Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Good. You may leave,” Pandral said with a dismissive wave of the hand, picking up his papers again.

  Dragged upright by the captain’s steel grip on his arm, Harper was shoved towards the door and pushed back the way they had come. With each step the captain’s fury seemed to grow. Harper could feel his gaze as if it were burning a hole between his shoulder blades. Any minute now he’s going to lose control. There was no way the captain was just going to hand him over to Fergus for punishment; there would be pain first, Harper was sure of it. Yet despite this imminent threat, his thoughts kept distracting him. Did I make enough of an impression on Pandral? He didn’t respond as Davlin said he would. Am I taking a flogging for nothing? Am I going to have to do this all over again at some point? Pandral had seemed interested, but then perhaps that was just him. There had not really been enough time to draw any solid conclusions about the Lord.

  They reached the bottom of the servants’ staircase and emerged into a relatively quiet corridor. The captain immediately grabbed the back of Harper’s collar and propelled him with force into the wall. Expecting it, Harper relaxed slightly, trying to absorb the impact. He thudded into the rough stone, and the captain immediately yanked him back the other way. Harper suddenly understood why the collar of his uniform had such a firm fastening—it made a good place to hold your victim. He hit the wall on the other side of the corridor hard enough to knock the breath out of him, his head bouncing off the jagged surface. The captain released him, and Harper bent over, hands on his knees, bracing himself, gasping for breath. He was overplaying his vulnerability, but his legs still felt like he was trying to stand on marbles.

  Do I fight back?

  He knew that he could, even now, hurt the captain enough that he would back off; but what would that achieve?

  If my conversation with Lord Pandral worked, I’m hopefully not going to have to take this sort of abuse much longer. If it didn’t, I’ll need to provoke my captain’s instability again in the future to get me in front of another Lord. Either way, my mission is a failure if he gets me hanged for attacking him twice in one day.

  Harper made his decision as the captain’s sledgehammer fist made solid contact with his stomach. What the captain meted out in this dingy corridor was something he would just have to take. Then all thought stopped, thrust aside by the pain, and Harper collapsed, fighting for every tortured breath, sliding down the wall until he lay on the dirty flagstone floor. The captain kicked him, hard, his foot sinking into his tender abdomen. A cry exploded from him with the last of the air in his lungs. Curling his limbs in to protect himself Harper cringed, feeling his body’s increasing demands for oxygen that his lungs could no longer supply. Bright sparks fired behind his eyes and, anticipating the next blow, he focused on not surrendering to the darkness at the edges of his vision. The captain crouched next to him and lifted Harper’s head by the hair, twisting it so he could look into his watering eyes.

  “You are mine to do with as I please,” he hissed, his spittle hitting Harper’s cheek, the Dwarfish underplayed by a violent snarl, implying mortal danger. “Lord Pandral may have asked Fergus to deliver your lashes, but they will be a lover’s caress compared to the horrors I can inflict upon you. Get yourself to your sergeant; tell him your punishment. And know that if you ever cross me again I shall not be so lenient.”

  The captain slammed Harper’s head to the floor, then rose and gave the winded man lying before him one last kick, clipping his ribs this time, before stalking off down the corridor.

  For a long time Harper lay where he had fallen, black nausea rolling over him, pain the keening monster that clawed at him. Occasionally servants hurried past, but nobody came to his aid. Eventually he managed regular breathing once more, and soon after that joined-up thought returned, along with a pounding headache. With effort he pulled himself up and, hiding his discomfort, feeling dizzy and sick, he walked slowly back to his unit’s tower. He knew Fergus would be doing paperwork, but the stairs to the fourth floor were a torture for which he was ill prepared. By the time he made it to the top he was gasping again, his body trembling violently.

  Through the closed door of the room he shared with his unit, Harper could hear angry conversation and was confused about why they were there and not out on patrol. Then he remembered how his actions had led to punishment for them all. They’re going to tear me apart. Leaving that as a problem for later, Harper knocked on Fergus’s door. It swung open and his sergeant glared at him. Grabbing him by his collar with his left hand, he dragged Harper into the room while simultaneously cuffing him around the head with his right hand. In silent, stoic deference, Harper took the blows, resisting the urge to flinch and forcing his body to remain upright, recognising that Fergus was not trying to cause him serious hurt.

