair. The last few days had been e
xhausting and they were all tired. Conlan let them know about the changes in sleeping arrangements, having spoken to Freddie in advance. Will had been impressed to learn that Freddie had immediately seen the need for his move and agreed without reservation.

  People began drifting off as soon as the food was finished. Kip was surprised and pleased when Mickle and Moylan thanked him for a wonderful meal and then helped him with the washing up. Will stretched out before the slowly dwindling fire, his back resting against the tree trunk they were using as a seat. Amelia was lying against him. She was not yet asleep, but she seemed too tired to hold a conversation. He was warm, full and looking forward to a comfortable night’s rest. Across the fire, Conlan was talking to Davlin and Eleanor about sending further letters to Remic and what they were going to do if they actually had to put on a play. Arran sat to Will’s right, watching Conlan with a frank intensity, like he was trying to work out a puzzle. Will smiled: Conlan had been a puzzle for him for quite a while, too.

  Content, Will tipped his head back, looking up at the stars that glittered across the sky above him. The moon had not yet risen above the tree line, giving him a spectacular display. It was the view he had tried to recreate on the cart; he knew he could never have done it justice. Letting his thoughts still, Will calmed his mind and drifted.

  It was a tiny feeling at first, a small, nagging itch in his mind, but as Will took notice of it, the itch became stronger. Someone was watching them—but none of the normal physiological ‘alarm bells’ had rung. This has happened before: when we were riding to Gallendary.

  Amelia felt Will tense and was suddenly very awake and alert. “Will?” she whispered.

  Will placed a finger against her lips. He pulled her up and over to where Conlan sat. The others had stopped talking; Eleanor and Davlin stared at Conlan in confusion as he glanced silently around.

  “We’re being watched again, aren’t we?” Conlan whispered.

  Will nodded. There was definitely a ‘watcher’, a human being.

  There was a yell from near the cooking fire.

  “Moylan? Moylan? Are you okay? Help!” Mickle’s loud voice tore through the night air. In a rush, those by the fire scrambled to their feet and raced in the direction of the yelling.

  They found Moylan lying on his back on the ground, his arms and legs stiff and his body shaking violently. His eyes were open, but showed only white, and a harsh grunting noise was being forced out of his gritted teeth. Mickle was crouched next to him, but looked afraid to touch him.

  “What did you do?” Davlin snarled, pulling Mickle away from Moylan by the collar of his shirt.

  “No, Davlin, leave him alone—this is not Mickle’s fault,” Will said.

  Mickle pulled himself free, giving Davlin an angry look. Davlin let him go but stood over him, glaring.

  “What’s going on?” Conlan asked Will in English.

  “He’s having a seizure,” Will said, dropping to the ground next to Moylan, carefully rolling him onto his side, making sure there was nothing around him he could hurt himself on. “Moylan?” Will said, doing his best to make the Dwarfish reassuring. “Can you hear me, Moylan? You are going to be fine.” Will pulled off his jacket and placed it under Moylan’s head to keep him from injuring himself, and angled the man’s head towards the ground so his saliva would not end up in his lungs. Eleanor knelt on Moylan’s other side, reaching her hand out to stroke his hair as his head thrashed about.

  “How do we make it stop, Will?” she asked softly.

  “We can’t. We just have to let it run its course and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself in the meantime,” Will said. “Eleanor, I need you to start counting. I need to know how long the seizure lasts.”

  “What did Will say? Is Moylan going to die?” Mickle asked. He sounded genuinely upset by the prospect.

  Will gave him a sad smile and tried to explain as calmly as possible. “Moylan is having something we call a ‘seizure’,” he said, using the English word, having never come across the Dwarfish word for it. “It is caused by disruptive signals in his brain and is most likely the result of being hit repeatedly in the head by Barrows. There is no cure or fix for this. In my world there were herbs and potions that helped, but not here. And since he has had one seizure, the chances are high he will have more.”

  With a rasping, choking noise, Moylan finally stopped moving. He lay still for a moment, then shuddered and gasped for breath. He tried to sit up, but it was as if his limbs had forgotten that they were connected to him and he floundered, his eyes rolling and teeth chattering together.

  “Moylan… Moylan…” Will said. “I know this is frightening, but you are safe. You are going to be fine, just concentrate on breathing. Eleanor, how long?”

  “Ninety-eight seconds,” she replied. “But we should add on maybe thirty seconds before we got here.”

  Will nodded. Two minutes… It had felt like much longer.

