Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  Conlan, Eleanor’s not up to using her energy yet—and if she does, it’s going to rapidly increase her healing, Will said hurriedly.

  That’s a good thing, Conlan said, confused.

  No, in this case it really isn’t—it could kill her, Will insisted, horrified, knowing he would not have the physical capabilities or mental acuity to help her if she did as Conlan was asking.

  Do we have enough gunpowder to bring the tower down? Conlan asked.

  No, Freddie told him. There are six bags left. From what I can tell, the bags that Davlin was meant to put around the tower as distractions were used instead to get into the Lords’ day room. And even if we still had all the gunpowder we made, it would only be enough to make a few dents in the walls. Perhaps I could burn it to the ground…

  All the Protectors who joined us today are now heading back towards the tower—every one of them. They want to see it fall at sunset. It has to fall, Eleanor said with cold, steady calm.

  There’s a good chance that using your energy right now could kill you, Eleanor, Will said, his heart going into freefall as he considered the damage that the little pixie could potentially do to herself.

  I can do this, Will. It’s important, Eleanor replied.

  It’s not important, Freddie snapped. This isn’t a matter of life and death; this is about Conlan’s ego.

  No, Freddie: it’s about trust, Conlan said with a hard, sharp edge to his words. My new men have made a hugely difficult choice today. They need to know they can trust their king to keep his promises—and they need the reassurance of knowing we have power at our disposal. This is more important than you know.

  Okay, but Eleanor doesn’t have to risk her life, Freddie said. Amelia and I working together are quite capable of bringing the tower down. It just won’t be as quick or as ‘cool’ as an earthquake or watching it explode. You can help if you like: you still carry a lot of Eleanor’s energy. I can feel it.

  You’re sure you can reduce it to rubble? Conlan asked.

  I promise you, Conlan, I won’t stop until there’s nothing left but ash, Freddie said, the solemn vow echoing around their heads. Will smiled as the fear in his chest melted away, leaving him with a strong urge to give Freddie a hug for backing him up.

  Yet this morning you struggled not to hit him, said the vicious voice in the back of his head. Freddie is the same person now that he was this morning. Are you? How stable are you? Will closed his eyes and tried to shut the voice out, but it was useless; he was like a bug trying to stop the boot that was about to stamp on it. Where’s the mind-crippling headache when you need it! he thought, as the voice kicked off another round of its endless attacks with several variations of ‘Who’s a pathetic nothing?—You!’

  Through a daze of pain, cold and misery, Will was vaguely aware that Freddie and Amelia were discussing the best way to bring the tower down. Conlan pointed out that the King’s Men had arrived. Looking down, Will got a fuzzy view of them walking curiously out between the trees, then discovered, to his shame, that he did not have the strength to lift his head again.

  Conlan asked Freddie to lower the balloon so he could get off. Freddie complied, and Conlan released himself from his harness, dropping from a height, spinning as he fell, just as he had done when dismounting the cart’s roof as the Idiot. He landed in a crouch and stood, waiting for the King’s Men to come closer.

  His eyes closing, Will drifted, his lepdrac need eating him from the inside out. His skin itched, and he clawed ineffectively at his wrists and neck, but soon even this was too much effort and in a welter of helpless pain his last vestiges of control failed him. Sobs wracked his body; tears collected in the corners of his eyes and froze there. He felt the heat from the fire and heard the sounds of a building falling as Freddie and Amelia got to work, but it seemed to him more like he was trapped in some horrific nightmare. The noise tore into his pounding brain and the heat was a startling, uncomfortable counterpoint to the freezing sweats that were sweeping over his body in waves. He watched through blurry eyes as an inferno beyond Dante’s wildest dreams writhed around the tower, flames leaping into the rapidly darkening sky. Vast expanses of fire-weakened walls, their windows black and sightless, were shoved, collapsing, into the conflagration. Will had never been religious, but surely this was hell?

  “The North Tower has fallen!” The Dwarfish cry was regal, triumphant.

