Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  They’re contacting me tonight! Harper’s heart twisted in his chest as he remembered what he had done to Eleanor when she had spoken to him at the last full moon. And tonight he would face the recriminations for his actions. Could he hide himself, so they could not initiate contact? It’s not as if I’ve got that much to report! Then Harper thought of the fear and worry he would put them through if they were unable to reach him. No, there was no escaping it: he had hurt someone he loved in a fit of temper and he would have to answer for that.

  He raised his hand to knock one last time, just to be sure, and jumped when the door was yanked open. He stared with moronic astonishment into the furious face of a tall, broad-shouldered, older man. In the time it took Harper to realise, from the blood red robe the man wore, that this was another Lord of Mydren, the Lord had realised there was someone in his way. The palms of two meaty hands were shoved into his chest with bruising force and Harper staggered back, coming to a stop when he hit the wall on the other side of the corridor.

  “Get out of my way, idiot,” the Lord snarled as he marched past.

  Hurting, his body trembling, Harper stood, trying to get his breath back, watching as the red-clothed Lord disappeared through a set of double doors farther down the corridor.

  “Are you coming in or should I join you out here?”

  Harper raised his head to find Pandral stood in the doorway, an irritated look on his face.

  “I am sorry, my Lord,” Harper wheezed. He pushed himself away from the wall and followed Pandral into the office.

  “How do you feel?” Pandral asked the moment the door was closed, concern replacing his previous expression.

  “I have felt better,” Harper admitted. “Who was that?”

  A growl of disgust vibrated deep in Pandral’s throat. “That was Lord Ulchan. He is a friend of Miraway Gee and came to inform me that I have stirred up trouble.”

  “We are trying to find Rodin. I do not understand,” Harper said, moving to sit before his trembling legs dumped him on the floor.

  “I am told that Miraway has no interest in getting his son back,” Pandral said with a sigh, crossing to look out of the window, his back to Harper as he spoke. “He is now more interested in getting his wife pregnant with another child. Lady Rebeca, however, has been resistant to the idea. He has forced the point many times, but she has failed to conceive. The healer has suggested that her worry for Rodin is placing stress on her body, which is causing problems. So Miraway has been allowing her time to mourn her son, hence the black clothing she was wearing when we visited. She is meant to be accepting that Rodin is dead. But then we turned up and gave her fresh hope. ”

  “Miraway is raping her?” Harper asked, his pity and horror enough to make him momentarily forget to whom he was talking.

  Pandral turned to look at him, confused. “No, they are married.”

  “If a woman is forced, regardless of whom is doing the forcing, it is rape,” Harper said with conviction.

  Pandral gave a snort. “You are being ridiculous! It is a wife’s duty, nothing more.”

  Swallowing the words he wanted to say, the rant he wanted to give, Harper sighed and dropped his head. It had taken him years of relentless arguing and prodding to get Conlan to a position where Miraway’s behaviour would have angered him, and here he was, right back at the beginning with a new pupil.

  “I believe that women have the right to say no, even to their husbands,” Harper said.

  Pandral laughed, until the look on Harper’s face registered and his laughter stopped. “You are serious…?”

  “Very.”

  Black eyes stared at him and Harper wondered what the Lord was thinking. When he finally spoke, he sounded bemused.

  “You are a strange man, Harper of Twyness.”

  Harper gave him a grim smile. “I will take that as a compliment. What does Lord Ulchan’s involvement mean for our investigation?”

  Pandral shrugged. “Nothing. Lord Tarplan is many levels higher than Lord Ulchan. Not that Ulchan knows who asked us to investigate, although he might have suspicions. However, it does raise some questions about what we do with Rodin, should we find him.”

  “Why can we not just give him into the care of his grandfather?” Harper asked, confused.

  “Opinion and precedent would favour the parent. Miraway would have to agree to any other arrangement, and this seems unlikely.”

  Harper frowned. “I thought Miraway did not want Rodin.”

  Pandral stared at him—waiting, Harper realised, for him to figure it out on his own. His heart twisted for the boy when he did.

