Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  No, Harper thought with bitterness. Something else will be the death of me. Too tired to explain the concept of fair play, and realising belatedly that it most likely did not apply to assassination missions or assassins, Harper closed his eyes and let the fire’s warmth wash over him. He was vaguely aware when someone placed a blanket over him a little while later, but the fatigue pushed him toward oblivion, and he rushed to meet it.

  Davlin gave him a day to recover before they set off again, travelling the rest of the way to the Central Tower and the town of Hemtark, the sprawl of humanity that existed around it. All told it had taken them three months to arrive, and once there it took several more days for Davlin to arrange a meeting with his contact. Harper used the delay to investigate the town and walk around the outer perimeter wall of the tower.

  It was an intimidating piece of architecture, situated on a natural hill. ‘Tower’ was a misnomer. It was, in fact, a single building with several towers, all of them rising high above the town, blotting out the sun for substantial parts of it. Four huge black stone towers formed the corners of a square, each at least fifty feet tall, but so wide that they appeared squat; they had windows following each other in regimental lines down them, changing to the keyhole openings of arrow loops towards the bottom. Thick walls joined the black towers to make the building a coherent whole, and Harper could see men patrolling along the battlements of these walls. Is that what I’m going to be doing when I finish Protector training? And nestled within the enormous bulk of this building, rising out of it like an iceberg from a frigid, black sea, was an elegant white tower, a multitude of turrets spawning from it, the Chinese peasant hats of their roofs shining gold at their apexes. The White Tower was twice the height of the black towers that crowded around it, and its walls sparkled and glowed in the sunlight. Walls embedded with mica? It’s beautiful.

  An inner defensive wall wrapped around the central tower, and the only entrance through this wall was a large gate with a portcullis. Harper could not see if this access was guarded, but he assumed it was. Between this inner wall and the outer defensive wall were buildings, training yards, stables and another smaller tower, stood by itself. The outer walls that circled the hill the Central Tower sat upon looked to be several feet thick. Still more black towers broke up this wall at regular intervals, patrolled by Protectors.

  Sat with several others on wide open stone steps that led up to a bustling upmarket shopping street, Harper surreptitiously observed the large black towers of the front gate across the main thoroughfare in front of him. He slowly ate one of the three large, sweet, juicy apples he had bought. He was hungry; lately he was always hungry. The money he had spent was some of what he had discovered in his bag after he had left, with a note from Oakes telling him it was a gift. This was money the boy had earned running errands, and represented the sum total of his wealth. Overcome by the gesture, Harper planned to send back as much as possible with Davlin, but at that moment he was grateful it had given him the chance to quiet the raging beast in his stomach for a while.

  The traffic through the tower gates was light but steady, mostly delivery carts. This was not surprising. From Davlin, Harper knew that at least six hundred Protectors, twenty-eight Lords, some with families and their servants, stable men and retainers, lived and worked within the Central Tower. That many souls required a lot of supplies. This really is a totally mad idea.

  A feeling of having someone close, a tiny movement of his belt bag, pulled Harper from his musings and alerted him to the pickpocket behind him. With the speed of a snake, he whipped around, grabbed a thin wrist and, with a hard tug, pulled the would-be thief down the steps before him. The small, thin, dirty boy, with bare feet and clothed in filthy rags, blinked at him from wide, frightened eyes for several seconds before making a frantic attempt to pull his arm free from Harper’s steel grip. Harper watched the boy struggle as he slowly finished his apple. About the same age as May. He’s hungry, let him go, said a small voice in his head. Eventually the fight seemed to go out of the child and he stood still, eyes on the floor, waiting with tired resignation for whatever would come next.

  “Why did you get caught?” Harper asked in a voice pitched only for the boy’s ears. Raising his head the child looked confused, unsure what answer was expected. In the end he opted for the truth.

  “You felt me try to take your bag.”

