The Wounded Guardian (14 page)

Martil had to admit he was pleased to be identified like that, because the three militiamen visibly relaxed.

‘Well, that makes a difference,’ the sergeant said warmly. ‘Getting rid of scum like that is a service to society.’

‘Don’t talk about my da that way, you militia shit-shoveller!’ Karia yelled, and Martil wondered if she had some sort of disease that made her say the worst possible thing at the worst possible moment.

‘She doesn’t know what that really means,’ Martil added hastily.

‘Aye, she’d be one of Edil’s pups,’ the sergeant said grimly. ‘What are you doing with her?’

‘Taking her to her uncle Danir,’ Martil shrugged, still feeling angry.

‘Uncle Danir? You can’t mean Danir the Destroyer?’ the moustached constable gasped.

Martil glared at him. ‘I don’t know how many uncle Danirs she has. I’ve never met the man.’

‘Village of Thest, across the border in Tetril?’

‘That’s it,’ Martil agreed, his heart sinking.

‘He owns the entire village. Doesn’t do anything to the Tetrans, just sneaks across the border at night to rob us,’ the sergeant growled. ‘You can’t take her there, they’ll kill you!’

‘He’ll find I’m a hard man to kill,’ Martil said grimly. However, dropping the girl off with some farmer was one thing—even if the man had six sons, he would still be confident of walking away in one piece. But taking her to a bandit chieftain…he might as well cut his own throat now. What had that bloody priest seen? Did he think Martil would be forced to keep her rather than commit suicide by telling a bandit he had killed his brother and nephews?

‘Don’t be a fool! You might have taken care of Edil and his pups but Danir has a whole village behind him. There’ll be thirty or forty bandits waiting for you. Look, why don’t you leave the girl with us? There’s a few families I know of that would be happy to take in a young child. They’ll soon knock the nonsense out of her and she’ll have a useful life. Better than anything she’ll get with Danir. And you’ll be alive into the bargain.’

Martil felt the temptation. He could see how Edil’s son had tricked him. They had not cared for Karia at all—she had just been a way for them to get their final revenge. The way they had prepared her, told her about Uncle Danir—did she even know that she was being sent to live with a bandit chieftain? Or did she think that it would be to a nice farm?

He could be smart and hand her over to the militia, be rid of her, and ride on. His imagined palace by the sea flashed across his mind immediately. But something stopped him from handing her over. Perhaps it was the conversation he had had with Nott, when the priest kept telling him his only path to life led to Thest and that to avoid Thest was to doom himself. Perhaps it was the oaths he had sworn. Perhaps it was even the memory of the look on Karia’s face the previous night, when he had promised not to leave her alone in the room.

Whatever, his instinct was not to give her up and as his instincts had kept him alive through countless battles, he was not going to argue with them. He would worry about this Danir later; just deal with the problem in front of him first. But he could not express all that to some militiaman.

‘No,’ Martil said simply.

‘Don’t make us take her,’ the sergeant warned. ‘She’s still the spawn of a criminal. And then there’s the little matter of her calling us “shit-shovellers”. That’s enough for a week in the cells.’

‘Don’t make me stop you,’ Martil said coldly, locking eyes with the sergeant. The early morning, the lack of sleep, the argument with Karia and now the knowledge of Uncle Danir all coalesced into a simmering ball of rage, just behind his eyes. Some of that must have shown, because the sergeant quickly backed down.

‘Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you. And as you lie gasping your last in some filthy Tetran village, remember we won’t be there to say “I told you so”.’

Martil led Karia past the trio and absently offered her a chunk of cheese bread.

‘Sarge, why are we letting him walk away?’ the constable with the thin moustache asked.

The sergeant turned his world-weary eyes on the two constables.

‘Boys, when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have, you’ll know when to pick your fights. We don’t get paid enough to deal with the likes of him.’

Earl Byrez knew he only had a little time. He had managed to make it back to his castle without being stopped, or killed. But surely that could not last. King Markuz would never tolerate a challenge to his authority. Equally, there was no way the Earl was going to convert to Zorva. Byrez had followed his King to war with enthusiasm, to inglorious defeat and humiliation without question. But this was too much.

