Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  Conlan sighed. He looked weary, weighed down by his responsibilities. Mickle shuffled, and appeared to be mildly irritated that they were having a conversation he did not understand. Conlan seemed to notice the man for the first time and nodded his greeting.

  “Conlan, I have made you a ‘Whore’s Tongue’, for when Davlin returns,” Mickle said with smug satisfaction, holding up a short, leather-covered handle from which five or six long, thin, platted, worked-leather strips hung.

  “Is that a whip?” Will asked in English, feeling fear brush a hand down his back.

  “Yes,” Conlan replied flatly, taking a step forward to inspect the implement.

  “Why’s it call a ‘Whore’s Tongue’?” Will asked, the inane question springing directly from his growing unease.

  “Because there’s nothing sharper,” Conlan replied softly, still looking at the whip. “You have done a very thorough job, Mickle,” Conlan continued, switching back to Dwarfish.

  The older man stood a little straighter and puffed his chest out at the compliment. “I am sure you have better things to do than punish miscreants,” Mickle said, a calculating, vicious look in his eyes. “I can punish Davlin for you when he gets back.”

  “I think Mickle would enjoy that far too much,” Will warned in English.

  Ignoring Will completely, Conlan spoke to Mickle. “I appreciate your diligence to your duty, but when Davlin returns I will see to his punishment myself.” The snarl through the word ‘myself’ implied a very serious threat on Conlan’s part.

  What’s he going to do to Davlin? Should I try to advise against flogging him? Will doubted Conlan would listen, and even if he did, his choices were limited given the current situation.

  “As you wish,” Mickle replied. “I shall bring you the Whore’s Tongue when it is finished.”

  “Good.” Conlan said, turning to walk back to the fire.

  Do I go talk to him? Will tried to think of a solution that would not involve Conlan tearing flesh from Davlin.

  The rain started to fall, making the day even darker and filling the air with the mouldering smell of rotting wood and leaves. Paralysed by his indecision, Will merely watched Conlan as he added extra fuel to the fire, so it would survive the rain, then quietly inspected the work Arran and Moylan had done with their collection of swords and daggers. Will could not hear the comments Conlan made, but Moylan was left glowing with pride, and Arran had a big grin as they hurried to protect the newly cleaned steel from the rain. Rummaging in his bags, Conlan pulled out his heavy travelling cloak, swung it round his shoulders and pulled up the hood. They each had one—gifts from Nials and Urerla. It would keep him dry through the worst of the rain.

  As Conlan flicked the cloak, something heavy fell to ground at his feet. Will did not see what it was, but Conlan picked it up as he sat, pulling the dark green material around him.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Avatar of Water?” Mickle asked. “Or do you just enjoy standing in the rain?”

  “Just thinking,” Will murmured, making up his mind at last.

  Conlan’s face was hidden in shadow inside the hood of his cloak. Will sat next to him and used his energy to pull the water from his clothes and hair, wishing, not for the first time, that Amelia would think it necessary to stop the rain every time it fell on them. While he liked the feel of water falling on his face, he disliked wearing cold wet clothes as much as the next man.

  Conlan was twiddling the crown in his fingers, the firelight reflecting where use had made the matte surface shine. That must be what he dropped. It was not an ostentatious piece—it appeared to have been built for comfort more than effect. A simple band of metal, engraved with beautiful runes and symbols that slipped smoothly through his fingers. In his other hand he held a small red leather pouch. Will had seen it before—in fact, he could not remember a time when Conlan had not had it. However, he had not seen it in many years. When Will had first arrived in Mydren, before they could communicate effectively, he had always known when Conlan was especially upset, worried or frightened, because he would take out the pouch and hold or rub it. It always seemed to give him strength. He had never opened it, though, and Will had no idea what it contained. But the fact that he felt the need for this comfort now was a disturbing sign.

  “Have you tried it on yet?” Will asked in English, nodding at the crown.

  Conlan pulled his hood back and gave him a sheepish smile that made him look far younger than his twenty-eight years. “It just doesn’t feel right. I’m not a king yet, Will, nowhere near. If I wore it, I’d feel like I was giving myself something I haven’t earned.”

