It also appeared that, because the Source was able to find them more easily at night, the Source was rarely able to identify where they were, unless someone they were watching mentioned it outright. Fairly certain that he had at last some useful information for Conlan, something he could use to protect them all from the Source, Harper waited for their next monthly contact with anticipation.
Harper walked quickly down through the tower. This was the fourth time in the last ten days that he had made the descent into the dungeons to talk to one of the poor unfortunates whom Rudd’s group had brought in for questioning. In their last contact several weeks before, Conlan had told him that the information he now had was enough, that they could protect themselves. And since killing the Source was not a goal either of them believed was possible, Conlan insisted it was time for Harper to come home. Nodding, and saying all the right words, Harper now began to seriously consider his own plans. He would tell Pandral the truth and would discover the strength of their friendship, but before he took that risk, he wanted to destroy all the files on them the Lords had, if he could, not just the abridged versions that were currently sat in Pandral’s office. This was taking careful planning, and the last thing he needed was the distraction of having to question prisoners. So far the arrests had consisted of two men with mental issues; a woman who claimed she had once seen Eleanor on the streets of Olltis—a claim that was entirely possible but no use to anyone; and a man who claimed his brother had been a Protector at the North Tower and had been eaten by a dragon. After the dragon man, Harper had had some stern words to say to his men about the quality of the leads they brought him and how much he disliked them wasting his time. They had then stopped bringing people in for a time; this new one was the first in five days. The man they had arrested had apparently been going around villages and towns telling everyone how wonderful Avatars were and how they had nothing to fear from the new king. Harper had been called in because, unlike any of the other ‘witnesses’, this man had stopped talking the moment he got into the dungeon. Mortarlo had done his best to get him to speak; now something else was required.
The cold and damp, the noises and smells were all as unpleasant as he remembered. Steeling himself, Harper marched down the steps.
“The prisoner my Protectors brought in earlier today: I need to see him,” Harper snapped.
“Yes, this way, Sergeant Harper,” the old dungeon guard said, leading him down into the deep levels. Harper followed, shooing the man away once he had shown him the right cell and opened the door.
With his lantern raised high, Harper marched into the room—and came to a sudden stop. His breath caught in his chest and his heart turned to lava that dripped through his insides, burning as it went. Lying on the table before him was Duncan, Eleanor’s erstwhile assailant; the young man who had tried to stop his friends from raping her, taking a sword to the belly for his trouble. A man whose life Harper had saved. A man who, despite everything, Harper had grown to like. No, this is wrong!
Moving forward, Harper did a quick examination. Duncan would not live without some knowledgeable medical attention, which meant his chances of survival were minimal. As Harper made his assessment, Duncan groaned and turned his head. Brown eyes filled with agony stared up at him. Enough awareness still existed in the tortured man’s mind for surprise to flicker across his bruised face as he realised who it was that stood before him.
“Will,” he murmured, his voice a breath.
Harper looked over his shoulder fearfully and shook his head. Miraculously, Duncan seemed to understand and nodded solemnly.
“You are badly hurt, Duncan, and I cannot help you,” Harper whispered. “I am so sorry.”
“I made my choice,” Duncan murmured. He coughed, grimacing at the pain as blood leaked thickly from the corner of his mouth. “I knew this was a likely outcome.”
“I…” Harper did not know what to say. Unlike any of the people he had previously encountered in the dungeon, Duncan had done nothing to deserve the pain being inflicted upon him, and in his mind Harper could feel his illusions about the ends justifying the means starting to crumble.
“Please… please kill me,” Duncan said, brown eyes focused even as the pain rampaged through them. “I am ready. Please.”
Harper stared at him. No, Duncan, don’t ask me to do that. Harper began to back away from the table, until he realised his response was driven by cowardice. Not wanting Duncan’s blood on his hands, not wanting to have to explain to Pandral why he had done it. Coward! A man is hurting in front of you and you have the power to do something about that. Regardless of the consequences, you need to do what’s right! Harper nodded his head and saw the relief in Duncan’s eyes.
“Thank you,” Duncan whispered.
Knowing he had to do it quickly or he would not be able to do it at all, Harper pulled his small sharp knife and, as he had once seen Erit do for Kip, positioned it where Duncan’s spine met his skull. A small smile curled Duncan’s lips and he closed his eyes. As he did, Harper shoved his blade in and quickly out. Duncan jerked, splattering more blood across the floor and the table he was strapped to, and then lay still. Horrified, Harper stepped back. With trembling hands he wiped his knife carelessly on his breeches, shoved it back into his boot and fled up the steps and out of the dungeons.
Harper ran as if demons chased him. Perhaps they are, he thought with a touch of manic hysteria. By the time he had reached the main gate, his lungs were burning, but he did not stop. His body knew where it was going, even if his brain had not caught on to the fact. Nox opened the door to his pounding, surprised to find Harper there in the middle of the day.
“Sir?”
“I need to see Shyla, now.”
Nox opened his mouth. Harper could see the rejection in his eyes, but then Nox saw something in Harper’s face that made him pause.
