Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  “… take much more of this.”

  Mortarlo was talking. Trying to come to terms with the messages of pain his body was yelling at him, Will resisted the urge to move and lay still, listening. They must have left him for a while, because he felt more coherent than he had in a long time, and the aching throb of overstretched joints had transformed into a burning pain that drowned out even his bleeding ribs and broken wrist.

  “No, I am sure he cannot, but I require him alive and well when you are done here. Right now alive is uncertain, let alone well!” Pandral snapped.

  “He broke his own wrist, Lord Pandral, and I—” Mortarlo started.

  “I am not an idiot, Mortarlo,” Pandral said, his voice hard and cold. “He did not break his own wrist. This was not an ‘accident’. You broke his wrist. You just used his body’s responses to do it. You know perfectly well how tightly bound someone must be not to cause themselves damage during cral tarr and cutting torture. You do not make mistakes.”

  There was a long, nasty silence that caused goose bumps to erupt across Will’s body.

  “Bram, can you get into his head yet?” Pandral asked, the Dwarfish layered with irritation.

  Bram launched another attack on Will’s mind, which felt similar to how Will imagined it would feel to stick your head in a large church bell and have someone hit the sides repeatedly with a sledgehammer. He focused as much as he was able to on pushing against Bram’s efforts, as the dull throbbing in his skull woke up once more to an intense pulsing misery that, for once, figured quite low on his list of concerns. Beyond the fear of betraying those he loved, beyond the need to protect his secrets, Will really did not want this ham-fisted incompetent storming around inside his head. Bram had no skill, no idea of the true potential of his gift, although if he had, Will knew that he would have broken into his mind by now.

  Bram withdrew his energy. “His shield is very close to collapse. It will not be long now,” he reported with tired diligence. “Oh, and he is awake.”

  Will heard footsteps move towards him.

  “Abomination, look at me,” Mortarlo demanded.

  Reluctantly, Will opened eyes that felt glued shut. Out-of-focus figures stood around him. Had he been able to, he would have rubbed his eyes with his hands, but all he could currently do was blink rapidly, ignoring the discomfort of his still swollen right eye.

  Mortarlo’s face became clearer. He was livid. Will quailed before his rage. Is he angry with me?

  “Can you finish this without breaking any more of his bones or spilling too much of his blood?” Pandral asked.

  “Yes,” was the terse response, and Will realised where Mortarlo’s fury was directed.

  “Good. I do not want to risk further damage this close to success. Wash some of the stink off him. Take him off that ‘thing’ and give him tonight to recover a little. Tomorrow is soon enough to get what I want,” Pandral said.

  “As my Lord commands,” Mortarlo said with a flat, vicious stare.

  Pandral, a fuzzy outline in Will’s vision, turned to leave, followed by Bram; but he stopped at the door.

  “And Mortarlo, give him something to eat,” Pandral ordered, with tightly controlled anger, the Dwarfish carrying disgust.

  “I do not think that is necessary…” Mortarlo said stiffly.

  “I have no care for what you deem ‘necessary’. I know all about your twisted ‘tastes’, and I will not have your predilections indulged on my prisoner. What part of ‘I want him alive and well after this’ did you not understand?” Pandral asked with cold menace.

  “As my Lord commands,” Mortarlo repeated.

  As Pandral left the cell, Will wondered how the Lord found the courage to turn his back on the look the torturer was giving him.

  “I am sorry,” Will blurted out in a harsh whisper, not sure what he was sorry for, just knowing he was scared witless by the look of fury on Mortarlo’s face and terrified at the thought of how that anger might be expressed, considering what the torturer was capable of when calm and in control. Mortarlo glared at him and Will felt his heart jump to a pounding gallop.

  “Do as Lord Pandral orders,” the torturer snapped at the two Protectors stood by the door, before turning on his heel and marching purposefully out of the room.