  Will smiled. “What if it doesn’t fit?”

  Conlan gave him an amused grin. “That will be a fun surprise for later.”

  Will paused, his voice low when he spoke again.

  “Are you really going to flog Davlin?”

  The humour fled Conlan’s face, and the emotionless mask fell effortlessly into place, his glowing green eyes becoming hard emeralds. He held Will’s gaze. “Are you going to tell me not to?”

  “No, I’m not,” Will said, registering the surprise that passed briefly through Conlan’s eyes. “You have to keep discipline, I get that. I had hoped your reign would see a departure from the mindless brutality that sums up the Lords of Mydren and the way they rule, but you know best whether these men are ready to experience a more enlightened leadership.”

  “And what if my desire to flay the skin from Davlin’s body has much more to do with my personal satisfaction than it does with keeping order?”

  “It doesn’t; you’re not that sort of man, Conlan,” Will insisted. “I know you’re angry—everyone knows you’re angry—but you would never give in to your base desire for revenge. Despite what he did, Davlin was acting in Eleanor’s, and by extension your, best interests.”

  “I appear to be a better man in your mind than I am in my own,” Conlan murmured.

  Will shrugged. “I trust you to balance what needs to be done with what’s right. Maybe it’s time for a little creative leadership.”

  They ate lunch in almost total silence. Conversations were brief and whispered, as if noise might trigger some catastrophe. As the afternoon wore on, the rain continued to drench them, and the tension rose. Morbid, fearful anticipation of what they all knew was coming gripped them. Will sat with Conlan, saying nothing, just being on hand if he was needed.

  Conlan’s green eyes, absorbed by the dancing fire’s flame, were lost in thought. The little red leather pouch, which he now wore round his neck, was never out of his hand. When Amelia and Freddie came to join them, they, too, respected Conlan’s silence: Freddie busied himself sharpening his swords, the rhythmic sound of the whetstone calming, and Amelia cuddled into Will, smiling as the rain stopped. It took Will a while to notice that the rain had stopped only in their clearing—that he could still hear it pounding down on the trees in the forest around them.

  The tension grew, fell in on itself, condensed, grew and sparked around them, raking their nerves like an invisible monster from a fairy tale.

  It was early evening when Will felt Eleanor’s energy string bump against him.

  Will, we’re back. Is Conlan there?

  Yes. Is everything okay?

  We’re both fine, but I’d really like to talk to Conlan before we return to camp, privately. Please can you bring him to me? Her voice was flat, controlled, but her energy was agitated.

  Stay there; we’ll join you.

  Will felt her grateful thanks as she pulled her energy free.

  “Conlan?” Will said, the English soft. Conlan’s eyes were distant; Will touched him on the shoulder and he was immediately, sharply alert. “Eleanor is back, Conlan. She’s at the edge of the camp and wants to talk to you privately.”

  Tucking the red leather pouch into his shirt, Conlan nodded and stood. “Let’s go.”

  Will reached out for Eleanor’s energy, brushing against it in greeting, and tracked it, awa
re of the eyes that followed them.

  Once they were out of Amelia’s sphere of influence the rain began again and Conlan pulled up his hood. They walked in silence, but Will could feel the occasional burst of Conlan’s apprehension. It must be the connection. He should ask Freddie and Amelia if they had felt the man’s emotions recently.

  When they arrived at the edge of camp, Davlin and Eleanor were waiting for them. Her bruised face and short hair were even more of a shock now she was soaking wet.

  “You’re okay?” Conlan asked, his tone flat and hard, his face hidden by his hood.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Eleanor replied, her voice just as emotionless.

  There was an extended, uncomfortable silence.

  “I’m here, Eleanor, at your request,” Conlan said slowly. “What do you want?”

  Taking a deep breath, Eleanor walked forward until she stood in front of him and could look into his face within the hood. Tears were falling, but in the rain it was easy to miss. She raised a hand to his face and he stepped back out of her reach. As her hand fell back to her side, she hung her head and dropped slowly to her knees. There was another long silence as Eleanor knelt, trembling at Conlan’s feet. When at last she spoke, her voice was raw and broken.