  “What were you thinking?” Fergus snapped as he stopped slapping Harper long enough to close the door. “I thought you were smarter than that. No, I know you are smarter than that—which makes me think you have a whole other hidden agenda that I should worry about.”

  Harper kept his silence, hoping that Fergus would come up with a plausible reason for his behaviour that he could just agree with.

  “Sit down, you idiot, before you fall down,” Fergus said, waving an exasperated hand at a chair that sat on the other side of his desk, into which Harper dropped gratefully. “I assume the captain has made his displeasure felt?”

  Harper lifted his head and nodded to the Sergeant’s questioning look.

  “The captain is not a forgiving man,” Fergus continued, seeing the confirmation of his suspicions. “You just made a powerful enemy, and for what? Marit? What else is going on here that I do not know?”

  “Lord Pandral has ordered thirty lashes for me,” Harper said, the words flat and hard, wanting to distract the sergeant from his line of questioning. “You are to deliver this punishment,” he added.

  “Me?” Fergus asked, confusion widening his eyes, pulling some of the wrinkles out of his face for a moment. Harper nodded.

  Fergus stood and moved across the room. Harper heard a cupboard open, the unmistakeable squeak of a stopper and the distinct sound of liquid being poured into two mugs. Moving back to his desk, Fergus placed one of the mugs in front of Harper and sat opposite, staring into the liquid depths of his own drink. The rich, sweet smell of casrem berry liquor tickled Harper’s nose, bringing back memories, unbidden, of a night many years in the past when he and Conlan had become very drunk and his withdrawn companion had finally explained about his childhood. Pushing this stray thought back down where it belonged, Harper focused. Imbibing alcohol was strictly forbidden for Protectors whilst on duty, as both he and the sergeant currently were. Was this a trap? To what purpose? Harper raised his head, watching Fergus to see if he would drink first. Fergus noticed the scrutiny and gave him a half smile, his voice sad when he spoke.

  “You do not trust anyone, do you, Harper?”

  “I have to admit I am not happy about the prospect of the man who is about to flog me being drunk on the job.”

  Fergus gave him a snort of contempt, but he did not raise the drink to his lips. Nursing the mug, he stared down at it.

  “Lord Pandral is new to being a Lord, and very new to being head of the Hemtark Protectors. He is a tricky one, sharp, self-contained…” Fergus murmured to himself. “Did he order me to flog you because he thinks I will be less aggressive than the captain? Or did he order it because he thinks I will put more effort into it, trying to impress the captain?” Raising his head, Fergus scrutinised Harper. “What did he see in you?”

  It took Harper a moment to realise the question was not a rhetorical one.

  “I do not know, Sergeant,” he lied.

  “Yes you do,” Fergus snapped. “As I said: ‘hidden agenda’.”

  Harper stared calmly back. Under his cold gaze, Fergus dropped his eyes back to his drink.

  “I like you, but I think you have ambitions higher than your
skills merit. Perhaps your upbringing is to blame…” Fergus glanced at Harper, expecting a reaction. Harper gave him none. The sergeant huffed, his voice harder when he spoke again. “I will ignore my reservations about you, Harper, on the understanding that you do not drag me or my men into your plans again. That includes Rudd—the boy is impressionable and he looks up to you. The next two months will not be pleasant for any of us, thanks to you; I do not want a repeat of this. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Harper agreed.

  Leaning forward, Fergus poured his untouched drink into Harper’s mug. “Good,” he said. “Now drink up. You are going to need it.”

  Thirst ripped at his throat and the midday sun beat mercilessly down on him. From the platform he knelt on, Harper looked down on the training ground—or he would have, had he been able to lift his head. He could hear his unit as they trained with a group of Elite Protectors, who were using the combat lesson as an excuse to show off their superior skills.