  The taller of the Protectors looked at his shorter colleague and shrugged. With no regard for the fragile grasp Will had on his consciousness or his pathetic groans and cries of pain, they unstrapped him from the rack and dragged him, a barely connected collection of body parts, onto the floor.

  “Move over there,” the taller Protector ordered, pointing at the back of the cell by the wall. Will heard, but ignored the order. His body was twitching and shaking, he had no control over it, and the intense pain, like poison in his veins, made him think consciousness was not something he was going to have to deal with for much longer. The last thing he was capable of doing was moving of his own volition.

  There was a heavy kick to his side. Will whimpered at the sharp, hot pain, the stabbing feeling moving up and down his ribcage with each gasping breath, inflaming the lacerations that had been inflicted.

  “Not the big scary abomination now, is it?” the taller Protector sneered.

  “No, Haddy, you fool,” snapped the smaller Protector. “You heard Lord Pandral. ‘Alive and well’ does not include kicking its chest in.”

  “How is he going to know?” Haddy asked with another kick, harder than the last. Will heard ribs crack, and his consciousness moved down to a fine, narrow point.

  “Stop it, Haddy. Look at it—the state it is in, you could kill it, and I do not want a flogging.”

  Haddy huffed and walked to the cell door. He came back carrying a bucket, which he proceeded to dump over Will. Ice-cold water drenched him, getting in his nose and mouth, making him splutter and, Will lamented, waking his body out of its slow spiral towards blessed nothing.

  “Lord Pandral was right: this abomination stinks,” the short Protector said, throwing a second bucket of water over Will’s body.

  “The abomination is such a coward it pissed itself,” Haddy sniggered.

  “There is no more water—that will have to do,” the short Protector said. “What do we do about food?”

  There was a pause, followed by more sniggering, and Will felt something light slap against his face. He forced his eyes to focus and found a large piece of beef jerky lying on the wet floor in front of him.

  “There, washed and fed. Come on, Kubnic, let us go have a drink,” Haddy said.

  As the cell door slammed shut behind the Protectors, Will allowed himself to relax. He would have liked to have returned to the corner of the cell, but moving was just not something he could do. So he lay where they had dropped him. Letting the dark enclose him, his mind drifting, he could feel his body straining. His breaths were shallow and his blood trickled down his side to mix with the water and waste on the cold stone floor. A deathly chill was seeping into his bones. His body was too exhausted to shiver, and some little part of his brain giggled, After all that, you’re going to die of hypothermia! But he did not fight it. The end was here now, and he welcomed it. He had reached it on his own terms, with his secrets still held inside.

  He could hear Shyla’s stressed crying from across the cell and felt a moment of pity for her. I’m sorry, Shyla, I can’t protect you anymore. I hope one day you understand, Pandral, but rescue was never something I wanted. Reality collapsed further and the pain became less urgent. I don’t want this life anymore, this broken body. Will pushed himself into the cold unknown, and as he did he felt a ripping sensation as the shield around his mind fell. I gave up… he realised, a satisfied smile tugging at his swollen lips. Too late for them to do anything about it now. I love you, Amelia. This last thought of adoration and devotion filled him as his consciousness melted into insensibility.

  “Come on, come on. Will, please wake up.”

  It was Pandral’s voice, and it was filled with anxiety. Will could he
ar it as if someone were talking to him down a long steel tube, but he was incapable of responding.

  “I think we might have left it too long,” a male voice whispered. “Is he dead?”

  Hands touched Will’s body with gentle care.

  “No, he is still breathing,” Pandral said. “And I did not have a choice. Conlan Baydon is not an easy man to contact. It took a while to convince his agents I was speaking honestly.”

  “Can you carry him?” the man asked. “Do we need to bring the whore?”

  “Her name is Shyla, Rudd, and she is not a whore,” Pandral said in a warning tone. “And yes, she is coming with us.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Rudd agreed.

