Eleanor (55 page)

Will sighed. “Are you trying to make Eleanor hate you?”

“It would be safer for her if she did.”
 

“You don’t know her very well, do you? Eleanor isn’t the type to hate. You need to understand, even if you don’t love her back, that her love for you has consequences. Causing that earthquake? She did that for you. She saw your pain and reacted, and I don’t think she even had any control over it. She needs your support and understanding, not your condemnation. What she did hasn’t hit her yet, but when it does I don’t think it’s going to be pretty.”
 

Silence.
 

He doesn’t love me.
The thought ricocheted around her head, leaving a blinding agony every time it struck. Eleanor realised she was holding her breath and so she slowly let it out, trying to make her breathing sound like the slow, regular imitation of sleep.

“This is not a conversation I want to have ever again.”
 

“You’re a stubborn fool, Conlan,” Will muttered.

Conlan sighed. “So people keep telling me.”

Eleanor remembered Gregor’s words; he had called Conlan a stubborn fool, too. Eleanor wondered if Gregor had realised she loved Conlan and had said something – it would certainly explain Conlan’s reluctance to translate. Eleanor heard the clink of bottles.

“Freddie stole these on one of his escapes. The man can see in the dark, which makes him useful for night-time recognisance,” Will said. Eleanor gasped – Freddie had been creeping around Jarrick’s compound at night, but why? Why had he and Will not told her?

“Did he find out anything interesting?” Conlan asked, sounding relieved to be changing the subject.

“He was looking for evidence that Jarrick was responsible for attacking us,” Will said.

“That wasn’t Jarrick,” Conlan said softly. “I’ve had far too much time to think recently. Hiding, attacking from the bushes – that’s not Jarrick. No, we have a new, unknown enemy.” Eleanor heard the squeak of corks being pulled from bottles.

“So what do we do now?” Will asked.

“I think we’re safe here, so we should stay for a while and figure out where the sword is, give Amelia a little more time to recover,” Conlan said.

“If we’re going to stay we should build a shelter. Amelia says that autumn storms are on their way,” Will said. There was more silence. When Will spoke again his voice was full of such gentle concern that Eleanor thought he was talking to Amelia. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m tired, Will,” Conlan whispered. “I just want it to stop for a while.”
 

“I have a solution for that problem; here, have a bottle.” Eleanor could hear the smile in Will’s voice. “Let’s drink to Rand, the finest horse that ever lived.” The bottles were gently clinked together again.

“To Rand,” Conlan said solemnly, the fresh, raw grief seeping through his words. They drank in silence for a while. When conversation started again, they talked about Rand, reminding each other of all the times he had raced them away from danger and chuckling at some of their more outrageous exploits.
 

Eleanor woke to brilliant sunlight. It was long past dawn. Strange, violent dreams made her feel tired and crabby. Sitting up, she stretched and yawned. Conlan was lying on his back, one arm across his face hiding his eyes and the other arm cuddling the empty bottle. Will lay on his side snoring – they looked rather comical. Amelia and Freddie were sat a little distance away, eating breakfast. They both gave her amused grins. Moving quietly, Eleanor walked over to them.
 

“Guess they drank a little too much last night.”
 

Amelia giggled. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d joined them.”

“No, I was just tired.”
 

Amelia nodded and Eleanor was glad to see that the horror and fear from yesterday seemed to have faded a little from her eyes.

“So do we wake them up?” Freddie asked.
 

“Do we need to? They look so peaceful,” Amelia remonstrated slightly, regarding Will’s sleeping form lovingly.
 

Not able to bring herself to look at Conlan, Eleanor nodded. “Let them sleep.”
 

They moved away from the two slumbering men so that their voices would not disturb them, but close enough to protect them from danger, if necessary. At Amelia’s instigation she and Freddie began to practise her shielding. Amelia would manipulate the air in front of Eleanor into a thick shield and Freddie would bombard it with his energy. The colours were beautiful. Amelia got her to pace up and down slowly as she practised moving the shield with her and Freddie practised hitting a moving target. Amelia was getting very good at getting her shield to keep pace, while Freddie was mostly just setting fire to the shrubbery. It was not a game and required total concentration from Freddie and Amelia, but as the ‘target’ Eleanor had nothing to do, and time to think was not something she wanted. Amelia moved on from practising her shielding to practising stopping a knife thrown at a target. Eleanor had told her about the Elf children doing it and Amelia had been trying for months, with some success.
 