  Every so often a cry of pain would rise in the still, dry air. The flogging had been as gut-wrenchingly horrific as Harper had imagined. Having his wrists shackled at shoulder height to two posts about a foot apart had confused him. Things became clearer somewhere around the middle of Fergus’s application of the whip, when Harper had crumpled to his knees, all his strength going into keeping his whimpering sobs trapped behind his gritted teeth. His arms were pulled taut and his head dropped forward between the two posts, providing Fergus with the perfect angle with which to inflict maximum damage to his back and shoulders. It was a position Harper still held, as he lacked the strength or spirit to move. Sweat dripped from him, mixing with his blood and splattering the dusty wood of the whipping platform, where it merged with the stains left by previous victims.

  Everything hurt. A scalding, seething agony moved up and down his back with each strained breath, blood oozing, drying, cracking and oozing some more. His aching stomach strained and tensed due to the uncomfortable position he was forced to hold, and it hurt to think around the violent headache that was churning in his mind. When the punishment was finally finished, Fergus placed the keys to the shackles’ locks on top of one of the posts and, whilst wiping the blood from his whip, had informed Harper in a lifeless voice that he would stay where he was until he either released himself or some of his unit came to release him. Given the grunting and gasps of pain Harper could hear from the training ground, he doubted very much that release would come from his fellow Protectors. He just needed to pull himself to his feet and the keys would be in easy reach. Getting the key into the padlock with one restrained hand would be a little harder, but not impossible; both the key and the lock were large.

  This plan seemed only slightly less difficult than stopping the water that flooded over the lip of the Five Rivers Waterfall.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice was soft, the question jerking Harper into a higher state of awareness, awakening the pain that squeezed and twisted his body in its claws. With difficulty and effort he lifted his head. It was late afternoon, the training ground was empty and Lord Pandral stood before the whipping platform, the height difference putting them face to face. Peeling his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Harper tried to lick his lips. Like rubbing a lizard with a piece of beef jerky. When he spoke, his voice was a weak rasp.

  “I am learning, apparently, my Lord.”

  Pandral’s eyes hardened. “What are you doing here?”

  “Suffering,” Harper tried again with blunt honesty.

  “Your future hangs in the balance, right here, right now, and you would trade quips with me?” Pandral asked, mild disgust in the Dwarfish snarl.

  Harper held Pandral’s gaze for a moment, giving the impression he was trying to decide on his response.

  “I am hiding, my Lord.”

  Pandral nodded slowly. “I will not ask who or what you are hiding from. You would not be the first to join the Protectors to escape a painful past. However I would point out that you are hiding a little too well. You nearly failed your basic training pretending to be nothing.” Harper was not surprised that the Lord had checked up on him.

  “Someone had to keep Rudd company.”

  “And again you quip,” Pandral observed.

  “I saw no point in pushing myself for the title of ‘glorified wall watcher’,” Harper said. “I am far more suited to the job of Hemtark Protector, so I set my skills accordingly.” Pandral stared at him. “My Lord,” Harper added as an afterthought.

  “You play a strange game, Harper of Twyness,” Pandral said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Is nothing important to you? Your life, maybe?”

  Harper dropped his head. “I have lost everything I ever cared about,” he said with bitter grief. “I have no life to speak of, so I have no life to lose.”

  There was silence. Had he blown it? Was Pandral going to walk away? Having writhed under the bite of the lash, Harper was in no hurry to repeat the experience. But the Lord remained where he was, and Harper wallowed in the despair his back story demanded of him. Movement at his wrists caused him to lift his head again.

  “Can you read and write?” Pandral asked as he unlocked the shackle at Harper’s right wrist. Released, his hand dropped to the platform with a thud.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Pandral nodded, a truth he had already assumed. “Your self-pity is pathetic,” Pandral told him. “I will not tolerate it, but I have need of the intelligence I see in your eyes and the education I hear in your words.” Harper’s left hand dropped and he slumped against the post it had been chained to, swallowing a groan. “Clean yourself up,” Pandral ordered. “Report to me tomorrow morning and we shall find out if your mind is as quick as your tongue.”