  There was cheering. Who’s cheering? Nothing made any sense, and fear shook him in its needle-sharp teeth. Then there was movement, a nauseating feeling of being swept along. Had he eaten anything recently, Will knew he would now be throwing it up. The landing was rough; there was no time to prepare himself. Snow was in his face, pushing into his mouth, and there were voices, the impression of arguing.

  “Will?” a voice, soft, tender, so loving. “Oh, Will, let us help you.”

  With everything he had left, Will focused on one word, the only salvation he had.

  “Lepdrac.”

  There was a soft sobbing in the background, and another voice, not the loving one, male, hard.

  “No, Will, no more. This stops now.”

  The meaning of these words took a while to reach the tiny speck of coherence floating around his tortured brain. When the undeniable truth of it hit him, he crumpled and wept, everything he had ever been, gone, washed away by the flood of his need. They were going to deny him, when he was weak, when he was vulnerable, unable to stop them. They were going to take away the only thing that would help him. They were going to let him die in incoherent agony. The fear and pain of this realisation was too much for him, and the blessed darkness stopped all thought.

  Family and Friends

  “Will, open your eyes.”

  Someone was shaking him. The aching pain in his arms and legs intensified and nausea twisted his stomach. He just wanted to sleep, yet someone was demanding his attention. The shaking was becoming more insistent. Hands grabbed his collar, lifting him up from where he lay, his head falling back, rolling, as the hands shook him again. His body trembling as fear and panic pinballed around his disjointed thoughts, Will struggled weakly, trying to push the hands away from him.

  “Will!” The word was an order in itself. Where is my will? “WILL! Open your eyes, NOW!”

  Surely the suffering he had gone through in the last few days would kill him? Yet they would not let him do it in peace. Confused and frightened, he struggled from sleep, other aspects of his existence coming through to him from beyond the fuzziness. There was cold, a gnawing hunger deep in his belly, and somewhere to his left was a soft, feminine voice.

  “Conl… Sire, stop. I don’t think he’s ready.”

  “No, Amelia, he’s being pathetic. I’ve tolerated it for four days, but I won’t allow it to continue. Others in real pain need his help, and it’s time he faced that.”

  Will peeled his eyes open and, with effort, lifted his head. Conlan’s blurry face drifted over him; anger had settled into the knot between his eyes.

  “Good,” Conlan snapped. “Now sit up.”

  Will pushed himself to comply, noticing that for all his harsh words, the assistance Conlan offered to help him sit and stay upright was gentle. Conlan handed him a mug of water, watching him drink it in large, desperate gulps. Will had a vague recollection that there had been green eyes behind the hand that had done this many times before in the last few days. What happened? A kaleidoscope of foggy, unconnected images played themselves back for him. Fever sweats, shaking until even his hair seemed to ache, vomiting, fear, pain. Amelia’s worried face seen through the sparks that fired behind his eyes. And the itching. The itching that felt like there were ants under his skin. He looked down at his wrists. Red marks confirmed the memory: they had tied him up to stop him from scratching himself until he bled. More understanding returned, and the fear surged, the ever-present terror gripping him and squeezing.

  “I’m going to die,” Will moaned, shocked by his own declaration, dropping the mug and his head i
nto his hands, feeling the tears start to cluster behind his eyes.

  “Yes, so you’ve told me, quite a few times recently,” Conlan said, stretching to retrieve the mug. “But seeing as you’re still alive, I grow tired of waiting. So if dying is going to take you a while I need you to get up and help those who have not yet succumbed to self-pity.”

  Rage exploded through Will. He raised his head, glaring at Conlan, the Dwarfish of his response brimming with fury.

  “You are an utterly heartless bast—”

  “Will…” Conlan interrupted in a warning tone, eyes hard. “Don’t.”

  With difficulty, Will got his anger under control. If nothing else it had made him feel more awake. Conlan stood from where he had been crouching, wincing and rubbing his injured leg, his head brushing the material of the awning Will appeared to be lying under. A makeshift tent. A tent, in winter? No wonder I’m cold! And what was I sleeping on? His bed appeared to be a pile of large bags, the white dust around them indicating flour. From what he could see of the tent, it was filled with boxes and bags of supplies.

