Will! We’ve been so worried about you! Are you okay? Eleanor’s voice was high, a little frantic, and overly excited. You were meant to be outside. I only found you by chance.
Eleanor! I have told you time and again not to barge into my head like that. It hurts! Harper snapped back. And I have a new name: Harper. Use it, Harper added. I am locked into the building I’m sleeping in. I can’t leave. He purposely skipped over the part where he had not even tried to leave the barracks because he was exhausted and had completely forgotten about the full moon check-in plan.
Sorry, Wi—Harper. Truly, sorry for all of this. If I could take your place I would, Eleanor said, pulling her energy back a little, giving the communication the tinny, echoing quality of a long distance phone call. I’ve missed you. We’ve all missed you, she continued. Amelia is coping, but I think a lot of it’s a brave face for May and Arabel. Freddie is around all the time, helping out. The children love him. Oakes and Conlan spend a lot of time together; they’re getting very close. We’re existing, Wi—Harper, but it’s hard without you.
Eleanor, I can’t do this, Harper said, the words harsh and jagged even in his head as he fought down the lead ball of emotion that was currently sat in the middle of his chest. You need to tell anyone else who contacts me. I don’t want to hear about the lives you’re living. I can’t stand the distraction. Am I clear?
Yes, Harper. Yes. I’m sorry, Eleanor said again, misery and guilt heavy in the words.
Don’t be sorry, Harper snapped, aware that his grip on his emotions was slipping. Just get to the point and then leave me alone.
Do you have anything to report? Eleanor asked.
No, I’m still in basic training. They don’t even let us into the tower proper until we pass that.
Okay, I’ll check back with you at the next full moon. There was a pause and Harper thought Eleanor was leaving; her next words caught him off guard. I love you, Will. Please be careful. With an explosion of emotional pain he could not control, and that stripped him of his rational thought, Harper screamed in his head and flung Eleanor out with all the force of his agony. Taking slow, deep breaths, he focused on calming his ragged breathing. His heart ached, hard throbs that punched around his insides. He had hurt Eleanor, of that much he was certain, possibly badly. He had lost control, but it was not an excuse. With Harper’s detachment, he pushed his own fear, misery and guilt deep inside him. There was nothing he could do but stick to the mission. He would serve his king. The point that in trying to serve his king he may well have inflicted severe injury on the person his king loved most, was not lost on him.
After a month and a half, all the recruits passed basic training and were assigned to their units. The first stage of this selection involved being chosen by one of the tower’s four captains. Harper had been aware of these men watching the final stages of their basic training, asking questions of their trainers. Two of the captains were charged with defence of the Central Tower, and the protection of the Lords and their families, and getting picked by either of these two captains was considered a huge honour, as only the best were selected. The third captain was in charge of external defence of the tower and for training the Elite Protectors. Again, only the better Protectors were selected by this captain. The fourth captain was responsible for keeping the peace in Hemtark. His men were the Protectors who patrolled the town and kept its citizens in check. Very little separated their role from that of a provincial Protector. Given their poor efforts in basic training, Harper was not surprised when he and Rudd were picked by the fourth captain. If the selection angered or upset Rudd, he did not show it. Harper suspected that he was just relieved to be finished with basic training and still be a Protector.
Beneath each captain were four sergeants, each responsible for a unit, and it was one of these sergeants who came to collect them once the selections had been made. Harper and Rudd’s new sergeant introduced himself as Fergus and ordered them to follow him as he walked across the open space of the training grounds towards the large black tower that stood by itself in the middle of the area between the outer and inner perimeter walls.
“Each sergeant has a maximum of twenty-five men in his unit. You two are twenty and twenty-one of mine,” Fergus said, jabbing a figure into their chests, marking Harper as twenty and Rudd as twenty-one. “If you can improve on your training performance, you might get names. If you fail to improve, you will become tower servants. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Harper said as Rudd nodded. Fergus slapped Rudd hard on the back of the head, making the man wince.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Rudd said.
“As town Protectors, we do not work from inside the main tower—we operate out of our own tower,” Fergus said with no small amount of pride, as he indicated the huge black monstrosity that rose before them. “There are four floors. Each of our captain’s units has a floor. Our unit’s sleeping area is at the top.” Fergus noticed their expressions as they eyed the height of the tower. “We get the best views,” he said with a hard smile. “Washing and eating is done in the smaller building over there,” he continued, pointing to a long, one-storey hut to the left of the tower. “Stay here; the rest of your unit will be down soon. We have combat training and archery practice this morning, then I will assign you to shadow a couple of men from your unit, so you can patrol this afternoon.”
As their sergeant disappeared into the tower they now called home, Rudd said with a sigh, “We are so bad we did not even make it inside the inner perimeter.”
Harper gave a shrug. “We are not servants yet.”
Rudd gave him a grim look, but nodded.