  The sun was just starting to rise as Harper made his way to Pandral’s office. His movements were stiff and overly considered as he tried to stop the rough material of his undershirt from rubbing against the raw skin of his back. After Pandral had released him from the whipping posts, Harper had lain still for a while, but had eventually summoned the strength to move. He had then staggered to the washrooms, where he had indulged in a long drink and poured bucket after bucket over his head of as much cold water as he could handle without arousing his energy. This had made him feel stronger and helped to numb things a little. He had then washed the blood out of his trousers, and with dread a heavy, icy weight in his heart, he had returned to his room.

  The violence against him would not have ended then; his fellow Protectors would have made sure of that. But thanks to Fergus, who had received orders, word had got around that Harper had been transferred to the direct control of Lord Pandral and would be moving into the main tower. And this effectively made him untouchable. So Harper had spent his last night in the company of his unit ignoring the pointed glares and the bitter, insulting comments they muttered to each other about him. Their verbal abuse was nothing but a dull buzz in his ears; he had made no efforts to get to know the other men in his unit. But he did feel a slight disappointment that Rudd had chosen to join them in rejecting him. Yet really, what loyalty could he expect? He had got them all two months of unpleasant punishment, which he himself had managed to avoid by getting assigned elsewhere. Perhaps Rudd was right in trying to fit in with the men Harper was leaving him with.

  As he retraced the journey he had made with the captain the day before, passing under the vigilant eyes of the guards at the inner wall gate, Harper pushed thoughts of his former unit out of his mind, turning it in more pertinent directions. During his training, Davlin had told him that once his intelligence and education became apparent, nearly every Lord he might have ended up speaking to would want to commandeer his skills for a range of secretarial and administrative duties. Protectors and servants who could read and write were hard to come by, and though the Lords did not want it known, in desperate need. Serves them right for making literacy a jealously guarded and expensive status symbol. Harper wondered what Pandral would hav
e him doing. It did not really matter—the change in job was a chance to get inside the main tower where he could more easily gather intelligence on the Source. But for some reason the thought of having to spend his days having letters dictated to him and alphabetising books on shelves left him with a vague sense of dread. Again his thoughts circled to Lord Pandral, wondering what he was like. Knowing only that his captain reported to Pandral, Harper had considered asking Fergus for more information, but Protectors were not encouraged to talk about the Lords and their business. Even the fall of the North Tower, whilst recently becoming known, was not directly reference or addressed, but something only whispered about in dark corners with people you trusted. General gossip, relayed to Harper through Rudd, was that there had been a natural disaster that had destroyed the tower, killing a lot of men and even the four resident Lords.

  Not knowing when in the ‘morning’ Pandral had meant for him to arrive, but wanting to make a good impression, Harper had expected to arrive at Pandral’s office and, given the early hour, wait for the Lord to arrive. So he was surprised when his knock, to ensure the room was empty, got an instant response.

  “Enter.”

  Harper stepped inside, closed the door behind him and stood, waiting to be acknowledged. Pandral’s attention was on the raft of papers in his hand. Wonder if I’ll be filing those later? Without looking up from his papers, Pandral spoke.

  “There is a folder on the window seat. Sit down and read it.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Harper said, moving to the window where a thin leather case lay open, paper within it. Sitting gingerly, he pulled the paper free of its holder and began slowly working through it. The information contained within the pages was arranged a bit like he might have expected a police case file to be structured. The first document was a letter from another Lord of Mydren, a man called Tarplan, and it made for sad reading. Tarplan’s eight-year-old grandson, Rodin, was missing, stolen in the middle of the night from his bedroom in his father’s house in Hemtark. The Protectors had investigated and found nothing; there were no suspects, no ransom had been demanded and no body had been found. Tarplan did not know who else to turn to, but as Pandral was the newly appointed head of the Protectors in Hemtark, Tarplan was begging the Lord to do more. The rest of the papers were brief statements taken from a few house servants, along with some badly spelt notes written up by the sergeant of the investigating Protectors on their memories of the crime scene, which, judging by the vagary of the detail, had been done some time after they had visited.