  “Get up. Eat something, have a wash, change clothes… and for all our sakes, brush your teeth,” Conlan ordered. “Then see to your patients—they need you.”

  Will wanted to object. He ached at the thought of moving at all, let alone the thought of doing an actual day’s work—but the look on Conlan’s face gave him no quarter.

  “Yes, Sire,” he replied.

  Conlan flashed him a delighted, boyish grin before the flat, emotionless mask fell back into place. He walked off.

  “He really is an utter—” Will began again in English.

  “Be careful what you say,” Freddie interrupted from his right, in a voice filled with cold displeasure. Surprised, Will turned his head, noticing him for the first time. When Freddie had his attention, he continued. “Conlan has a camp to organise, the loyalty of a hundred men to win, an enemy to evade, a kingdom to fight for, and an injured girlfriend.” Freddie listed these items off in the same cold tone. He stood, moving towards the tent’s open entrance. “But in the last four days he’s spent more hours with you than on any of that. It was high time for a little tough love.” Will stared after Freddie as he left. His anger evaporated, and shame took its place. Humbled, he felt a potent determination to apply himself and do as Conlan had asked.

  With Amelia’s help, Will cleaned himself up. He forced himself to drink the tea and eat the bread and honey that was thrust under his nose, and somewhere along the way he began to feel better. While his energy remained only a feeble spark, he otherwise felt stronger and more aware than he had in a very long time. There was a dull throb of a headache, but after the headaches he had suffered in the past, it was nothing. Were the headaches caused by the lepdrac addiction? Had the drug made his uncontrollable energy surges worse? Had he inflicted this pain upon himself? It was beginning to look that way—and it had taken Conlan’s intervention to free him from it.

  As he walked slowly through the camp, Will was amazed by how much had happened in four days. Everywhere he went were men he did not know. They sat around small fires, talking, laughing, playing cards and sharpening weapons. Amelia had told him a hundred and nine men had decided to join them, including Erit, Cai and the two Enforcers. Many watched him with curiosity as he moved past them. I am never going to remember all these names! Will wondered how Conlan was going to organise them, but he accepted that it was most likely not something he would be involved in.

  He found that he felt a strange relief at the thought of giving up this responsibility. His skills lay in healing; that was where he would devote himself—starting with his two most critical patients.

  Will climbed the steps up to their cart. But when he opened the door, he recoiled, horrified by what he found. The smell of infected flesh and soiled sheets was rank. Who’s been caring for them? From the door, Will could see the sweat of fever on Davlin’s grey skin; Eleanor was asleep propped up, and fear gripped Will as the possible implications for her injury ran through his head. He rushed forward, opening the window shutters with his elbow as he passed them, allowing the fresh chill breeze and bright morning light to come inside.

  Stripping Eleanor’s filthy sheets off her bed, Will set about laying her flat again. The bandage had been breached and blood ran thinly; her laboured breathing gave him an indication of how much air she might have drawn back into her chest. He was going to have to replace the bandage, but first he needed to stabilise her and sort out the disgusting conditions in which she and Davlin were lying.

  The floor creaked behind him, and Will turned as a short, rather rotund younger man with thinning brown hair walked in through the door.

  “Who are you?” the man demanded, his close-set eyes narrowing under heavy eyebrows.

  “I am Will. I am Conlan’s healer,” Will said with a smile of greeting. “Who are you?”

  “You are the Avatar that has been sick. Conlan made me his healer; you can leave,” the man snapped.

  “Eleanor needs my help, Davlin has a fever, and they both need basic sanitary care. There is more than enough work for both of us,” Will replied.

  “Get out of here, now,” the man snarled. “Or I will go to Conlan.”

  “You do that,” Will said, turning away from the man, not willing to waste any more time on his stupidity. “Let me know what he says,” Will said over his shoulder.