  “If Miraway gets him back, he can systematically beat the child until he is either compliant or dead. If Lord Tarplan gets him, Miraway’s eldest son, his heir, grows up defiant and free, hating his father,” Harper said slowly. “You are right: his father is not going to let Rodin go.”

  “I fear for Rodin,” Pandral said. “If we find him, we may have to make some difficult decisions—but we have to find him first. While you were sleeping off last night, I was working. There have been developments; the Protectors found witnesses.”

  “Witnesses to what?”

  “Three different people claimed to have seen a man driving a covered cart south out of town, from which the muffled sounds of a child crying could be heard. One of the witnesses could name the man and where he works,” Pandral said.

  “A lead! This is good news. Now we need to bring this man in and question him,” Harper said, getting to his feet. Pandral gave him a smug look.

  “You have been asleep a long time. I have already sent Protectors out for him; they returned before lunch with the man. I was planning to go and talk to him when Lord Ulchan arrived. Now we can go together.”

  It was a weaving, confusing path of corridors and stairs from Pandral’s office down into the lower levels under the Central Tower. Harper had never seen the dungeons, but he had heard the horror stories, as he assumed all new Protectors did, of what went on in them.

  The wide stone staircase led down into the subterranean chill. With each step a claustrophobic tension further suffused Harper’s mind. The metallic odour of blood reached him, along with the base scent of putrefaction and filth, the smell of human wretchedness and suffering. The illumination seemed to become more fragile. The number of candle brackets on the walls on each side of the stairs began to increase, as if the light might be safer in numbers. Towards the bottom of the steps, sounds joined the assault on Harper’s senses. The occasional bursts of screaming, cries of pain and the clicking of chains, along with an endless mantra, a begging for death, from somewhere in the distance, all caused a powerful feeling of terror to snap strong razor-toothed jaws around him.

  Yet beyond all this was another noise. Barely recognisable as human. Soft, wet, gasping sounds of agony, so total that in a deep, visceral part of his mind, Harper quaked in fear. Glancing at Pandral, he noticed the look of distaste on his face and the tight set of his jaw.

  The bottom of the staircase opened out into a large room with rough stone walls and a low ceiling. There was a spitting, angry blaze in a blackened bulk of a hearth on one wall, but unlike any fire that Harper had ever seen, this one seemed to offer not warmth and comfort, but only ominous possibilities. In the middle of the room was a heavy, wooden table. Harper was not sure what he had expected from the dungeon, but six men sat around a table eating their evening meal, talking and laughing while somewhere very close a man begged for his death, seemed oddly appropriate.

  It was several moments before one of the men spotted Pandral. When he did, the Protector pushed himself up and away from the table in shock, knocking his drink flying in his hurry. His comrades rushed to do the same once they realised what had caused the reaction. Moving farther into the room, Pandral stood and slowly surveyed the men as the spilt ale dripped off the edge of the table, creating a puddle on the floor.

  “Where is Mortarlo?” Pandral asked. The Protectors gave each other desperate
glances and Harper wondered who Mortarlo was. Their sergeant, perhaps? An older man coughed and tugged nervously at the collar of his Protector uniform.

  “He has gone for the evening, Lord Pandral.”

  “The sun has not yet set,” Pandral told them.

  “No, my Lord,” the older Protector agreed. “Mortarlo says the man you brought in is very resistant. He worked on him for a time and has now left him to contemplate his future.” The way the Protector said ‘contemplate his future’ made Harper’s flesh crawl.

  “Mortarlo should know that when a Lord of Mydren asks for answers immediately, that is what is expected,” Pandral said with a savage snarl.

  The Protectors all dropped their heads. The older one dropped to his knees, his voice trembling. “He is young to hold his title and has not yet grown into the role, but he has talent. If anyone can get the information you want, my Lord, it is Mortarlo.”

  Pandral raised an eyebrow. “Get up,” he snapped. “Take us to the prisoner.”