  Pain-soaked confusion filled Will’s mind. Wanting to drift back into nothing, he tried to ignore the voices around him, but a persistent familiar pain kept nagging him. It was almost lost under the fiery agony of his shattered wrist, but even with the limited focus at his disposal, Will could feel his scar-covered brand burning. Am I imagining it? He did not think so. They were coming for him, whether he wanted it or not.

  His naked body was wrapped in a blanket and he felt himself lifted into strong arms and carried. Each step bounced and jolted him as ferocious pain ate away at his awareness. Time slipped in and out, in and out. He was outside, fresh air hitting his lungs like a hammer. The person holding him sank to the ground, panting heavily, resting his weight. Will felt the warmth of his rescuer’s body leach into his muscle and bone.

  “I would have thought,” Pandral murmured between pants, “with the amount of weight Will seems to have lost… he would be less of a burden!”

  “Does Mortarlo have something against food?” Rudd asked.

  “Mortarlo thinks starvation adds a certain ‘aesthetic’ to the male body. The man is twisted. It has been a while since he fixated as much on a ‘subject’ as he did on Will. I have had a lot of problems controlling him.”

  “How awful for you,” Rudd murmured drily. There was a pause, and Will imagined the look Rudd had just received. Rudd coughed and added, “What are we doing up here, my Lord?”

  “Will is escaping,” Pandral said.

  “We are very high up; I did not know Avatars could fly,” Rudd said, impressed.

  “I am unsure of the details myself,” Pandral admitted. “All I know is that you are to take that lantern and wave it over your head a few times. And then we are to wait.”

  Will was drifting in and out of consciousness, and a strange but welcome warmth was filling him. He was certain he had felt Amelia’s energy string brush against him, but he had no strength to deal with it. Noise filled his ears, the whipping and snapping of cords that Will associated with balloon flight. His body was moved again, wrapped in more layers, lifted, manhandled. There was yelling, rapid movement, the sounds of arrows zipping past.

  “Hurry, get into the harness,” Freddie snapped, his Dwarfish tight.

  “I will cover you, my Lord,” Rudd said. “Go now, take Shyla.”

  “I do not believe that I can take so much weight,” Freddie said. Panic was seeping into his voice.

  “There is no choice,” Pandral snapped. “She is coming with us.”

  Will felt his harness sway and twist. There were more arrows, angry yelling and the crash of steel.

  “GO!” Pandral urged.

  They were rising, higher and higher, the wind punching Will’s ears and lungs, the feelings coming from far away. Then, blissfully, there was nothing.

  The Truth

  Am I dead?

  It felt like death. Or at least, it felt like what he had always assumed death would feel like. There was no pain. That was a clear indication of the finality of the situation; he knew how much damage had been inflicted on his body. There should be pain. But he had no sense of self, of his body; all he felt was the warm, comfortable glow of love surrounding him, supporting him.

  So this is the afterlife… I like it.

  The lack of pain was a definite bonus, and the opportunity to let go was welcome. There was nobody to protect or support, no responsibility, just the ability to drift in blissful, unconditional love. But the best part was the total absence of fear. The dark, clinging morass of terror that had sunk into his bones and poisoned his blood was gone. He was lighter, happier than he had been in years. Will felt a twinge of guilt for Amelia; she would be devastated that he was dead. The love around him intensified, pushing the guilt away. It would be okay—it would all be okay. He relaxed into the comforting glow, his consciousness slipping away.

  There was no sense of time passing in this place that he occupied; time was irrelevant. He had a feeling that his moments of awareness were coming more frequently before the peaceful oblivion claimed him again. If this is the afterlife, shouldn’t I be aware all the time? The confusion disrupted his calm until once again the love intensified, reassuring and gentle, like a mother’s kiss on her baby’s face. He was safe, comfortable, he could abdicate all responsibility. There was no fear. Everything was going to be fine. Will felt the tension drain from him. After the horrors he had witnessed, the pain he had suffered, he deserved this, deserved peace. The guilt at leaving Amelia resurfaced, and this time the black nothing claimed him before the love could wash it away.

