Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  It could have been several days, weeks or millennia before they came for him. Given the growl of hunger growing ever stronger in his stomach, Will suspected days; he was not yet past the point of caring about his body’s desperate need for sustenance. He had been dozing, having pulled himself into a sitting position in the corner of his cell, when an unfamiliar sound brought him sharply awake. Feet, several feet, in hard boots. Not Enforcers then. He pulled his knees into his chest, the only defence left to him, and waited.

  The bolt was drawn back and the door swung open on rusty, creaking hinges, jump-starting his heart into pounding intensity. Forcing himself to calm took effort, but he achieved it as the light they brought blinded him. Once his eyes adjusted, Will noticed four Protectors he did not know, their faces blank, studiously looking at nothing, stood at attention behind a man sat comfortably in a chair placed in the middle of the room.

  Mortarlo, the Lord’s own torturer.

  A man so feared, so valuable, it was rumoured his masters denied him nothing. Will had only ever seen him from a distance and in the minds of those he had tortured. But now, sat in front of Will was a nondescript sort of man. The type the eyes slipped off of for want of something to draw their attention. He was somewhere in his middle thirties—young, Will remembered, to hold the honorific Mortarlo. With an artist’s skill Will forced himself to observe the thin lips, the white skin and the short, neatly groomed black hair to match his black, nondescript clothes. Plain features and dead pale-blue eyes. Eyes that inspected Will, as they seemed to inspect all they fell upon, much as a butcher would inspect a piece of meat before him.

  “Stand up.”

  Mortarlo’s voice was soft, patient, unhurried. Seeing no point in arguing, Will struggled to comply. Stiff, cold, bruised muscles screamed their protest. Getting himself onto his knees, he used the wall to help him find his feet. He was panting with the exertion and dizzy by the time he stood.

  Mortarlo continued to watch him, with neither encouragement for his effort nor rebuke for the time he was taking. The pale predatory eyes simply absorbed the hesitant, pained movements of his prey.

  “Come here.” Mortarlo ordered, pointing to a spot several feet in front of him. Will moved away from the wall, swaying a little before he got hold of himself and shuffled to the place indicated.

  “Unchain him.”

  The order was a surprise. Will stood listlessly as one of the nameless Protectors moved behind him, removing the weighty metal cuffs. As his arms were released, Will’s breath caught in his chest; he gasped at the burning pain, his world filled with nothing more than the effort it required to remain standing. Carefully rubbing feeling into his arms, he attempted to reduce the searing wave of sharp discomfort. Eventually it receded to a throbbing ache, led by the raw, bruised, bleeding skin at his wrists. Will raised his head, holding Mortarlo’s gaze.

  “Remove your clothes.”

  The order was given just as the others had been, but Will hesitated. It was not the order itself—he had expected this sort of humiliation—it was the implication of his willing obedience to it. Having his clothes taken was one thing; actually removing them himself felt like something else, a step he was disinclined to take. This indecision or faint rebellion must have shown on his face, because with deadly speed, Mortarlo launched himself from his chair and struck out at him, a cup-handed blow to the head. Knocked off his feet, Will cried out as a loud gunshot sound exploded through his left ear, a sharp stabbing pain lanced though his eardrum, and a roaring filled his head. He lay on the floor, disoriented and hurting. Hands now free, he raised one to his left ear: blood ran thickly from it. The pain felt as if white-hot needles were being stabbed into his inner ear, and the roaring became a loud buzz of white noise. With the irresistible pull of the inevitable, Will returned his gaze to Mortarlo.

  “Get up.”

  The torturer’s voice was inaudible over the buzzing pain in his head, but Will read the lips easily enough and moved slowly and painfully to comply. It took longer for him to stand this time, with no wall to offer assistance.

  Once stood, Will’s gaze inexorably returned to Mortarlo.

  “Remove your clothes.”

  The order was repeated, the words precisely enunciated, easier to lip-read. Will shuddered. Mortarlo knew what he had done, knew he had most likely deafened his victim permanently in one ear. With an economical, practiced blow, this man had shown his mastery, his skill. Terror reached a cold hand around Will’s heart and squeezed. All rebellious thoughts fled and, eyes dropping to the floor, Will complied.