  The old man rose painfully to his feet, and Harper had to resist the urge to step forward and help him. Once standing, the man turned and walked towards the far right corner of the room where another flight of stairs disappeared down into still deeper gloom. As Harper followed, he was aware of how much effort it was taking to keep his expression impassive.

  It was damp and even colder at the bottom of the stairs. Thick, squat, yellow candles lit a long corridor at regular, but distant, intervals, creating wide pools of deep shadow. Down here the noises were louder, the odours stronger. The Protector led them down the corridor and pulled back the screeching bolt of the third door on the right.

  “That will be all,” Pandral snapped. The older man seemed uncertain. “Go!” Pandral ordered. “I have Harper here if I need help.”

  Nodding, the Protector turned and headed back up the stairs, and Harper followed Pandral into the room. The heat was stifling after the chill of the corridor. The smell of burnt flesh, a smell he knew all too well, brought him to a sudden stop, a shudder travelling through him. Pandral gave him a questioning look.

  “I am fine,” Harper said sharply, not trying to hide the discomfort clear in his Dwarfish. Playing to his as-yet-untold back story, he rubbed his burnt arm—knowing Pandral had seen the scars—as if remembering past pain.

  “Who is Mortarlo?” Harper asked, looking to distract Pandral’s penetrating look.

  “Mortarlo is a title. I have no idea what he is actually called. The man is a torturer. The best there is, I have been told by those who know,” Pandral replied with revulsion.

  “You do not like him?” Harper asked, wondering if it was the man himself or the concept of torture to which Pandral objected.

  “He certainly has his uses, but no, I do not like him,” Pandral said. “I suspect there is something not right in his head.”

  If you offer a job as a torturer, chances are you are going to get psychopaths applying! Harper thought.

  He stepped forward and focused on his surroundings, letting his eyes become accustomed to the limited light of the four strategically placed lanterns. They stood in a thirty-foot by thirty-foot square of dark, windowless stone; and tied, naked and spread-eagled to the wooden bench before them, was a thing that had once been a man. Now it was a barely breathing, broken, twisted figure, blanketed in blood. To the side of this wretch was another, smaller table, upon which lay a ghastly array of metal tools. A solid, square brazier stood on the other side of the table. The red glow of heaped coals and the temperature of the room spoke of the intense heat it had produced.

  Moving without thinking, Harper headed for the prisoner, running quick, experienced hands over the man’s tortured body. What he found was not encouraging.

  “He is breathing,” Harper told Pandral over his shoulder. “The burns are unpleasant; they will be fatal if not treated. However, there has been a blow to his side—a nightstick, by the shape of the bruising. It most likely happened before he even got into this cell. His abdomen is hard and swollen.” Turning to face the Lord, Harper gave him the bad news. “He is nonresponsive and most likely bleeding to death internally from a ruptured organ. There is little I can do to help him.”

  Pandral stared at him, astonished. “A healer, too? And an exceptional one…” he mused, speaking to himself. “You are full of surprises, Harper.”

  “I am delighted you think so,” Harper said with heavy sarcasm. “However, you seem to have missed my point. Our lead, our only lead, is about to die without telling us anything.”

  Harper’s tone snapped Pandral back to their current problem.

  “I will fetch Mortarlo. You, see if you can get him to speak,” Pandral ordered, disappearing out of the cell at a fast walk that stopped just short of a run.

  Harper gazed down at the tortured husk of humanity before him. Get him to speak? How? The man was unconscious and likely to remain so until death claimed him. So then what happens to Rodin? While Harper was going to do everything he could to ensure the boy did not end up back with his father, he was, conversely, not at all happy either with the idea of leaving the child to fend for himself. He still had no real idea how he would help Rodin, but he knew that to help him, Harper first had to find him. And although it was possible that they might find other leads, Harper did not want to bet the boy’s life on a chance. Thus the man dying in front of him was their best hope.

  Think, stupid! If his medical bag had been with him he could have used smelling salts, but as it was, all he had was his wits and his withered energy.

  Energy…!