‘What is it, my Lord?’ his parish priest and friend, Father Saltek, answered his summons.

‘The King is about to destroy this country forever,’ Byrez told him heavily. ‘We are to convert to worship of Zorva. The King had a Fearpriest at the meeting I was ordered to attend.’

‘Dear Aroaril save us!’ Saltek moaned.

‘There is no time for that,’ Byrez snapped. ‘We are going to see a bloodbath that will make the Ralloran Wars look like a child’s game. And it will start here. The King is mad and nobody wants to stop him. They would rather go along and be dragged down into a pit of evil than stand up for what is right. You must go into hiding. The Fearpriests’ first act will be to stamp out any priests they can find. The light of
Aroaril must not go out in Berellia. Some good people will remain. We have to hope that, one day, we can have a normal country again.’

‘But, my Lord, what of you, what of my duties here?’

‘You are dismissed from here. Your only duty now is to Aroaril. Take this money and go into hiding, my friend—before they come for us both.’

Father Saltek embraced the Earl, who was too surprised to stop him.

‘I will see you again, my Lord,’ he said thickly.

Byrez waved him away. He had other worries. He could save Father Saltek, preserve him for Aroaril, but he doubted he could save himself, or his family. It was only a matter of time before Cezar came calling in the night.

Martil was hoping to relax a little back in their room but while Karia was initially quiet, once the cheese bread had been eaten she had no intention of letting him lie down—and certainly no intention of giving him the time and space to think about his next move.

‘I’m bored, what can we do?’ she demanded, jumping up and down beside him.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ he complained.

‘Come on! Think of something!’ she shouted into his ear. With a groan, Martil decided to saddle Tomon and go for a ride around the city. Danir could wait. He would think about it later. After all, there was still plenty of time. The border was days away. The inn packed them some food, as they would not be eating lunch in the dining room. Tomon had been fed, his coat brushed and his saddle cleaned, while Karia smelt clean, rather than just smelt, so it was a much more pleasant ride. However, Martil could not
help but notice the mood of the town seemed different today. Yesterday, people had bustled around, moving as if they had a purpose. Today, they huddled in small groups at corners, looking around before moving on. The militia was out in force, extra men and patrols moving down the streets. Martil made sure Karia had her mouth full of something each time they passed, so she could not call out and draw their attention. He could not put his finger on the change but he knew what it reminded him of. A town near a battlefield, hearing its side had lost the day before, and not knowing what the future could bring. He told himself that was nonsense. Nothing threatened the Norstalines. But he could not shake the feeling.

He made a few other purchases, buying Karia a couple of extra dolls to play with, as well as a wooden spinning top, a small leather ball and a better hairbrush. He had also picked up a couple of storybooks, which he was dreading having to read. He knew what would be inside them. Soppy, ridiculous sagas, full of rubbish about noble princes and beautiful princesses, quests, elves and dragons. But he was pleased with the instant success these purchases brought; Karia was particularly taken with one of the dolls and cuddled her close.

She was enjoying herself immensely. There was food whenever she wanted it and Martil was willing to answer all her questions, as well as take her to see the animals and the markets. Then there were the toys. She could not wait to play with them.

By the time they had made all their purchases, and Karia had eaten her packed lunch—and all the interesting bits from Martil’s—it was almost noon, so Martil steered Tomon to Menner’s shop.

The shop was crowded this time, and there was obviously no point in trying to squeeze inside, so they walked down the street, looking at the other shops. Only one caught his eye. Its window was boarded over, with the words ‘Fernal, wizard of the Fourth Circle, by appointment only. No free magic’ painted in large letters. A few crude stars had also been added, for effect, while the words ‘no free magic’ had been underlined.

Karia was fascinated when she heard it was a wizard’s shop. ‘Can we look inside? Can we pleeease?’ she begged.

‘Another time,’ Martil said absently. He disliked all wizards. They had this gift, and what did they do with it? Charge exorbitant amounts of money and prance around telling everyone how important they were.

