The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  To Gabriella and Shaun

  and

  to Joyce Craig

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  It was impossible for Ezok to ignore the body of his superior. He had learned to pretend not to see many things in the service of Berellia’s king, but this was too much. Not when the man who had given you orders for the past year was stripped naked, gagged and tied to a column in the ornate throne room. Try as he might to look at the gorgeous tapestries or the immaculate marble flooring, his eyes kept stealing back to the bizarre scene.

  ‘Don’t be so shy, Ezok!’ the king boomed from the throne. ‘See how I reward failure!’

  Reluctantly, Ezok stared at the former Berellian ambassador to Norstalos. The man’s eyes bulged above the thick gag, pleading for help. Ezok had no intention of aiding a man he despised but, even if he had, a chilling figure stepped out from behind one of the throne room’s decorative pillars and into the dim light cast by a score of lanterns to show the foolishness of that idea. It was full daylight outside but the massive windows were covered with thick metal shutters. Not just that; the door had been bolted behind Ezok as he walked in and the galleries were emptied of the usual flock of courtiers, ladies and guards. If Ezok’s informant was right, the King’s last guest was the reason for all this but Ezok dared not look for him, instead keeping his eyes on the man who could end his life in an instant, should the king order it. His name was Cezar but he was more formally known as the King’s Champion. He looked unremarkable but he was not there for show. He was there to kill.

  Cezar’s face was hidden by dark cloth, only his eyes were visible and these seemed to bore into Ezok. The new ambassador knew he was the very height of Berellian fashion, with his golden-coloured tunic, dark green pants and matching cloak set off by his tall, muscular frame. His long dark hair was held back by a silver band, while his handsome face was marked by the classic Berellian blue eyes and high cheekbones. He knew he looked good. He had spent enough time in front of the mirror after receiving the summons to the palace. But he doubted Cezar was admiring his taste in clothes. He turned away and bowed deeply to his king.

  King Markuz was a powerful figure. He was dressed, as always, in a glittering sleeveless mail jerkin that had been polished until it shone like silver. Underneath he wore a long-sleeved tunic of gold, matching trews and long, black leather cavalry boots. He looked impressive, because appearances were everything in Berellia. But his face showed the strain of his position. Ezok could see the lines of worry and fear that had appeared on his monarch’s face since Berellia had lost the Ralloran Wars, a bitter defeat that no amount of boastful proclamations could wipe away.

  ‘Congratulations, Ezok! Your brilliant work in Norstalos has seen you appointed to the position of ambassador, following the sad death of your predecessor,’ Markuz announced.

  Ezok bowed again, ignoring the sounds as his predecessor struggled futilely.

  ‘Tell me of Norstalos,’ the king’s last guest hissed as he stalked out from the far shadows.

  The sight of him set Ezok’s heart racing with fear and excitement.

  The figure was covered in a full-length rust-red robe, with a deep cowl that completely obscured his face. His hands, which only just protruded from the sleeves of the robe, were gloved. The woollen robe was belted with a strange, pale-coloured fabric and marked with a large black rune on the chest. If legend was true, the belt was of human skin, while the rune was the figure’s secret name, given to him by the Dark God himself. This was a cleric of the Dark God Zorva, known as a Fearpriest. Ezok had heard the stories—how they offered their God blood sacrifices and, in return, gained unbelievable power: from being able to affect the earth, air, fire and water around them to even being able to kill with a touch. Reputedly they could defeat the strongest mage and could not be hurt by normal means. He did not intend to test these tales.

  Ezok composed himself and cleared his throat. ‘Norstalos is a rich, arrogant country to our north, which thinks itself above all others, blessed by dragons. As with Berellia, kingship falls to the eldest male relative of the last ruler. But, unique to Norstalos, princes may only take the throne if they can also draw the Dragon Sword, given to one of their kings centuries ago by the dragons themselves. This is a magical test of a man’s character. If they are unable to draw the Sword when they come to manhood, they are seen as unworthy and will not be allowed to take the throne, let alone continue as Crown Prince. The next eldest male relative will then get the chance to draw the Sword, until one is successful. That one will be allowed to become King. Not only is it the final test of kingship but the Norstalines believe they have been at peace for so long because of the Sword. They tell each other it has magical powers to keep them safe. That they have not been attacked while a king holds the Dragon Sword has convinced them that it is true.’

  ‘Tell Brother Onzalez what you have discovered,’ Markuz ordered.

  Ezok permitted himself a small smile. ‘It is a lie. True, the Dragon Sword will not allow itself to be drawn by a man it sees as unworthy. But the rest is all a story made up by King Riel, who was first given the Sword by the dragons. Strangely, Riel decided having a magical Sword was not enough, he also had to invent the legend of a Sword that would keep the country at peace. The gullible Norstalines believed him and spent the past six hundred years convincing each other of this falsehood and venerating the Sword. In reality, it is the size of the Norstaline army—paid for by the country’s ample gold mines—that has kept it free of the wars that have racked the rest of the continent.’

  Brother Onzalez clapped his hands together three times, slowly.