  His clothes were soiled rags in a pile at his bare feet and Will stood before the man he had every reason to believe was going to cause him the most unimaginable pain. Accepting his fear and schooling himself to calm, deliberate breaths, Will raised his head. Mortarlo’s pale, emotionless eyes stared back.

  “We understand each other?” Mortarlo asked, speaking slowly, still compensating for the injury he had inflicted—which, for reasons he could not comprehend, made Will feel pathetically grateful.

  Pain swarming around his head, Will nodded. He understood. Mortarlo had a job to do; any resistance would be met with excruciating pain and potentially permanent injury. Fear forced him to acknowledge the opposite side of this coin: if resistance was met with pain and torment, what would cooperation result in? A quicker death seemed the only obvious answer. I lose either way. This dark, bitter reality murdered his hope. You wanted to die here, for their sakes—well, you got your wish. This realisation brought a strong conviction: he would not talk, would not give them what they wanted. He would take the hard road. He had lived with the possibility of death for so long, the threat had lost all its power, but the thought of being responsible for the suffering of those he loved was a true terror.

  Making his decision, Will chose to fight, to protect his family, to defend Amelia with all he had left—and, in so doing, perhaps atone for forsaking her.

  Still watching him, Mortarlo seemed to observe this internal resolution, maybe in the way Will now held himself or his calm gaze. Dark humour twisted his mouth, as disconcerting and chilling as watching a shark smile.

  “I have always appreciated a challenge,” Mortarlo said, easing slowly out of his chair to stand in front of his captive, close enough that Will could see a pale scar in the thin stubble across his tormentor’s jaw. Still appraising his enemy, Will knew it was not Mortarlo’s build that had earned him the title ‘Death Bringer’. He was Will’s height, but he lacked the corded muscle, the strength to impose his will physically. Mortarlo was a different sort of threat: intelligent, calm, patient, able to assess and discover weakness, with the knowledge and skill to deliver controlled, devastating pain without compunction or mercy. This was a man to fear.

  Mortarlo touched him and Will jumped, shocked out of his thoughts as the man ran his fingers from Will’s chin down his neck. When Mortarlo reached his chest, Will recovered his senses enough to slap the hand angrily away. The response was immediate. In another precise, simple movement, Mortarlo punched Will hard, just below his sternum, his middle knuckle standing proud of his fist, reducing the force of the blow down to a fine point. The attack would leave only a small bruise, but the effect was considerable. The air was forced from his lungs, a hard, painful spasm twisted and contracted his diaphragm, and Will dropped to his hands and knees, making gasping noises as he strained to draw breath, his eyes watering.

  It was some time before Will found the courage to look back at Mortarlo. The man had returned to his chair, content to watch Will suffer. He seemed in no rush.

  “Get up.”

  The order again, calm and soft. Tiring of the game being played, Will forced his aching body to stand. This time, when Mortarlo approached, Will concentrated on stillness as the full surface of his body was explored. The hands were cold, the touch gentle and intimate—a caress, almost. Designed, Will knew, to make him feel uncomfortable, vulnerable and violated, to hammer home the fact that he was helpless,
that Mortarlo could do as he wished. Fingertips of one hand trailed along the bruised muscle of Will’s abdomen while the other hand reached out to clasp Will’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

  “You have a beautiful body,” Mortarlo said, his voice husky, lust smouldering in his frank expression.

  Will stared placidly back. It was not the first time a man had made this comment to him; it was, however, the first time he let it go without a good-humoured rejection.