“Very well, sir, go to your usual room. I will send Shyla to you shortly.”
In the bedroom, Harper paced up and down, taking huge panting breaths. Duncan! He had killed Duncan. The man had begged him to, had thanked him. Harper had liked Duncan, had felt a certain pride that he had saved the man’s life. The sword Duncan had given to him to celebrate this achievement was a prized possession, one that Harper had given to Conlan for safekeeping until Oakes was old enough to use it. Those eyes. Harper shuddered, his pacing brought up short—such agony in Duncan’s soft brown eyes that had been nearly eclipsed by his gratitude. I killed him, and he was grateful. Harper dropped to his knees, his arms wrapped around a body that refused to stop shaking. And that was where Shyla found him. There were hands stroking his head, fingers wiping the tears from his cheeks.
“Oh, my gentle man, what has happened?” Shyla asked, distress clear in her voice.
“He is dead,” Harper babbled. “Dead because of me. What have I done? Shyla, what have I done? I cannot do this anymore.”
Looking down at himself, he noticed the gore on his tunic and breeches. In sudden intense revulsion he struggled to tear the clothes from his body, moaning about wanting them off. He could not stand it; Duncan’s blood was splattered all over him. Naked, he crawled into the bed. Curling into a foetal ball, he tried to come to terms with the guilt, the remorse and his pounding fear. It was all too much.
Shyla wrapped her warm body against his back, pulling the blankets over them both. Moving her fingers slowly through his hair she made soft, sympathetic noises. Whimpering, Harper turned over, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her body against his, her steady heartbeat helping to calm him, the supple reassurance of her body his harbour in a storm.
“My name is Harper,” he whispered into her neck. He felt her gasp and, pulling back, he looked into her face. Love looked back at him. Leaning forward, he kissed her. He was not sure what his intentions had been with this action, but Shyla was kissing him back—passionate and giving. She moved delicate fingers over his body, teasing, knowing. He was beyond rational thought; his body’s physical need was too much
to resist. He did not want to fight it anymore. He wanted the mindless bliss of release and the pure escape that it offered him. Crushing her against him, lost to her scent, her warmth and her taste, memories of Duncan were forced from his mind. The end was fast in coming, but he still felt as if he was being blown into a thousand happy pieces. Awareness vanished and he drifted, letting himself heal in that still, joyful silence. Nestled in Shyla’s strong, safe embrace, sleep carried him gently away.
It was Shyla’s fingers stroking the nape of his neck that slowly brought reality back to him.
“Shh, Harper,” Shyla soothed. “I am here for you.”
Her shoulder, neck and hair were wet from his tears, he realised. Crying in my sleep! He held the poor woman in a grip that must have been uncomfortable for her. Disgusted with himself, Harper carefully let her go, rolling onto the bed beside her. What have I done? For the first time since he was a teenager he had engaged in sex for the gratification it offered rather than the love it confirmed. He had betrayed Amelia—and, in a way, Shyla—and his principles lay in tatters at his feet. Sitting up, dropping his legs over the edge of the bed, Harper lowered his head into his hands.
“I am sorry,” he said, his voice rough and creaky.
“I am not,” Shyla said softly. “If my body was able to give you one small moment of peace, then I give it to you willingly.”
He shuddered, the words not the kind forgiveness Shyla thought them to be, for he had indeed used her body, with no thought to the person, only taking what he needed. While she might not have known any better and might have been willing, he should not have been. He turned to her, saw the red marks on her neck from his teeth, the bruises on her arms and ribs where he had held her too tightly, and the shame tore at him. He turned away, hating himself, hurting for her. The urgent need to leave drove him up and off the bed.
“I am sorry,” he said again as he dressed quickly, his distress at the blood on his clothes evaporating in the harsh light of this new reality. I am an animal, controlled by savagery and lust, nothing more. He could not look at her, but he could feel her silent, hurt confusion from where she sat. Once dressed, he stood for a moment, making the decision that, once he left this room, he would not be coming back. He did not trust himself anymore.
“Are you well, Harper?” Shyla asked, seeing more in his body language than he had wanted to show.
“I am disgusted and ashamed of myself,” Harper told her, still not able to meet her eyes. “You have done nothing wrong, but I have behaved very badly, and I am sorry. You have come to mean a lot to me and I should have treated you better. You are lovely and wonderful and perfect, but I am using more than just your body, and it has to stop. I will not be coming back. Thank you, thank you for all you have given me. I am deeply grateful.”
“But…” Shyla began.
“Goodbye, Shyla,” he said quietly, cutting her off, hearing the finality in the tone, knowing she had heard it too, her soft bewildered sobs starting as he closed the bedroom door.
It was not long before sunset when he made it back to the Central Tower. Pandral was going to be furious. Trying to work out what he was going to say, Harper headed towards the dorm building to check on his men. He was halfway across the training ground when he realised that his men were stood waiting for him. A captain was talking to them. Confused, Harper walked a little faster.
“Is there a problem?” Harper asked, joining his men. They looked at each other, meaning-laden glances flying backwards and forwards. As Harper arrived they encircled him, but it was the captain who held his attention. It was his former captain, a smug look on his mean face, vicious anger in his eyes.