  Emitting another angry snarl, the man turned and left. With effort, Will pushed an energy string out to Amelia, searching amidst the sea of life that was now their camp until he brushed up against her.

  Will? Are you okay? Amelia asked.

  Yes, but Eleanor and Davlin aren’t, he told her. Who’s the idiot Conlan made their healer?

  Murray? He offered his services, and you were rather out of it.

  He looked like a Murray, Will muttered. I’m not out of it now, and I need your help. I need hot clean water—a lot of it—and an extra pair of hands.

  I’m coming, Amelia agreed.

  It took them an hour of hard work to tend to their patients’ most urgent needs before they began cleaning the cart, stripping the bedsheets and blankets, and replacing them with clean linen. Amelia then threw him out while she gave both Eleanor and Davlin bed-baths. Will went to work cleaning the dirty linens, using one of their portable horse troughs, which he had cleaned especially for the purpose, and was elbow deep in painstakingly heated water and soapsuds when Erit turned up, a peeved Murray trotting along behind him.

  “What are you doing?” Murray asked.

  Will was concentrating on his task, and did not look up to answer. “I am washing putrid bodily fluids out of this pillow.” He put more effort into his scrubbing, bashing Davlin’s feather pillow with a smooth rock he had found, trying to loosen the particularly vile stain that stuck stubbornly to it. Amelia had sacrificed her very last bar of soap to the cleaning process, and Will did not want to waste it by allowing the water to get cold.

  “Why?” Murray asked suspiciously.

  “So that Davlin does not have to lie on it anymore, thus reducing his chances of getting his burns infected,” Will answered.

  “Ha! I knew it. You have no idea how to be a healer,” Murray said with smug pomposity. “The bad smell is a benefit—it will drive the foul water out of his system and make him better.”

  The comment was so absurd that Will looked up and stared at the man, stunned. “You are talking nonsense,” Will told him. “If you want to help, if you really want to be a healer, Murray, then take a bedsheet and start scrubbing.”

  “Woman’s work,” Murray spat. “I am not some common washing girl.”

  “In case you failed to notice it,” Will said, wondering where his current store of patience was coming from, “we are in rather short supply of women, unless you would like me to drag Lady Eleanor from her bed to wash her own sheets?”

  “There is another woman—an Avatar I was told. Get her to do it,” Murray protested.

&nbs
p; “That ‘woman’ is my wife,” Will replied, a growl of fury running under the words. He had never referred to Amelia as his wife before, but it felt right, and love filled his heart, pumping warmth around his body. “You will address her as Lady Amelia and treat her with all the deference that title and her Avatar status implies. Am I clear?” Murray flinched back from the fierceness flashing in Will’s eyes and turned to Erit.

  “Commander…?” he protested.

  “Will, it seems you have everything in hand here,” Erit said with a slight smile. “Murray, you are now Will’s assistant. You will follow his every order and learn from him. I am told there is nobody with more skill as a healer. This is a great opportunity for you. Do you understand?”

  “But… but… Commander…” Murray stuttered.

  “Do you understand the orders I have given?” Erit asked in a tone of authority. There was a thinly veiled threat woven through the words.

  “Yes, Commander,” Murray said, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He knelt on the other side of the horse trough. Grabbing a sheet and shoving it into the water, he began thumping and pounding his obvious frustration out on it.

  Will glanced up, and Erit winked at him before walking back to wherever he had been before Murray had dragged him away.

  Energy brushed against him and Will smiled, pulling Amelia’s presence into his head.

  Did we just get married? Amelia asked.

  Yes. Sorry, did you want a longer engagement? Will asked, hearing her muffled snort from inside the cart, as her bright giggle danced around his head. So, he continued. Erit has been made commander. Commander of what?

  Conlan is creating an ‘inner council’, Amelia told him. Everyone on it is a commander, except for Cai: he has the title ‘Captain of the King’s Men’. Amelia paused, and Will realised she was trying to gauge how upset he was about this appointment.