  ‘Well done, Ezok, for discovering this lie, which has given Berellia pause in the past. But how does it help now?’ he asked coldly.

  Ezok felt sweat start out across his body.

  ‘Norstalos is one step away from chaos,’ he said hurriedly. ‘The wonderful system, that they thought so clever, has failed them. They have a Queen, for the first time in their history. None of the male nobles could draw the Dragon Sword, so none were allowed to take the throne. They do not know what to do. A woman cannot draw the Dragon Sword…’

  ‘Why?’ Onzalez demanded.

  Ezok gulped. ‘I do not know. The Norstalines think it is because the dragons decreed only men are worthy to rule…’

  ‘Sounds sensible,’ Markuz rumbled.

  Ezok bowed his head, unwilling to argue.

  ‘So the daughter of the last king is allowed to rule but must find a noble to marry. As soon as her son can draw the Sword, she must relinquish the throne to him. Meanwhile, she must look for a Champion who can wield the Dragon Sword on her behalf. This is to preserve the people’s belief that the Dragon Sword keeps them at peace. Without a Champion at her side, the people will never accept her. But she has been unable to find a Champion, the people do not support her and her cousin, Duke Gello, the commander o
f the army, is scheming to take the throne that should have been his, had he been able to draw the Dragon Sword.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Onzalez congratulated him. ‘You will make a much better ambassador than your deceased predecessor.’

  Ezok ignored the frightened breathing of the man tied to the pillar behind him.

  ‘I have seen the future; it was a gift from the Great God,’ Onzalez declared. ‘Gello will seize the throne. This will set off a chain of events that will see him forced to turn to us for help. We need a man we can trust in Norstalos to bring him under our sway, a man I can guide until we see the two countries fighting together for one goal: converting every land by sword and fire! But there must be no mistakes. Your predecessor tried to subvert one of Gello’s war captains and failed. This is his punishment.’

  Ezok turned, expecting to see Cezar plunge a blade into the bound man. Instead, Onzalez walked forward, peeling off his right glove and laying his hand on the man’s chest. A muffled scream escaped from behind the gag, before the former ambassador shuddered once, then was still.

  Onzalez walked towards Ezok. ‘That fate awaits those who defy us. But those who serve us can enjoy their rewards now, not after a lifetime of bowing and scraping, as priests of that weakling Aroaril preach. Show me your foot!’

  Ezok nearly jumped as Onzalez held out his right hand, that had ended the former ambassador’s life moments ago.

  ‘How did…what do you mean?’ Ezok spluttered. Few knew of his deformity, the club foot that he tried desperately to disguise with special shoes. It had seen him ridiculed since birth, forced him to develop his cunning to survive in a society where weakness was despised. But he dared now refuse the Fearpriest. Slowly he pulled off his left shoe, to reveal his shame.

  Onzalez reached out and seized Ezok’s foot. Ezok did not have time to even cry out before his foot burned like fire, then like ice. He looked down to see a perfect foot, a match to the right. It had haunted him his whole life and now it was healed, when the best bone-setters and years of prayer to Aroaril had failed.

  ‘Will you help us, Ezok?’ Onzalex asked simply.

  Ezok looked up, eyes shining. ‘My only question is, will Cezar be helping me?’

  Markuz stirred into life on the throne. ‘You will have guards but will operate on your own to bring Duke Gello over to our side. Cezar has the task of restoring Berellia’s honour. I am going to kill the Butchers of Bellic. Captains Macord, Snithe, Rowran, Oscarl and Martil. Especially Captain Martil. Berellian pride cries out that he must be destroyed!’

  Ezok bowed his head. The Butchers of Bellic were the five Rallorans who commanded the army that had utterly destroyed a Berellian city in the final act of the vicious Ralloran Wars. All Berellian children were taught to hate them.

  ‘Enough! We must first discuss Ezok’s conversion!’ The Fearpriest’s harsh voice cut through the throne room. ‘What say you, Ezok? Do you join us, or die?’

  Ezok smiled. That was not a choice. But as he stood on two whole feet for the first time in his life, he was eager to see what else service to Zorva could bring. ‘I am ready,’ he said simply.

  The Fearpriest hissed triumphantly. ‘We have the sacrifice ready in the next room. Afterwards, you shall head north to take up your new post. There is a long road ahead for us but at its end every country shall worship Zorva and we shall be rewarded beyond all others! And it all begins in Norstalos!’

  1

  Try as he might, Martil could not remember what animal he was supposed to be singing about. Admittedly, it had been years since he had heard the song, way back in the days when he had been able to look at himself in the mirror. He and his childhood friends, Borin and Tomon, had gone out drinking with a group of other new army recruits. One of them, a tall blond fellow who had died screaming a week later, had known this hilarious song, all about an unusual animal and its amazing sexual exploits. The whole inn had been singing it by the end, roaring with laughter.