  “Lord Avery and Lord Pandral wish to know where Conlan Baydon can be found,” Mortarlo continued. “They assumed that your mind would be accessible to one of their pet Enforcers, one with an affinity for Water, and they would be able to take the information from your head. However, it appears that while your energy is accessible, your mind is not. A quirk of being the Avatar of Water, I suspect. Which, fortunately, means you fall into my hands.” The torturer continued to slide his fingers over Will’s body, his commentary now carrying a slight note of excitement. “Lord Avery believes that if a normal person’s shield can be removed with enough ‘incentive’, then the resistance in your mind can be likewise worn down. I shall be testing this theory. You can, if you wish, save us both time and yourself considerable pain, by simply telling me what I wish to know. Once it is confirmed, I shall make your death quick and painless.”

  Can my mind be compromised this way? Arran managed to get into Eleanor’s mind that time… but my defences are much stronger. How much pain can I take before my defences fall? It was a terrifying notion. It would not be a matter of resistance, not a matter of choice. They would simply grind him down until he could no longer protect his thoughts or his secrets. Dread overwhelmed him for a moment. He fought it back down, burying it deep inside, remaining still and silent. Mortarlo nodded, stepping away from his captive. Tapping his lips with a thin finger, he regarded Will. He sounded amused when he finally spoke.

  “Shackle him.”

  Two Protectors came forward to comply with the order, encasing Will’s wrists and ankles in thick metal bands.

  “Attach him there,” the torturer ordered imperiously, pointing at metal chains hanging through rings from the ceiling. Will’s wrist manacles were attached to the rusty metal chains, and as the chains were pulled slowly through the rings, Will was lifted off his feet, his arms pulled far apart, his body weight straining tired, bruised muscles in his arms, shoulders and back. Will tried to hold back a pained groan and failed utterly.

  “Chain his ankles.”

  This order was carried out with the same efficiency as the last, the extra weight of the chain putting even more strain on Will’s arms. This, Will decided, was a good thing: the weight would increase the effect, contorting his body even further. Breathing would become impossible and he would asphyxiate. Not a pleasant death, to be sure, but at least a fairly quick way to die, with his secrets intact. As if reading his mind, the torturer smiled up at him, running a hand down his side. Will struggled to hide the humiliation and anger that surged through him.

  “Do not forget the footrest,” Mortarlo said.

  Two Protectors left the cell, returning with a long, heavy, triangular piece of wood. They placed it on the floor beneath Will’s dangling body. Running his hands down Will’s legs, Mortarlo guided his feet forward until they found purchase on the thin sharp edge of the footrest. Automatically, Will felt his legs straighten and the pressure on his arms and shoulders release slightly, making breathing easier. There was the click of padlocks as the chain between his legs was attached to the heavy footrest, ensuring his feet would not slip off and that he could not voluntarily remove them.

  “Enjoy,” Mortarlo murmured as he turned and walked out of the room, followed by the Protectors who took the chair, Will's clothing and the light with them. The door slammed shut and the bolt slid solidly into place. Will was plunged back into pitch blackness.

  There was no time, no past, no future—nothing other than now.

  Now—with its terror and never-ending agony.

  A ‘now’ of relentless agonised movement. The straightening of the legs to release the pressure on the arms, until the pain of the sharp edge of the footrest on the soles of his feet forced him to relax. The pain in his feet reducing as the strain on his breathing increased. Over and over and over. There could be no sleep, no moment of peace in the abyss of pain in which he found himself.

  Will could feel his body weakening. No regular water reached him here. He tried to use his energy to drag some to him and passed out. It very nearly killed him. He woke, gasping for breath, searing bright lights exploding through his vision. This is what you wanted, advised the fatalistic voice in his head. But now that death was near, Will found that he could not just succumb to it; with enormous effort he pushed himself up, the sharp edge of the footrest bringing searing pain to the soles of his feet. The strain reduced on his lungs and he drew in huge gasps of air. He knew the time was soon coming where he would no longer have the strength to stand as he was doing now. I don’t want to die; it’s not fair. The words tumbled over and over in his head, or perhaps he spoke them, he was not sure. His childish rant at the universe for its failings finally melted into a stoic acceptance. Whatever he faced now would not last forever. He would be released, there would be an end, and all that mattered was bearing it now.