Fergus returned with the other nineteen members of their unit, all of whom looked at their two new colleagues as a pack of wolves would look at a trembling rabbit they had just surrounded. Rudd stared back with bold determination, but also took a small step closer to Harper.
“I am sure you will make our new recruits feel welcome in due course,” Fergus said. “But now take out your nightsticks. We have work to do.”
Harper took his time to watch the other men in his unit and his new sergeant. Fergus was a smart, observant man, and, for a Protector, was skilled not only in combat—armed only with the Protector’s nightstick—but with a sword and a bow as well. He seemed genuinely interested in improving his men and showed care for them. Unlike their initial trainers, Fergus did not bully Rudd, but gave him solid advice and additional training to get him up to an acceptable level. He showed a tolerance for Rudd’s occasionally odd questions and provided insights that Harper had not expected. The other men under his command were not quite as understanding, but after Harper stepped in to save Rudd from a beating, they backed off.
And Harper found that he enjoyed the work. Patrolling the streets of Hemtark and maintaining harmony require negotiation and peacekeeping skills even more than it required the occasional judicial use of his nightstick. The problems he encountered varied daily, and Harper could not understand why this was considered the worst job to get. He would much rather be actively engaged in a job that required thought, than marching up and down the same stretch of wall day after day.
Now that he was getting more sleep and eating better, Harper began to feel more himself again. It would be a full moon in another week, and he did not like the idea of having nothing to report. At least, he told himself that this was what was causing his anxiety over his next check-in. The problem of how to attract the attention of a Lord was a big one. He liked his sergeant, had respect for the man and knew it would be difficult to push him far enough that he would resort to the Lords’ intervention. Their captain, on the other hand, was a very different matter. He descended every ten days to march imperiously down the ranks of his men, all standing in silent attention, and pass comment. While the sergeants of the captain’s other three units seemed to enjoy this attention, Harper could tell that Fergus disliked the visits, although he hid it well. They were expecting the next visit from their captain two days before t
he full moon. If Harper was to have anything to report, he was going to have to push his hand.
It was hot; summer was burning its way through to autumn. Standing still, while his head baked and sweat dribbled down his back under the thick grey jacket of his uniform, was giving Harper a headache. From the corner of his eye he saw Marit, another man from his unit, sway ever so slightly, his shoulders slumping a little. Marit was a brute, a man Harper had reported several times for using excessive violence in the line of duty. This was not normally something Protectors worried about, but ever since Marit beat a suspect to death in the street, Harper’s reports had been taken seriously, and Fergus had even assigned Harper to be Marit’s patrol partner. Marit resented this and took it out on Rudd whenever he got the opportunity.
That morning Harper had slipped two drops of his sedative into the thug’s porridge. It was not enough to knock him out, just enough to make him feel weak and groggy, a state their captain would not tolerate. The idea of having to act in Marit’s defence was not an appealing one, but the man was his partner, so Fergus might pass it off as misguided loyalty.
The captain noticed the swaying man as he passed their row. He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as Marit yawned.
“Sergeant Fergus, who is that man?” the captain barked, moving down the row to stand in front of Marit.
“Marit, Captain,” Fergus replied, his eyes moving up and down the Protector, trying to work out what was wrong with him.
“Marit!” the captain boomed in his face. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, Captain,” Marit answered, his eyes wide and unfocused. He moved back, swaying further, and had to shuffle to maintain his balance. Harper stepped closer. The captain pulled his nightstick from his belt.
“How dare you lie to me,” the captain hissed, bringing his weapon up in an arc that would surely crack or break Marit’s ribs.
Harper lunged, blocking the blow, his right wrist slamming into the captain’s so hard that he dropped the cudgel. There was a sharp intake of breath as nearly a hundred men gasped their horror.
“Marit has not been drinking,” Harper said slowly. “Had you asked, Captain, we could have told you that. It is more likely that he is ill.”
The captain stared at him, shock and anger clear in his face. Fergus, likewise, stared in horror. He bent to retrieve the fallen nightstick and handed it back to the captain. The growl under the sergeant’s Dwarfish carried his apologies, and the soft bark requested calm from a superior.
“I will teach Harper the error of his actions, Captain.”
But Harper had seen the hatred in the captain’s eyes; Fergus would not be allowed to deal with this insubordination.
“Sergeant Fergus,” the captain snapped. “You and all the men in your unit are on half rations for the next two moons. You are also confined within the Tower walls. You will work out the rotas with the other units so that Hemtark is not left unpatrolled. Apparently your men need more training and discipline drummed into them. I will send some of the Elite Protectors over to provide it.”
Fergus nodded, flashing Harper a furious look. “Yes, Captain.”
“And you!” the captain spat, jabbing his finger into Harper’s chest. “Are coming with me.”
The captain marched across the training ground, heading for the gates of the inner defensive wall. Little tight knots of fear spreading through his stomach, Harper followed. If the captain was taking him before a Lord, then he was asking for one of the more serious punishments: time in the dungeon, a beating, a flogging, even hanging, if he was truly incensed. Yet for his mission to advance, Harper needed the attention of a Lord.