  Harper nodded. “If you wish to remove someone’s valuables, I would suggest picking a more crowded area, where they will get jostled more, and supporting the weight of the bag as you remove it. Its loss will be less noticeable.”

  The child looked stunned but suspicion soon crept onto his face. “You are not going to take me to the Protectors?”

  Letting go of the boy’s arm, Harper shook his head. “No.” Dropping down a step, out of easy reach, the boy stared at him. Harper held out one of his remaining two apples. The boy snatched it and ran, taking two steps at a time, and disappeared into the crowds that thronged the street.

  “Are you encouraging miscreants?”

  It was Davlin’s voice from behind him. Harper stood, dusting down his clothes before he turned to face the dark eyes.

  “No, I am giving a small child a valuable life lesson that might just stop him from starving to death.”

  Davlin grunted, although whether this was approval or contempt Harper could not be sure.

  “I have arranged a meeting,” Davlin told him. “We need to go now.”

  Harper followed Davlin through the noisy main streets into smaller footpaths and alleyways that stank with the aromas of human waste and the ripe bodies of those who travelled these darker trails. The sleazier areas of Hemtark were not pleasant. Had Harper walked this route on his own, he would have missed the meeting place completely. The entrance was nothing more than a small wooden door, set into a blank, decaying wall. However, stepping through that door was like moving into a different world. The building had obviously once been a warehouse; a vast floor space opened up before them, but over time the roof had fallen in, opening the interior to the elements. In the middle of the floor, taking up most of the space, was a beautiful garden, well-tended and carefully arranged, the vivid greens and bright-coloured flowers rejoicing in the sunlight that streamed down on them through the hole left by the missing roof. People sat on small tables and chairs among plants and trees that, while still small, rose high above them, offering gentle, pleasant shade. The white noise of quiet conversation muted the actual words being spoken, offering a level of privacy. Around the outer edge of the warehouse walls were huts and shacks selling a huge variety of food and drink, filling the air with tantalising smells that made Harper’s stomach rumble.

  The artist in him struggled for a moment, wanting to record this tranquil place, but then he flattened this errant thought and looked the building over the way he had been taught. He noticed the single entrance and exit, the two impressive mountains of muscle with grim expressions guarding it and the hard, watchful eyes of the men who walked around the building with a pace that spoke of casual purpose and repetition. For all its peaceful splendour, this place was heavily monitored.

  Davlin moved towards a hut on the far side of the warehouse and ordered three mugs of ale. Harper tried not to stare at the hot pies and gravy that were also on sale; the smell alone was making him salivate, his stomach grumbling louder. They took seats at a table on the edge of the garden; the man they were meeting arrived at the same time as the boy with their beers. The boy deposited the drinks and fled as three hard glances fell on him.

  “It has been too long, Davlin,” the man said, the expression on his craggy face one of genuine pleasure. He was an older man, in his late fifties Harper guessed, grey having become the predominant colour in his thick brown hair. He was dressed to fit in with the people around him: dusty, nondescript grey pants, black boots, a brown shirt and a belt that pinched in at his flabby waist. The fat spoke of a once-toned body allowed to sag with excess. However, he carried none
of the sweaty, unwashed smell that Harper associated with the other people sat around them. The cleaner clothes and absence of odour indicated a man who lived a rich, comfortable life that he was trying to hide.

  “Greetings to you, Mittal,” Davlin said, standing to grip the man’s forearm in welcome. “How is your wife?”

  Their guest sat, pulling one of the beers towards him without being offered. His round face was friendly and open, but there was cunning in the eyes that told Harper to be wary.

  “Lyser is well, heavy with our fourth child,” Mittal said with a smile. “What brings you back to Hemtark? I heard you had gone rogue, so I assumed you had found yourself a good woman or two and retired.”

  Davlin’s lips twitched in an almost smile. “I did find myself a good woman. It is under her orders I operate now, and I am far from retired.”