“Lord Ulchan sent me,” the captain snarled. “I came to introduce you to your men, Will, Avatar of Water.”
The captain’s words tore through Harper’s defences, ripped away the carefully constructed persona and the lies, and left nothing but what had really been there all along. I am Will. I have always been Will. Harper was wishful thinking, and now I am going to die as the man I would rather be. His defences melted and collapsed in on themselves, leaving just Will, who stood, terrified and alone, in the stronghold of his enemy.
Mortarlo
He never saw who wielded the cudgel that felled him. It could have been any one of the men stood around him. His men. Men he was starting to like, even trust. The heavy crack to the back of his skull dropped him into a vortex of pain, blurring everything. With his vision spinning, he collapsed, weak and vulnerable.
The beating that followed was unnecessary and brutal. They continued kicking and punching long after he had ceased all token resistance, dragging him to his feet just so they could jeer at him when he collapsed after each blow. His blood-filled, choking groans and sobs filled his ears. They were still pulping his body as his mind decided it could no longer cope, and consciousness abandoned him.
Fear woke Will with a jolt he regretted, the sharp movement sending pain radiating through him. Everything hurt. Not a square inch of flesh had been missed, and several places had received more than their fair share. But I’m still alive. As he moved a little, testing himself, he realised that they had not wanted him dead. Inflicting pain had been the intent, a result they had admirably achieved: several teeth were loose or missing and his right eye was swollen shut, but other than the aching throb of bruises and welts, the sting of abrasions and an earth-shattering headache, nothing seemed to be broken or permanently damaged.
He opened his left eye to discover that doing so was redundant. A black—so total that he wondered if he had gone blind—smothered his vision. It most likely meant that he was in one of the Central Tower’s dungeon cells. No light penetrated down here. Nothing to illuminate the despicable way people could treat each other. The stone floor was cold and wet; water ran in tiny rivulets down the wall he was lying against. At least I won’t die of thirst.
Will made a more assertive attempt to move, hissing as the throbbing ache in his shoulders unexpectedly turned into stabbing pain. His numb hands were pinned behind his back; heavy, cold, metal manacles bit into his wrists.
I’m the Avatar of Water, not the Hulk!
“Overkill,” Will murmured to the silent black. The rasping of his voice echoed back to him.
A large empty room then.
Why did they want him alive? Bait for Conlan? Information? To train more Enforcers on how to take down an Avatar? None of the possibilities seemed good. Fear of the unknown, fear at the prospect of more pain crawled around his gut. Yet compared to the dread of discovery he had suffered until now, it felt pure, with a strange freedom to it. This, at least, was fear he could acknowledge and face.
In damp, shivering, aching misery, he waited for what would come next. His mind wandered, going over the last few weeks, trying to work out where it had gone wrong. He had been so careful; the pain of betrayal burnt hot and heavy. He had shown true care and interest towards his men, and his interactions with them had never been a lie… but, he reflected, they were not to know this. They knew only what the Lords told them; they knew the Lords’ twisted version of history. And to them, Will represented a demon of unimaginable evil and trickery. That he had been able to hide as successfully as he had was merely proof of his power and cunning. For their entire lives, the people of Mydren had been manipulated to believe the lies fed to them; people did not question things if they knew what was good for them. But it still hurt that not a single one had walked away from beating a defenceless man who, several hours before, they would have called brother-in-arms.
Will counted time with his uncomfortable attempts to drink. It took effort and a mentally draining level of resistance to the pain to get himself into a position where he could reach the cold liquid running down the wall. It tasted of moss, decay and dirt—the taste of death. Ignoring his fanciful musings, Will applied himself to the business of staying alive and drank until he could no longer stand the pain, collapsing, panting and spent, but satisfied that thirst would not be an issue for a
while.
There were regular visitors. Enforcers, always in pairs, hoods hiding their faces from the light of the covered lantern they brought with them. Black robes and shadows made them appear like monsters from childhood nightmares. With extreme care—they had obviously been told not to kill him—the Enforcer’s tore at Will’s energy. Its pulsing was now far beyond his control. He was unable to stop his strings reaching for the water in the cell, taking what energy they could. While it was not growing at a fast enough rate for him to be able to use it, it was expanding just fast enough that the Enforcers had something to drag through their shields.
Will could only lie unresponsive at their feet, too tired now to offer resistance in any form, willing himself to tolerate the pain in stoic silence. He could almost forgive them this act, understood the fear he ignited in them. He knew if he could use his energy he would. What he found harder to forgive was the kicking, slapping and punching they subjected him to should he still be conscious once his energy was reduced to nothing more than a feeble flicker. There was no reason for this abuse other than their callous natures and utter disregard for the helpless life before them. Yet eventually, even this began to make sense: in a society ruled by violence and fear, the only true measure of success came when you were the one inflicting the pain. They were trained from childhood to find pleasure in another’s suffering, with floggings, torture and abuse. With this in mind, their actions became more understandable, and Will began to feel only pity towards them.
Will (Book 2) Page 71