What I say and do in this meeting could well determine the success or failure of my whole mission.
Accepting this truth and knowing what failure would mean, Harper forced himself to be calm as he followed the captain under the heavy metal spikes of the inner gate’s defences.
Pandral
The captain marched angrily past kitchens and preparation rooms on the lower floor of the tower, then up some servants’ stairs and onto the second floor. Harper was surprised by the opulence, given the drab, mouldering state of the tower he called home. And this isn’t even the White Tower. There were thick carpets, thicker drapes and lots of well-polished wood panelling and carving. Elegantly crafted lamps on large stands stood as sentinels along the corridor, interspersed with graceful marble statues. Large double doors broke up the wall on his right and large windows did the same on the left. Through them Harper could see the inner courtyard and the base of the White Tower. The air was redolent and heavy with incense. It smelt of Amelia, Harper thought. He felt a surge of homesickness and forced the ache back down.
“Stop gawking!” the captain snapped, glancing back at him.
They had nearly walked the length of the corridor before the captain stopped in front of a large door. It was not the double doors they had seen up until now, but it was still imposing. The captain knocked smartly.
“Enter!” came the answer from within.
The captain opened the door and strode into the room. Harper assumed that he was meant to follow. It was a large space, richly furnished like everything else on this floor, but it also had the appearance of ‘use’. There were overflowing shelves reaching the full height of the left hand wall and a fireplace to his right, empty in the summer heat, a table and chairs before it. A large window straight ahead overlooked the inner wall and out towards the training yard where Harper and his unit had been standing for inspection earlier. And in front of the shelves, facing the fireplace, stood a vast, very solid-looking desk, scattered with papers and writing equipment.
A man sat behind the desk, observing Harper as he took in his surroundings. Another Lord of Mydren. He was younger than Harper expected, perhaps in his middle forties, with thick, short-cut black hair, a finely groomed beard trimmed close to his face and curious, dark, knowing eyes. The robe he wore was a deep blue, almost purple; the surface shimmered as he put down the paper he was reading.
“I am sorry to interrupt you, my Lord,” the captain said. “This is Harper, one of my men. He just attacked me. I would like your permission to have him flogged.”
“Why did you attack your captain?” Lord Pandral asked, his gaze still assessing Harper.
“I was—” the captain started.
“Thank you, Captain,” Pandral interrupted. “But I would rather hear it from him.” Looking flustered and furious, the captain shut his mouth, his anger confined to his glare. Davlin’s advice ran around Harper’s head: be polite, be defiant, be intelligent, hint at the back story they had built for him. There was something in the way the Lord was looking at him that made Harper think the captain might not have the ally he thought he did.
“I was preventing the captain from punishing an innocent man,” Harper said.
“Your captain delivers punishment to help you learn and remember,” Pandral said. “Who are you to say that this man was innocent?”
“I know that the man had not been drinking as the captain presumed, my Lord,” Harper replied. “And in truth my captain delivers punishment to salve his ego, incite fear in his men and cover up his own inadequacies, not to teach.”
The captain gasped, his face going white. The Lord leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtfully at Harper.
“Where are you from?” he asked, eventually.
“A village called Twyness, near the East Tower,” Harper said.
“Why did you not join the East Tower Protectors?”
Harper held Pandral’s gaze. He seemed genuinely interested, although the question felt like a trap. Appearing to be caught out a little, Harper gave it some thought.
“I wanted to learn from the best; I wanted to be useful. I thought the Central Tower might be more likely to offer that.”
“Yet when that learning is offered, you fight against it,” Pandral said. “Do you not understand that knowing yourself is the first step to all success?”
“Knowing myself is not the challenge; I even know my enemy,” Harper replied, quoting the title of the second chapter. “The problem is that I am my enemy on occasion.”
“Indeed,” Pandral agreed, with a raised eyebrow.
“However, I fail to see what learning could be gained by watching a sick man take a beating, so I stopped it,” Harper said.
“Pain is part of life. It teaches you to obey your captain,” Pandral replied.
Harper shook his head. “It teaches me to fear my captain, to take his instruction over common sense, so that I am unable to think for myself.”
Watching the thoughts that moved as shadows behind Pandral’s eyes, Harper did not see his captain step behind him and deliver a sharp jab to his kidney, but he felt it as he sank to his knees, a hand grasping his side.
“I am sorry, my Lord. Do you see the problem with him?” the captain snarled. “Do I have your permission to flog him?”
Pandral nodded. “Certainly, Captain, thirty lashes should be sufficient. However, please ensure that his sergeant delivers them, as I am sure you have better things to do.”
“I… my Lord…?” the captain stammered.
“Was my order unclear, Captain?” Pandral asked, the polite Dwarfish carrying a cold edge.
Will (Book 2) Page 58