  Slowly awareness came back to the stricken man, and eventually he was able to sit up and hold a conversation.

  “What happened?” he asked, his gaze taking in the frightened faces of those around him.

  “You had something called a ‘seizure’,” Will told him and proceeded to explain what he had just told the others, while Moylan stared at him, aghast.

  “So this could happen at any time? With no warning at all?” Moylan asked.

  Will nodded.

  “How do I live like that?” Moylan whispered, staring at the ground in front of him.

  Understanding Moylan’s despair on a level he would never admit to, Will put a hand on Moylan’s shoulder, seeing the tears in the young man’s eyes as he lifted his head.

  “People do, Moylan,” Will assured him. “I can teach everyone how to help you if you have another seizure, reduce the risk that you might hurt yourself. Coping will require a certain level of courage; but you never struck me as a coward.”

  Moylan nodded, giving him a grim, determined look.

  It was not until he had helped Moylan to bed, giving Freddie brief instructions on what to do if he had another seizure, and had himself relaxed enough for sleep to lap against him, that Will realised: the feeling of being watched had disappeared.

  The Play’s the Thing…

  This was going to end badly. There was no way around it, nothing he could do to stop it: it was going to happen. Conlan glowered at him, daring him to react, communicating far better with his cold silence than he would have with words just how much Will was going to regret what he was about to do. But Will could not stop himself; Freddie made a strange, coughing-hiccupping sort of noise and slammed his hand over his mouth, Kip snorted and that was it: Will dissolved into uncontrolled hysterics, laughing so hard he was crying. This set Freddie and Kip off, and the giggles spread. Soon they were all laughing.

  The harlequin-styled all-in-one that Conlan wore was bright and colourful, and while not quite skin-tight, it was close enough. A wig of orange, barely-brushed wool, escaped in fuzzy confusion from under a vivid green and purple hat that perched on his head at a ludicrously jaunty angle. Small silver bells hung down from pieces of material that rose like tentacles from the top. Conlan had to stand very still for it not to tinkle merrily. However, it was the thick white foundation, with a stylized, clown-like face painted on it, which had caused Will’s giggles. While the make-up did, as Eleanor had hoped, effectively conceal his scar, the contrast of the painted-on bright red smile and the sour look of disdain on Conlan’s face was possibly the funniest thing Will had ever seen.

  It was a bright early morning, and with Eleanor and Freddie’s help, Will was instructing his men in practicing their sword fighting with everyone as a group, having first run through some intensive strengthening and stretching exercises. Amelia was working hard to sort out their costumes and had insisted Conlan set a good example by going first. Will was still trying to get his laughter under control as Eleanor pushed through the surrounding men to get closer. Once she reached Conlan, she stoo
d in front of him, her sparkling eyes wide, her mouth a small ‘O’ of surprise and amusement. As she looked the outfit up and down, her mouth twitched into a smile she fought to hide. Stepping closer, she tentatively reached out a hand and gently flicked one of the bells, its tinkle barely audible over the laughter around them. Eleanor’s smile stopped trying to hide; she flicked the bell again and the smile got wider.

  “You look brilliant,” she murmured in English. Slowly, as if the expression was being dragged to his face with great reluctance, Conlan smiled back.

  “I feel like an idiot,” he responded in English, eyes flicking to his still laughing men.

  “That’s sort of the point,” Amelia said as she came up behind him, nodding in approval at the result of all her hard work.

  “In our world, this archetype was called ‘The Fool’,” Eleanor told him. “He represented going into the unknown and potential that’s not held down by preconceived notions or fear. The Fool follows his heart, as we have all done in following you.”

  “You know Tarot cards?” Amelia asked.

  Eleanor shrugged. “Teenage girl, private girls’ school… what other excitement was there but Tarot cards and Ouija boards?”

  Finally managing to calm his laughter down, Will put the others back to their sword practice—although he noticed they did not rush to obey—and, moving to stand in front of Conlan, offered an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry, Conlan, you really do look great.”

  Conlan’s gaze tried to melt him.

  “The Idiot is meant to make people laugh, remind them not to take themselves or life too seriously,” Eleanor said, again looking Conlan up and down. “I’d say this was perfect.”

  Conlan gave a deep sigh then allowed an amused smile to fit into the contours of its painted-on twin. It even reached his eyes. For Eleanor’s benefit he gave his head a slight shake, and off to their right Freddie and Kip exploded into manic giggles once again at the pleasant jiggle it made.