  “Oh, Will…”

  He could hear the voice. He loved that voice. It was as if every fibre of his being was programmed to respond to that sound.

  Amelia.

  Confusion tore through his calm. If he was hearing Amelia, there were only two conclusions. Either Amelia was also dead and had come to join him… or he was still alive.

  If I respond, is the pain going to come back?

  His love for her fought with his fear of the pain. Amelia won. Will struggled with his addled mind, pushing himself towards the sound of her voice, towards the agony of reality. Eyes, gritty and strained, opened a crack. Orange light made them water. A blurry face leant over him.

  “Amelia?” His voice was rough, rasping, slurred around lips that would not move properly and something that was blocking his throat.

  “Why, Will? Why did you do it?”

  The peace disappeared for good, and Will dropped into guilty torment. The anguish in Amelia’s voice, the pain, the betrayal: she could only be talking about one thing. Shyla. He watched delicate fingers brush the tears that slid down his cheek. I can’t feel her hand. The thought brought confusion and childlike panic with it. Frightened, he tried to move his hand, to reach for her. Nothing. Full-blown terror stormed through his head. The emotion was too strong, and the darkness leapt up again, to drag him into the peaceful black once more.

  The next time awareness returned he was ready. Death had not claimed him, but life, it seemed, was also not accepting him. Afraid and wanting answers, Will forced his eyes to open. It was easier this time; reality was far less blurry. He was lying on his back under clean, warm blankets that smelt of fresh air and sunny days. Slowly the cart came into focus. He was lying in the large double bed, his feet facing the door. Despite the failure of his plan that the cart represented, he could not deny the potent sense of relief and joy that warmed him. Alive and home—never expected either. The cart was the ordered comfort he remembered, the space lit with the soft golden glow of several lanterns.

  “Will?”

  Another voice he recognised. Conlan. Automatically trying to flex his body, he was surprised when it complied. He wiggled his toes, feeling the heavy weight of a splint on his right arm, the itch of bandages, the pull of stitches, and he wondered, distractedly, where the pain was.

  “Will?” Conlan said again.

  Moving slowly and carefully, hoping to keep the agony—which he knew must be coming—away for just a little while longer, Will turned his head to the left. His eyes found Conlan’s face. His friend sat cross-legged on the bed next to him, and Eleanor was cradled in his lap. She appeared to be asleep. Green eyes, broadcasting worry, watched him from an exhausted face.

  “Hi….” Will whispered, the effort
making him cough weakly. Leaning across Eleanor, Conlan lifted Will’s head and held a cup of water to his lips.

  “As you started regaining consciousness, you began choking on the reed that Eleanor had put down your throat as a tube so that we could give you fluids. We had to take it out, so you need to drink whenever you’re conscious,” he said, giving Will small, careful sips before placing the mug back on the edge of the bed.

  “Eleanor put a tube down my throat? I never taught her how to do that…”

  Conlan smiled. “No, she said as much, but we were desperate. She did the best she could.”

  Will nodded, wondering just how close to death he had come. “Where’s Amelia?”

  “Getting some sleep. Eleanor had to sedate her. I promised to watch over you until she came back,” Conlan said.

  “You sedated me, too?” Will asked, realising his body still felt numb in places. Is that why there’s no pain? I don’t have anything that works this well…

  Conlan shook his head. “No. Eleanor’s in there with you, stopping the pain.”

  “Eleanor forced herself into my mind?” Will asked, angry. There was too much he did not want known, ever. You gave up, lost your shield; your mind is open to whoever wants to look! He tried to find her, got brief flashes of her presence, but she was in deep, too deep to reach; it would require a level of concentration he currently did not possess. His inability to protect his thoughts increased his anger. How dare she enter his head? A sickening thought occurred to him.