  Mittal’s bushy greying eyebrows shot up; he shook his head and chuckled. “You always did have some strange ideas about women.”

  “I do not believe I was the only one,” Davlin replied. “I assume you are still the front man for Lyser’s business interests?”

  “It is easier than earning a living myself,” Mittal said with a grin, before turning sharp, scrutinising eyes on Harper. “Who is this?”

  “This is Harper,” Davlin said. “I am charged with hiding him from his father for a while. I felt that adding him to the ranks of the Protectors would be a wise idea.”

  “Harper,” Mittal said, nodding at him. “He looks fit enough,” he continued to Davlin, still looking Harper up and down. “A little old maybe, but I can get him in. Is he tough enough? I do not like the idea of sending a man to his death.”

  “How thoughtful,” Harper growled at him, the Dwarfish full of contempt. “I am aware of what I am getting myself into and I am more than a match for it.”

  Mittal gave him a flat look. “Your arrogance will mark you out as the son of a highborn even quicker than your true name. Lose it.”

  “I never said I was…” Harper began, still playing to the story and character Davlin and Finn had mapped out for him.

  “Shut up, Harper,” Davlin snapped. Harper let out a frustrated breath but dropped into sullen silence.

  “The things we do for women,” Mittal said, turning back to Davlin, who nodded gravely. “Bring him to the main gate two days from now,” Mittal said, rising from his chair. “Be there just after dawn. Stand him with the other potential recruits. I will ensure that on that day that few are waiting and all are selected.”

  The gate opened and a tall, gaunt older man in a Protector uniform stepped out and introduced himself as Trainer Jira. Jira was flanked by two stern-looking Protectors who stepped back to stand guard as he walked down the row of nine men who had gathered before the Central Tower gates. The selection process for new Protectors apparently consisted of nothing more than this brief inspection. All of them were selected, and they were immediately ushered inside the gates.

  Harper flinched as the huge wooden doors were slammed back into place, a bar drawn across them. They were stood on a large square space with a low ceiling, the wooden doors behind them and an iron portcullis before them, through which Harper could see the open space and buildings between the outer and inner perimeter walls. Slowly, the heavy metal gate began to rise before them.

  “Look up,” whispered a young, blond man from behind him. Curious, Harper did as he was asked and noticed lots of large round holes in the ceiling. “They call them murder holes. If the gate is breached, long spears can be stabbed down through those holes from above before the invaders can get through the portcullis.”

  “Silence!” Jira ordered.

  “I am Rudd,” the blond man continued softly, as if no order had been given. Harper turned to look at the man. He was very young, Elroy’s age maybe, his blue eyes bright with his eagerness.

  “I knew a Rudd once…” Harper said, his voice little more than a breath, noticing the attention that was being paid to them by one of the Protectors who had stood guard for Jira.

  “Did you like him?” Rudd whispered back.

  “No.”

  “Oh… well, maybe you will like me better,” Rudd said with a friendly smile. “What is your name?”

  Questioning his wisdom in answering the boy, Harper paused. Having a friend in the ranks might be useful, but given Rudd’s youth and inability to follow orders it might also be a liability. Eventually, it was Rudd taking a breath to speak further that forced his hand.