  Will’s mind began to wander. Lack of sleep led to hallucinations. Conlan came to rescue him, food floated before him, Amelia appeared far too often. She smiled and kissed him before disappearing into smoke, leaving him devastated, loneliness and fear reducing him to tears. Through it all, Enforcers still visited him regularly to relieve him of his energy, but not the same Enforcers who had visited him at the beginning. The new ones treated him differently, ensuring they did not take his consciousness from him. They were quiet around him, intimidated perhaps by the obvious agony of the man strung up before them. With care that bordered on tenderness, they gave him fresh water, even small pieces of bread and meat. The clandestine way they did this, with one Enforcer stood watching at the door, made him think that this kindness was not something they had been asked to do.

  Compassion, from Enforcers…? Maybe there’s hope for them yet, Will thought as he whispered his grateful thanks.

  Light and noise snapped him into a higher level of awareness. He’s back. Will’s body began trembling, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin.

  “Take him down.”

  Mortarlo’s order echoed through Will’s head. The ringing in his ears had finally dwindled; he knew he would never hear fully again, but some sound still reached him. Hands grabbed at him, the chains were released, and he was lowered to the cold floor of the cell. The freedom he had craved brought a fresh set of pains as his body tried to adjust to an almost forgotten position.

  “Get up.”

  Will ignored Mortarlo’s request; there was no way he could do what was asked. A none-too-gentle foot nudged him, and he paid it no notice. There were dark spots crowding his vision, sweet oblivion was coming for him, and finally he could accept it. A bucket of freezing cold water was dashed over him, setting afire every nerve ending in his body still able to respond. He tried to reach the icy liquid with his energy, hoping to hurry the darkness, but there was no response. Concern floated through his mind, but it required too much effort to sustain. Oblivion retreated. Will felt tears fill his eyes, and in anguish he sobbed for the loss of peace that the black nothing had promised. His hands were once again fixed behind his back. His shoulders a seething mass of cramping muscles, Will gave a pitiful cry of pain.

  “Bring him,” Mortarlo ordered.

  Grabbed on each side, hauled up, Will was unceremoniously pulled forward, his feet dragging along the ground, the chain that was still strung between the manacles on his ankles slithering after him. He was taken up stairs and along corridors, the tops of his feet torn and bruised as they bounced behind him. Daylight hit him and he turned his head away, sunshine piercing his watering eyes. After what seemed an age, their journey stopp
ed, and Will was dropped to the floor, a floor covered with warm, thick carpet, more comfortable to him, in that moment, than any bed in which he had ever slept.

  “Is he still alive?” Pandral asked, concerned. “He is of no use to me dead.”

  “He lives, my Lord,” Mortarlo assured him.

  “Get him up. I want to see his face,” Pandral ordered. They once again descended on Will’s person, forcing him to kneel, a position he was only able to keep with the assistance of the Protector stood behind him, fingers gripping his throat, his head pulled back by his wet, matted hair. Lacking interest or spirit, Will let his eyes drift along the books and papers on the bookshelves behind Pandral’s desk. They were in his private study. Will felt a stab of hurt as some of the good times he had known in this room floated through his head. There was silence, save for the gentle clinking of chains as Will trembled, something he seemed unable to stop.

  “I do not understand why this could not have been done in his cell, my Lord,” Mortarlo said, an edge to his voice.

  “Because I do not have the time to make the trip,” Pandral snapped.

  There was another long silence.

  “Bram, is his mind open to you?” Pandral asked eventually.

  A black-robed figure stepped into Will’s limited line of sight and there was a sustained, forceful, inept attempt to push into his head.

  “No, my Lord, but I can feel that the shield is much weaker. The torture is having the desired effect,” Bram replied.

  “Will, I do not believe you have been formally introduced to Bram,” Pandral said. “He was one of Lord Daratus’s Enforcers. He came here after the North Tower was attacked. Imagine how surprised he was to find the Avatar of Water working for me as a Protector.”

  Will moved his head as far as the grip on his hair would allow in order to look at the Enforcer. Recognition stirred in his mind. So he had not made a mistake—his luck had simply run out, as he had always assumed it would.