  “I’m sorry, Conlan. So very sorry. I’ve made such a mess of things.” She stopped to take a few deep breaths and wrapped her arms around herself. It looked like she was trying to stop her body from trembling. “Will’s right: I’m a clueless idiot. I had no idea what these men expected from you or from me. I gave no consideration to how much Davlin was risking to help me. And worst of all I gave no consideration to you and how much you love me. I never thought how hurting myself would impact you—I just wanted you to see me as a useful part of your life, someone who can help you in all aspects of what you’re going to be doing. I’m sorry. Please, Conlan, please forgive me.”

  There was another heavy, painful silence, broken only by the rain on the trees and Eleanor’s soft sobbing. Davlin, of course, had no idea what she had said, but looked on curiously.

  Finally Conlan stepped forward and pulled his hood back, pain and distress on his face. He dropped to his knees in front of Eleanor and, cupping the undamaged side of her face, lifted her head. He spoke in a gentle, loving voice Will had never heard him use before; it made him sound uncharacteristically vulnerable.

  “You once told me that when I hurt myself it hurt you. There’s nothing in this world more precious to me than you, Eleanor. Why would it not cross your mind that I wouldn’t feel the same? That by hurting yourself, you hurt me?”

  Crying harder, Eleanor threw her arms round his neck, pressing herself against him. “I’m sorry,” she wailed.

  Conlan returned her embrace, pulling her into his lap. “I know you are, and I forgive you, but I need you to face the mess you made and to accept the punishment I have to give,” Conlan said, his face hard and serious as she pulled back and stared at him in horror.

  “Please don’t hurt Davlin because of me,” she whispered.

  “I’ll make my own decision on this,” Conlan said firmly. “I need you to accept it. I know you see punishing Davlin as being unfair, but the man knew the consequences of his actions—better than you did, it would seem—and I can’t allow this challenge to my authority to pass.”

  Eleanor looked confused. “He wasn’t challenging your authority…”

  Conlan gave Davlin a glance. “Yes. In his own way, he was.”

  “But—” Eleanor started and Conlan laid a finger against her lips.

  “No, Eleanor, this has to happen. I need you to accept it.”

  He’s going to do this. He’s going to flog Davlin! A hard, ice-cold ball of dread dropped into Will’s stomach.

  Eleanor nodded slowly. Standing and taking a few steps away from Conlan, she looked at Davlin. “I am sorry, Davlin.”

  Davlin gave her gallant smile. “I knew the risk, my lady, and I took it willingly.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” Eleanor asked.

  “It is not my place, my lady.”

  “Oh, Davlin…” Eleanor murmured as fresh tears began to fall.

  Conlan watched this exchange with a shrewd look on his face, then stepped forward and took Eleanor’s hand. “It is time to go back,” he said, running a tone of apology through the Dwarfish. “You are very cold,” he added, taking his cloak off and wrapping it round her.

  Eleanor gave him a sad little smile, pulling it around herself and lifting it off the ground so its trailing material would not be caught as they walked.

  Will watched them tramp back towards the camp, then noticed Davlin reaching for two large, well-stuffed sacks. “Can I help you with that?” Will asked. Davlin handed him one of the sacks and Will swung it over his shoulder. It was heavy. “What is it?”

  “Dinner, courtesy of a Dwarf called Remic,” Davlin told him, following Conlan and Eleanor.

  It was dark and the camp was far too silent when they returned, eight pairs of eyes watching Conlan and Eleanor approach. Eleanor went to sit next to Amelia, who gave her a small smile of welcome. Conlan remained standing just inside the circle of light cast by the fire and waited for Davlin.

  “I believe Conlan wishes to have a word with me,” Davlin said as they got closer. “Could I give this to you?”

  Will nodded, taking Davlin’s sack, then depositing both sacks near Kip, who failed to notice, unable to drag his horrified gaze away from the scene unfolding before him. Will reached out an energy string to Freddie and then Amelia, so he could translate what was happening and hopefully reduce some of Amelia’s fear.

  Davlin approached Conlan and they regarded each other for a moment, both taking the measure of the man stood before them. Davlin pulled his shirt and jerkin over his head, dropping them to the ground, and lowered himself gracefully to his knees, still looking Conlan in the eyes. In the orange, undulating half-light of the fire, Will could see the scars of previous lashings across his lean back.