  Before his rational mind had a chance to catch up with the idea and question it, Harper tried to push an energy string out to the man, careful not to stimulate the core of his energy as he did so. Stretching his consciousness out had rarely been a problem in the past, but with his energy forced down, dormant, creating and maintaining the string’s cohesion took effort; it took him four attempts to get anything close to a usable string. Focusing and taking slow, deep breaths, Harper pushed out to the man, whose shield was gone. Long since fallen to the scorching poker, no doubt.

  Moving through his mind was like moving through treacle. Foggy treacle. The remnants of thoughts floated past Harper, dominated by pain and fear. He caught some of them. Daxis. The man’s name is Daxis. A black-haired, blue-eyed monster flashed before him, and Harper jerked back on reflex. Mortarlo, he guessed. Pushing deeper into the man’s mind, he could see the slow disintegration, see death’s cold fingers brushing against memories that flickered and disappeared. I need to move quickly.

  The children—where are the children? Harper asked.

  Bapa? The mind asked in infantile desperation.

  Seeing a possible opening, and knowing his task would be easier if he could get the mind to cooperate, Harper was calm and gentle.

  Yes, Daxis. I am here. Where are the children?

  Confusion flooded the mind, but with it came images and tangled thoughts. Leaving town with a cart. ‘Bapa will be pleased, got the most yet. Merchandise, not children, merchandise,’ Daxis thought with mean belligerence. A high-roofed barn, fields and a dog that never stops barking. ‘Going to beat that dog.’ A glow of pleasure. ‘Cages. Merchandise goes in the cages.’ Begging and pleading—other animals that will not shut up. ‘Stopping that.’ Fists and bright blood, pleasure. One animal is still whining, talking about his name and his grandfather.

  Harper froze when Rodin appeared. In the memory, Daxis was hitting him. A big man, the one Daxis called Bapa, came into view, concerned. ‘Cannot have the boy telling people if that is true. Stop him talking.’ The rest of the memory was just the joy of inflicting pain on something helpless. Is Rodin dead? Had the beast killed him? More memories filtered past, but they were dimming: men gathered; ‘Bapa’; dragging the merchandise out of the cages. There was bidding and money changing hands. Sold. A man clasping Daxis on the shoulder. ‘You did well, son. You can have one of the next ones we catch,’ Bapa said. Pride. Pleasure. Lust…
>
  Harper wrenched himself back. He had seen enough—more than he wanted. He staggered back from the table, gasping and dizzy, feeling dirty and tainted by the thoughts Daxis had in his head. The man deserved every pain that had been inflicted upon him.

  Rage pounding through his veins, Harper glared down at the monster until he realised that his emotions were awakening his energy to a restless, dull throbbing. He felt other strings crawling from him, looking for water, and found he was struggling to stop the process. By continually building up his internal defences whilst holding the tension in the strings as he dragged them back, he managed to retrieve them, but it was too late. The agitated strings had managed to pull a tiny amount of energy into his body. In the past, control of an amount this small would have been simple, but he was no longer accustomed to carrying the huge weight it represented, and he found that holding it firm was exhausting. He needed to get rid of it.

  The others, tonight. Whoever contacted him would be able to remove the burden; he just had to concentrate and keep his control until then. He shuddered as he felt his grip start to slip. A single burst escaped him—almost nothing when compared with what he had once been able to release—but it shot from him, tearing into the body on the table. Daxis jerked and twitched as purple-blue strands of light zapped and crackled around and through him. The effect dissipated quickly, leaving behind only the smell of ozone and a corpse.

  Frightened by what he had done, and aware that he had not wielded his Avatar energy, but that it had wielded him, Harper stood with his eyes closed, his concentration total as he fought to exert his will on the small speck of energy remaining. When he was satisfied that he was not an immediate risk to those around him, Harper turned and found Pandral stood behind him, his expression inscrutable.

  “I know magic when I see it, Harper.”

  Trapped, more frightened of what was inside him than anything that might be done to him, Harper nodded solemnly.

  “So… am I next for the torture chamber?”

  Pandral held his gaze. “Your life is in the balance once more, and again you quip… I do not understand what would prompt a magic user to become a Protector.”