  “Harper…” he murmured, turning back to look at Jira. Thankfully, further conversation was stopped as the portcullis opened high enough to admit them to the inner courtyard. Jira marched them across this space, where curious Protectors watched them, to one of the large square buildings. What followed was hours of waiting. They were all commanded to stand in silence as each awaited their turn. Their turn to give their personal details for the records. Their turn to have the few personal effects they carried inspected. Their turn for a healer to give them the most cursory of examinations. Their turn to be stripped, to have their skin scrubbed raw with a lot of brush and a small amount of water. Their turn to have their hair cut short. Only then were they given their Protector uniform. The basic concept of this sequence was not dissimilar to those he had experienced when joining the navy, Harper thought. And the purpose, he assumed, was the same: to tear away the old life, the old person; to impress upon the new recruit their total change of circumstance; and to bring a group of men together quickly through a shared unpleasant experience. There were questions about his burns, but his surly explanation of being caught in a house fire was readily accepted. The only real concerns seemed to be around whether the damage would hinder his ability with a sword. Harper assured them it would not. Had they stuck with the original plan of using makeup to hide his brand, it would already have failed: after the scrubbing his body had suffered Harper knew he would have been having a very different conversation. The little pixie was right, damn her! The realisation did not actually make him any less angry though. A calm, quiet part of his mind told him that was irrational, but he ignored it. There were questions, too, about the sedative he carried and the pot of his honey mixture. He had passed off the sedative as a sleeping aid, claiming he occasionally had insomnia, and the honey mixture he said was a gift from a friend, to eat in his morning porridge. There were no questions about his hair dye, just a few rude jokes at his expense about vanity and trying to look younger than he was. All his personal items were returned to him, along with his money, his belt bag and his small boot knife. Rudd was not so lucky, and had a bottle of alcohol taken from him, along with several drawings of a scantily clad woman he claimed was his girlfriend. Although Harper knew him to be lying, he kept his silence; the young man was having a hard enough day as it was.

  The sun was setting as they were led to another large building. The ‘processing’ was finally over, and they were sat at tables, given a bowl of tasteless, grey gruel and then ordered to bed. That night several of the younger recruits cried themselves to sleep. Rudd, however, was not one of them.

  In the four weeks that followed, each day became an exact repetition of the one before it as they were drilled, trained and pushed to exhaustion. They were taught to march together, given their own nightsticks and shown how to use them, and forced to learn, parrot-fashion, the traditions and rules of the Protectors. There was also some sword work and archery. Will was cautious about the effort he put into these activities, not wanting to stand out too soon, preferring to ‘improve dramatically’ over time. Then later he could time his peak in his skill for when a superior or Lord might be watching. Rudd, however put his all into everything he did—not that he was much good at anything. He was singled out and tormented mercilessly for his failures. At least the importance of following orders had eventually been beaten into him; for a while, not a day had gone by without him earning new bruises. But he never gave in, never crumpled in the face of the brutality he was met with. He became quiet, his friend
ly smiles disappearing, replaced by a watchful apprehension. Harper counted Rudd’s silence as a blessing, but deep inside him, Will mourned as he watched the sweet, innocent soul transformed into something altogether colder and meaner.

  Having little sleep and even less food had its effect on Harper, too. So much so that keeping up became a battle, and he realised his plan to improve over time was going to be a failure. While he still excelled in archery, he lacked the strength to improve his sword work and unarmed combat skills. In fact, he was considered to be not much more use than Rudd. Headaches tormented him, and he battled with the constant aching of his struggling body. These impediments—along with trainers that went out of their way to pick fault and gleefully dispense rough, painful punishment—made for long, difficult days. Fortunately, Harper was not expected to think, merely to follow orders, so he ignored his sluggish mind and put what little strength he had into keeping his body going. He was too beaten down to even worry about the plan; being defiant and standing out would have to wait until he got through basic training—if he got through basic training—and was assigned to a unit.

  It was due to Harper’s lax mental state that he nearly missed his first check-in. Before he had left, Eleanor had agreed that every month at the full moon, one of them would visit the Central Tower with the extended energy string they could create if they first pushed the string through the gems in their talismans. As Eleanor did not know where he would be until then, he was otherwise impossible to find, but once he was in the Central Tower, the task was easier for her, as it was a smaller space to search. But when the time came for the check-in, Harper was dozing. Not even the hard pallet he lay on and the rough, dirty blanket that smelt of the men who had lain under it before him were enough to keep him awake. He was just about to fall into a deep sleep when pain exploded through his head and he gasped, instantly awake and irrationally angry at the intrusion.