Back at Menner’s he was delighted to find the shop had emptied, and doubly delighted to discover the clothes were ready—but not as delighted as Karia, who enjoyed trying everything on. Except for the shoes. She complained they made her feet itch, and it took all of Menner’s persuasion, as well as Martil’s determination, to make her keep them on. Even then, she went into a sulk that was broken only by some almond-honey sweets and the last—and best—dress.

Martil found himself casting about for something to say, as he and Menner waited for Karia to stop admiring herself in the dress.

‘What’s the news today?’ Martil could see three people huddled together outside the shop, talking animatedly, and guessed that the dressmaker knew all about the latest gossip.

Menner could not resist. ‘Terrible news, sir. They say the Dragon Sword has been stolen from the
palace. The word is the army has been called out to search for it, and the Royal Guard has been dismissed because it failed to stop the thief,’ he said, hardly able to keep the smile from his face at the excitement of it all.

‘The Dragon Sword? But how could it be stolen?’ Martil could not imagine how the greatest treasure in the kingdom could have been left vulnerable to theft.

‘That is the question we have all been asking. Since we’ve had the Dragon Sword, we’ve enjoyed nothing but peace, while war has racked our neighbours. Without it, who knows what will happen to our poor country?’

Martil was tempted to point out that the armies of their neighbouring countries were either small or broken, while the Norstaline army was strong and numerous. But he kept quiet.

‘The militia said orders from the palace are for the army to restore order. Squadrons of cavalry have been seen on the western road. Maybe the thieves came this way. Imagine that! And calling in the army! Duke Gello must be delighted!’

‘So, about this Duke Gello,’ Martil began, but then the bell on the front door rang and two customers walked in.

Menner’s mouth shut with a snap and he bowed to Martil, then hurried over to the new customers before he was overheard talking about Gello. He planned to keep his entrails where they belonged, thank you very much.

Martil wondered about the news, then shrugged. It was the least of his problems.

Karia decided to wear the pink dress, with white and purple flowers stitched across the shoulders. The
rest went into Martil’s saddlebags, which were now full with clothes and toys, although somewhat lighter in food.

They stopped for a late lunch for Martil, a second for Karia, in a park where other townsfolk were enjoying the warm sun. It proved to be a revelation for them both. They had to try out all the toys, and Martil tried to teach her how to throw and catch. Despite himself, he could not help but enjoy that, and to see her laughing with delight when she was able to catch, or when he pretended to drop the ball, was worth it. For once he was able to listen to a child’s laughter without thinking of Bellic. It was a good feeling. What was even better was that he didn’t feel the need for a drink. He hadn’t drunk anything since the whisky at Father Nott’s place. Perhaps because she never gave him a moment’s peace. It was infuriating but he did not have the time to think about Bellic, or any of the other memories that haunted him. By himself, he had too much time to dwell on those thoughts—with her, his mind was on other things.

Time sped by, and it was getting late when he finally called a halt. They would have a brisk ride to make it to the next village before dark. He was almost afraid to stop the games, afraid that if he did, Karia would go back to screaming at him, but she was seemingly happy to go.

As for Karia, her legs felt tired and she wanted to just sit on the horse and take it easy. She had not run around like that for a long time and she wanted a rest and a chance to cuddle her dolls. This was the life, she decided. Not even Father Nott had played with her like that.

‘You must kill Martil quickly!’

Cezar reflected that he may be faceless, but Onzalez knew how to voice a threat effectively. Markuz usually ranted and raved but Onzalez favoured a chilling coldness that hinted at a bubbling fury beneath.

‘I am after him now, Brother,’ Cezar replied coolly. Cezar knew his own value. He would not be killed.

‘There has been some…reaction from the nobles here to the King’s plans. You will be needed back here sooner than we thought. Kill him and do it quickly. Time is against us.’