It was almost midday before Will finally stirred, moaning softly as he struggled to sit up and shading his eyes from the sun. Amelia took him a mug of water.
 

“Was it a good year?” she asked innocently, eyeing the empty bottle. Will smirked at her and rubbed absently at his temple as he drank, wincing slightly. Eleanor watched the care and love they showed each other and it ripped at the pieces of her heart. She had to leave or she was going to cry.
I need an excuse.
Her desperate mind remembered something Conlan had told her about a plant that had the ability to alleviate headaches and other minor aches and pains, although its name escaped her. However, she could see an image of it clearly in her head – small purple flowers and roots filled with something that worked like aspirin. Leaving before Conlan awoke, Eleanor moved off into the woods to look for the plant. They were much further south than she had been before, but most of the other plants and animals had been the same, so maybe the small flower was here somewhere. The wood was quiet, with only the occasional birdcall to disrupt the peace. Eleanor was enjoying the walk as she moved carefully, studying the ground and scanning it for the flower she needed.
Lepdrac
, she thought,
he had called it
lepdrac
.
The memory of Conlan’s animated face as he had taught her about his world jumped into her mind. He had seemed happy, and she wanted to go back to that time. He did care, she was sure of it, and as she concentrated on this belief, letting it fill her mind, she felt her anger start to fade.
 

She eventually found a small crop of the purple flowers and got down on her hands and knees to dig out the roots. She was so intent on her work that she failed to hear the approaching footsteps until the figure stood in front of her, blocking the sun. She smelt smoke, blood, alcohol and unkempt bodies. Fear raced through her as she stood, the plants she had collected dropping from trembling fingers.

Duncan

The man standing in front of her was tall and thin, almost gaunt. He had a pleasant smile on a face that could have done with a wash and a shave. Hard, black eyes spoke of sly intelligence as his gaze slowly undressed her. Rusty sword drawn, he raised the tip to sit snuggly against her breast bone as she stood. His clothing was an eclectic mix of rough-sewn peasant garb with pieces of ill-fitting richer clothing here and there.
 

“Well, you are a wonderful sight this fine afternoon. Did you escape Nethrus, too? We are going to have some fun with you,” he said, grinning rakishly at her. At the mention of Nethrus, images of bodies began flicking through Eleanor’s mind like an out of control slide projector, and with a sickening twist of her stomach she realised where this man had got his mismatched outfit from – he had stolen clothing from the dead. Her fear became terror. There were five, equally strangely dressed, half-starved wretches behind him, who sniggered and grinned, one of them licking his cracked lips as he stared at her. The man threatening her pulled his sword back and used the point to force her chin up. Eleanor took a step back, coming up against a tree trunk.

“Nowhere to run, darling, but do not worry, we will be gentle,” the rogue said, closing the gap between them. He forced his mouth against hers and pushed his tongue inside while hands roamed across her body. Eleanor froze. Tasting alcohol and corruption on his breath, she wanted to fight back, wanted to stop him, but her mind refused to assist. All she could see were the faces of those she had killed. In desperation she bit down hard on his tongue, her mouth filling with blood as the man howled and wrenched himself free. He glared at Eleanor for a moment before punching her violently to the ground, pain pulsing flashing lights behind her eyes and leaving her momentarily blinded.

“Leave her alone, Nic, this is not right,” a trembling voice spoke up.

As Eleanor’s vision cleared, she watched the other four men step away from the one who appeared to have spoken, physically distancing themselves from his comment.

Her attacker looked over his shoulder. “You pathetic excuse for a man,” he snarled.

Hoping to take advantage of the distraction, Eleanor attempted to stand, but Nic turned back to her and delivered a hefty kick to her ribs.
 

“Stay there, girl, I will deal with you in a moment,” Nic snapped. Eleanor curled into the sharp pain that spread through her left side, gasping for breath.

He turned back to the dissident member of his group. “You came to me and asked me to take you in, so you do as I say,” Nic said, a dangerously threatening growl piercing through the Dwarfish.

“Thieves, that is what you said we were. I had no issue with that, but this is wrong. She is little more than a child, and I will not be part of this.”
 