  He’s been whipped before, Amelia whispered in horror.

  Wonder what he did on that occasion, Freddie mused.

  I don’t think it takes much, Will said, thinking of some of the stories Conlan had told him.

  They dropped into silence as Davlin spoke, his voice strong. “I have wronged you, Conlan, and shamed myself. I accept your judgement and punishment, that it will cleanse my soul and purge my crime from your mind.”

  Conlan raised an eyebrow, but none of the Protectors seem surprised by this rather elegant little speech. It had the feel of a practiced litany, and Will wondered if it was a Protector ritual of some kind.

  “You have angered me greatly with your behaviour, Davlin,” Conlan said solemnly. “But given the circumstances I do not believe a flogging is enough of a punishment.”

  There were several gasps from around the fire, and Eleanor sat up stiffly, tears running down her face.

  Davlin dropped his head. “My life is yours, Conlan,” he said softly.

  Conlan nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “It has become painfully obvious to me that Eleanor cannot be trusted to look after herself—and since I cannot be with her every moment, I am giving this task to you. Your punishment, Davlin, is to ensure that no harm comes to Eleanor, ever. If I am not around, you will not let her out of your sight. You will protect her with your last breath. It is now your job to tell her the consequences of her actions; your job to ensure that she does not risk herself. Understand that should she so much as skin a knee under your watch, I will take my displeasure out on your flesh with all the strength in me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” Davlin said. There were sniggers from around the fire.

  “You are going to be a ‘mother hen’!” Elroy teased, and the sniggers turned to laughter as others joined in the taunting, and the threatening tension melted slowly away.

  Davlin ignored the noise behind him. His eyes—full of appreciation for the subtle honour he had received—never left Conlan. He had seen w
hat Eleanor meant to Conlan, knew that he had just been entrusted with the care of the most important person in his leader’s life. Will looked on in utter amazement. Wise Conlan, so wise! It was perfect. Eleanor got a bodyguard, Conlan got the reassurance of knowing Eleanor was as safe as he could make her, and while the other Protectors seemed to think this punishment was a huge humiliation, from the look on his face this had more than solidified Davlin’s loyalty. And all without spilling a single drop of blood, Will thought, as a slow smile spread across his face.

  Eleanor is forever getting herself hurt, Freddie pointed out. She gets knocked out more often than I change clothes. Davlin is in for a world of pain!

  Maybe not wanting to see Davlin punished will give Eleanor pause—Conlan is brilliant! Amelia said, and Will felt her pride. I told you it would be okay once he calmed down, she added smugly.

  “Get up,” Conlan said, offering Davlin a hand. “And I would appreciate you tackling this task fully clothed.”

  Davlin gave him a grin, reaching for his discarded clothes and pulling then back over his head before taking Conlan’s hand and standing.

  Freddie laughed. Eleanor’s face is a picture!

  Both Will and Amelia turned in her direction, making it rather obvious that they were talking about her in their heads, but Eleanor did not notice; she was staring at Conlan. Pride, frustration, anger, surprise, humiliation, respect and annoyance danced backwards and forwards across her face, as if she had no idea which response to choose. But when Conlan gave her a sly smile, love wiped away every other emotion, and she grinned back at him.

  He never intended to flog Davlin… did he? Freddie said, with surprised respect.

  No. I don’t think he did, Will agreed.

  Brilliant. He’s totally brilliant, Amelia enthused, and Will could only agree.

  Kip was delighted with the food Remic had sent, getting particularly enthusiastic about the fresh steaks he found at the bottom of one of the sacks, while the other Protectors where ecstatic when Eleanor handed out several bottles of brandy. They ate well—so well that Will’s joy at the steak, mash and thick gravy threatened to make him cry. Meat. Finally there was real meat, and lots of it. After all the worry and tension, a mood of celebration infused them all. There were songs and jokes—in very poor taste—and rather bad storytelling as well, with Elroy, Teris and Moylan all getting so drunk they had to stagger off to throw up, which Will considered a criminal waste of good beef.