Martil rode out of Wollin without a backward glance. The town might be seething with news of the Dragon Sword but he could not see how it was going to affect him. After their time in the park, he was not so worried about travelling with Karia, either. He felt he had learned a real lesson back in the town, both how to deal with her and how to deal with his anger. It was a good feeling.

The main trade road east to Tetril was large and well travelled. Martil quickly overtook a few wagons, as well as a small flock of sheep that wandered from one side of the road to the other, but once past them, was able to relax a little. He tried to keep up a good pace, partly so they reached a village before nightfall but also to make up for the time lost when Karia needed to stop for the toilet, or when he had to burrow around in his bags to get her a drink or something to eat, or when her doll needed to go to the toilet. Martil had tried to draw the line at that one, but after much screaming and shouting, Dolly went behind the bushes. Dolly had nearly been thrown into the bushes—the only thing that stopped
Martil from doing that was the sure knowledge there would be even more crying and screaming.

Karia had been put out when Martil had been reluctant to play her game with Dolly. After all, he had been the one who had come up with Mr Brush. So she kept pestering him until he at least pretended to be the voice of Tomon, which she thought hilarious.

By now, Martil was looking around for some distraction; a dust cloud in the distance behind them sparked his interest. It turned out to be five cavalrymen, riding in rough formation, and moving just short of a gallop. Martil watched them with a critical eye. No cavalry commander in his division would dare exhaust their horses like that. You never knew when you would really need your horse’s energy. Cavalry on tired horses just made inviting targets. As they came closer, he kept twisting around in the saddle to watch them. They wore short mail shirts, leather breeches and tall boots. From the design on a fluttering banner one of the men held, it seemed they were Norstaline Light Horse. Ideal for scouting, for chasing a broken enemy and, of course, for slaughtering infantry. He wondered what they were doing here.

Martil made sure Tomon was right over on the side of the road, so they could pass him easily. But then the cavalry swooped around him, bringing their horses to a stop in a spray of dirt and sweat.

‘Halt! Who are you?’ Their leader, a thin man with bulging eyes and a scatter of red spots across his face, called out in a voice that was meant to sound commanding. Martil saw he had a single crown on his tunic sleeve, signifying he was a Second Lieutenant, a junior officer. Martil had seen the type. Once they’d joined up and been given a small command they thought they were Aroaril’s gift to the army.

‘I am War Captain Martil of the King’s First Own Ralloran regiment. And who are you?’ Martil declared, sure his reputation would put this upstart into his place.

The young man flushed, which only served to highlight his spots. ‘I am Lieutenant Havrick of the Norstaline Light Cavalry.’

Havrick’s blood was up. Finally, something exciting was happening. No more endless days of drill and duty and trying to memorise regulations and orders. The Dragon Sword had been stolen and it was up to every loyal Norstaline to show what they were made of. The news had come through earlier today, brought by a rider on an exhausted horse, who only stopped long enough to change mounts and deliver patrol orders. The First Lieutenant had followed these, sending the bulk of the men towards the capital, and north and south, leaving Havrick and a few troopers to keep an eye on the road to Tetril.

‘The thieves shouldn’t have got this far but you never know,’ the First Lieutenant had said. ‘Think you can handle it, Havrick?’ Havrick had jumped at the chance. He was sick of being told he had no hope of promotion, that his inability to remember the regulations would ruin his career. Find the Dragon Sword and the rewards would be many: promotion, gold, women. He had even found himself hoping the magic Sword might choose him as its wielder. Then he would be the hero of his nation. That would prove them all wrong. It was in this hope that he had been ordering his men to chase down anything suspicious. Now this man, who claimed he was a mongrel Ralloran, was defying him.

‘I have orders to patrol this road. We stopped a
couple of wagons a few miles back and they told us a rider had galloped past them not long ago. Were you that rider?’

Martil could barely believe that for once—and just when he needed it—his name had not been recognised. So his voice was cold. ‘Do I look like I’m galloping? You wouldn’t have caught me if I was galloping, because your horses would have become lame after another few miles. Basic cavalry procedure. Conserve your horses or make sure you have replacements. You might learn that once you’ve had a few years in the army.’