Without warning, Nic sprang forward, punching the man in the face with his sword hilt. He staggered back and Nic stabbed him forcefully in the gut with his sword. As he pulled the weapon free, the man dropped to his knees, eyes wide, and then toppled over, making a few agonised sobs before he lay silent and still. A cold, vicious smile on his face, Nic turned back to look at Eleanor.

“I think I prefer to play rough,” he growled, spitting blood at her.
 

His weight dropped on top of her and she struggled violently. He struck her across the face again and Eleanor felt his knees digging painfully into her thighs as he forced her legs apart. She twisted her body to the side, pushing the man off balance. Getting a leg free she drove it up between his legs, once, twice, and at the third blow the man let her go, rolling onto his back, gasping and clutching at himself. Eleanor scrambled away, trying to get to her feet. She was knocked back down by one of the other men who had moved behind her. Nic pulled himself up.
 

“You are going to regret that,” he hissed.

“Leave me alone or I will kill you,” Eleanor replied as calmly as she could manage. The men laughed. Eleanor felt her pain and fear evaporate as anger pounded through her brain and she welcomed it, its fiery heat removing the faces of those she had killed. The anger also brought a strange calm as she stared at the men, thinking of all the ways she could reduce them to gibbering wrecks.
I want to kill them; I want to cause as much damage as possible.
Shocked by her own bloodlust, Eleanor took a few deep breaths and felt the anger turning to rage, her body shaking as she tried to calm it down. She was allowed back to her feet as Nic moved towards her menacingly, his weapon pointing at her eyes. Feeling her control snap and recognising an opening, Eleanor grabbed his sword hand, snapping his wrist back with such force she heard the bones break. Then stepping forward she slammed her elbow up into his chin and cut off his agonised scream. She wrenched the sword from his hand, stepped round him and gave him a vicious side-kick to the knee, smiling as she heard bones crack there, too. He collapsed in a whimpering, sobbing heap.
 

“I think I prefer it rough, too,” she growled at him as she thrust the blade between his ribs, through his heart and yanked it swiftly free. She weighted the sword in her hand; it was well made and would once have been a fine weapon. She swung it in lazy figures of eight around her body. Its two-handed grip was smooth and bound in supple red leather; it was worn, but fitted her fingers comfortably. It was well-balanced and offered a gentle flex down its length. The blade, however, had been neglected through sheer laziness; its once carefully honed edge was rough, pitted and rusty.
No slashing then
,
just thrusting stabs.
This suited her perfectly. The other men were looking at her apprehensively. One behind her drew his sword carefully, considering his options, while the others just seemed content to watch.
Idiots,
you’d have more of a chance if you came at me together.
He raised his sword in a clumsy overhead attack.
Why is he moving so slowly?
Eleanor twisted lightly, the sword dropping down behind her back, the stranger falling forward. Spinning, she repositioned the blade as she moved, bringing the point down hard into the back of his neck and pushing through the spine. The weight of his dead body falling released the sword’s red glistening length and Eleanor turned round to face the remaining men. Finally catching on that they should stick together, the two on the right rushed her. One aimed at her skull, the other her stomach. She deflected the blade inches from her abdomen and dropped low as the other sword whistled over her head. From this angle she was able to sweep one man’s legs out from under him, kicking him in the face as he met the ground and breaking his nose. As she rose she jammed her sword’s point into the other man’s groin, watching his face distort into a soundless scream and not feeling the slightest flicker of remorse. As he doubled over she used her foot on his shoulder to pull the blade free with a slurping, squishy sound. He collapsed, twitching weakly, blood quickly pooling between his legs, and then ceased moving altogether.
Must have hit an artery
. The thought was detached, her observations clinical, and the only emotion she felt was her pulsing rage. She thrust her sword, without looking, through the neck of the man still clutching his broken nose. He let loose a gurgling gasp that dropped to a sort of whimpering, then silence. Stepping over his dead body she faced the last man standing. She casually flicked the sword down its length, creating a fine spray of blood on the forest detritus at her feet. As she was not intending to use the blade to slash, it would make no improvement to the weapon’s efficiency, but she was well aware of the impact the cold, precise movement would have on her final enemy. His eyes grew wide in his already frightened face, and shrieking he dropped his weapon and ran. Eleanor briefly contemplated throwing her sword through his back, but Conlan’s mantra – ‘Never willingly let go of your weapon’ – ran though her head. These six might not be the only refugees from Nethrus roaming the woods. So she watched him run.