  ‘You’d think a song like that would stick in your mind, eh?’ Martil told his horse. It wasn’t much of a conversationalist but it was a muscular, fast chestnut beast that had cost him five gold pieces. He knew he had paid too much but he had just wanted to get out of the country. Besides, money meant little to Martil. After looting battlefields he had amassed a reasonable fortune—topped up by a long-overdue reward from his less-than-grateful King. He suspected he had only been given that to keep him quiet and speed his way out of the country so he would no longer be an embarrassment. So his saddlebags bulged with gold—as much gold as most men earned in twenty years. But it gave him little pleasure. When he forced himself to think about it, there was not much he was happy about.

  The horse, a former cavalry mount dismissed from the King’s service like many of Rallora’s veterans, was a gelding, so Martil had christened it Tomon, a joke on his old friend, who had been irresistible to the ladies. He felt sure Tomon would have appreciated it, had he still been alive to hear it. Tomon had always liked his sense of humour. Borin had not been so keen, saying there were some things you should not try to laugh at. But even he had admitted it was one of the things that had kept them going in the darkest of times. Sadly, it did not stop the dreams, and the other memories from haunting him now…

  ‘So, Tomon, how did that song go again?’ Martil nudged his horse.

  The horse did not reply, just plodded along the road, or what passed for a road in this quiet part of eastern Norstalos. Martil focused his attention upon it. He found it was easier to think about mundane things, such as roads and half-forgotten drinking songs, than the reasons why he was riding alone through a foreign country when he should have been a hero in his homeland. Once he would have been unable to walk down a street without men shaking his hand, children pretending to be him and women inviting him back to their chambers. But while half of them still wanted to cheer him, the rest would rather spit hatred. He shuddered as he remembered the names they had flung at him, along with a barrage of rotten fruit. Desperately he searched for something to take his mind off those memories. It was summer here in Norstalos and the sun was making the sweat trickle down his back when he was not beneath the shade of the trees. It was also giving him a thirst, so he took a swig of wine. He had asked for the finest Norstaline red, he remembered.

  ‘Tastes like goat’s piss,’ he announced to Tomon.

  Still, it was doing a reasonable job of helping him forget. For instance, he couldn’t remember the name of the bloody animal that ravished everything from a cat to a dragon over sixteen hilarious verses. Now, if the wine would just finish the job and make him forget everything else, he would call it a fine bargain. Forget things like the sight of a desperate Borin trying in vain to stuff his guts back inside himself after he had been caught by those two Berellian axemen. Or the expression on Tomon’s face as he choked to death after a Berellian crossbow bolt went through his throat. And how he himself had joined four other Ralloran war captains and ordered the destruction of the Berellian city of Bellic.

  ‘Time to change the subject,’ Martil told Tomon, and squirted some more wine into his mouth.

  It was foul stuff, and if it was the finest Norstalos could offer, then he decided he would have to stick to ale after this.

  ‘More like horse’s piss,’ he told Tomon and was struck by a sudden thought. Was the animal in the song a horse?

  ‘No, that’s verse ten,’ he remembered, and gave Tomon a pat in sympathy. He looked around again, wondering if he might spot some woodland beast that would jog his memory. He had to admit the chances of it were slim. This was a rich land, a soft land, where wagons full of produce and herds of animals regularly travelled along the road from the lush farmlands in the east of the country to reach the towns and cities in the west and south. Under a warm summer sun, the land seemed to slumber. Any animals were trying to stay cool. There was little activity on the road. He was following this road because the quickest route to the coast would have taken him through Berellia. Seeing as most of t
he country wanted to burn him alive for what he had done at Bellic, he thought he should take the longer route, through Aviland and the east of Norstalos, before heading across to where he could sit under the sun and watch the waves lap the beach.

  ‘You wouldn’t travel this road for the view,’ Martil told Tomon. ‘Nothing but bloody trees.’

  They were good for shade, but little else. He looked at the woods with a professional eye. You could barely hide a regiment of men in it. The trees were often sparse, the bushes too small. Then he remembered his mind should not be working like that, and tried to get back to the subject at hand.

  ‘No chance of spotting a wolf or bear around here,’ he reflected, then wondered if the mystery animal was a wolf. ‘No, the wolf’s in verse twelve,’ he muttered, and drank some more wine.

  Maybe he should stay off it. It might help his memory of the song return. And he could find an inn this afternoon and catch up on the drinking then, pour enough down his throat to stop the dreams. Although it wasn’t the dreams so much as the voices, the ones pleading not to be killed, or cursing his soul as they died, as well as those screaming at him as he walked through his country’s streets.

  He shuddered; he could not keep thinking like this.

  ‘I’ll sing the song,’ he announced, shoving the stopper back into the wineskin.

  He cleared his throat and tried to remember the first verse. It wasn’t coming to him, so he decided to sing the bits he did remember, and let the horse complain if the verses were out of order.

  ‘The…something…discovered a bear, asleep in winter’s chill, he slipped up close behind it then went at it with all his will.’

  Martil did not have much of a singing voice but what he lacked in tune, he made up for in volume. Hidden birds took off screeching and Tomon flicked his ears irritably but Martil ignored them.

  The song seemed to lack something. The greatest humour came from the knowledge such an unlikely creature was the star, but Martil felt the subtlety was probably lost on Tomon and any wildlife that was still within earshot.