The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  ‘You will do what I say,’ he told her.

  ‘Why? You’re not my father! You killed my father!’ She grabbed an empty goblet and hurled it at Martil, who had to duck to avoid it.

  ‘Karia!’ Father Nott admonished but Martil’s anger burst into flame and he surged to his feet.

  ‘Why you…!’

  ‘No!’ Karia saw the look in his eyes and rolled into a ball, arms over her head for protection, screaming and crying.

  Martil’s anger disappeared in an instant and he stood there, feeling sick to the stomach, guilt and shame thick in his throat.

  Father Nott patted Karia gently and looked up at Martil. ‘I understand you do not know much about children. But neither did I, and I learned. She needs a little time to get used to this situation. Try and see it from her point of view. She thought she would be coming back to live in the only loving home she has known.’

  ‘Well, can you see why I should not be looking after her?’ Martil argued.

  Father Nott smiled. ‘But you are only taking her to her uncle. Surely you can survive a few days with her, until you reach the village of Thest.’

  Martil stopped. That oath seemed like an intolerable burden right now.

  ‘I need some fresh air,’ he declared. ‘And I need to saddle my horse.’

  ‘First you must apologise to her,’ Father Nott warned. ‘She thinks you were going to hit her, and that is not a good thing. She must learn to trust you and that violence does not solve anything.’

  Martil could not help but laugh. ‘I’ve found it remarkably useful at times.’ He paused and looked at the sniffling Karia, whose great whooping sobs seemed to shake her whole body. ‘I’ll talk to her when I come back.’

  He went into the privy, and then the washroom, using the cold water from the pump to cool his anger. Nott was being too clever by half. His path to happiness was through that child? A child! More like a mobile screaming device, he thought sourly. He had endured enough this morning to convince him that the last thing he wanted was to spend more time with her. Well, he would show that priest. He would take her to Danir and make sure she was comfortable, then ride away without a backward glance.

  He went out to where his bags sat and dug out some soap and a razor, before going back to the washroom. Father Nott had a small mirror, made of bronze, which stood above a large stone basin. Martil started to shave, scraping away the thick bristles covering his chin and cheeks. The face in the mirror looked back at him. The hair was just starting to recede, the nose a little too long, the brows too strong and the ears a little too big for him to ever be called handsome. His face was almost unscarred, except for a tiny nick on his cheek, which had been caused not by any Berellians but by Borin, when they had been children. The eyes were grey, but he found he could never look into his own eyes for long. Not any more. He finished shaving and then debated whether to feed Tomon or go back inside. He decided to leave the feeding for later; Karia might enjoy it. That strategy made him feel a little more confident when he walked back inside to see Karia finishing off Father Nott’s toast.

  ‘Karia, would you like to come and feed my horse?’ he offered.

  She nodded, but made no move to get up.

  ‘You need to answer him, my dear,’ Father Nott said gently.

  ‘Y—yes please.’

  ‘Good. Come on then,’ Martil invited.

  She glanced up at Father Nott, who nodded and smiled, so she slipped down to the floor and walked across to Martil, her eyes downcast. Martil looked at Father Nott, who was mouthing something at him. He guessed it was a request for an apology, so he got down on one knee, at her level.

  ‘Karia, I will never hit you. Never. I don’t hurt women or children.’ Any more, his treacherous mind added. ‘Do you understand?’

  She looked up and nodded, although Martil could tell she was not convinced. Still, it was a start.

  He congratulated himself on a brilliant idea, because she was delighted to see Tomon again, and doubly delighted to feed him. Martil showed her how to hold a handful of grain in her palm, so the horse could nibble it without touching her fingers, then gave her a small apple that Tomon could take and crunch up. Then he picked her up so she could slip the nosebag over Tomon’s head, and she helped Martil brush the horse while he munched. By the time they had finished, Father Nott had come out of the house to watch them.

  ‘You should probably leave now,’ he told Martil quietly. ‘Get your things—I’m sorry to say there is almost nothing of hers to take—while I watch her. The Bishop will be arriving soon and the presence of a small child, to say nothing of a Ralloran warrior, will be hard to explain. More importantly, she is in a good mood now. Best to take advantage of it.’

  So Martil slipped away and then had Karia help him saddle Tomon, showing her how he put on the saddlebags. The next stop would be the town of Wollin, a full day’s ride away. He could have stopped at another village but he wanted somewhere where he could buy things for Karia. After all, bribes were a useful tactic of war. Father Nott gave Karia a long hug and a kiss, and then whispered a blessing to her. He nodded to Martil.

  ‘Time to go then, Karia,’ he said cheerily.

  But she was ready for him, latching onto Father Nott’s leg and screaming.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ Martil told her. ‘You have to go to your uncle.’ He was struck by a sudden thought. ‘And your uncle would be upset if you didn’t go to live with him. It’s what your father wanted. And I’ll let you pat Tomon again.’

  She nodded slowly, and let go of Father Nott’s leg. Martil held out his hand and she screamed and grabbed hold of Father Nott’s arm instead.

  ‘Fine!’ Martil had had enough. ‘Father, good luck. Enjoy your retirement. I shall send word to you when Karia is with her uncle.’ Then he simply picked Karia up. She was not expecting that, and made a despairing grab for Father Nott. She missed, and Martil threw her over his shoulder.

  ‘Hold to your oath! Your future depends on it!’ Father Nott called.

  Martil could barely hear him over the screaming. She was also trying to hit him, and was having some success. Getting onto Tomon was a challenge but the horse stood patiently and allowed him to swing up and then place her in front of him, where she could touch Tomon but not escape.

  Martil did not bother to say anything else to Father Nott. It would have been pointless. Besides, the old priest was waving at Karia and looked as though he was crying. So Martil steered Tomon out of the village, and around it, rather than going down the main street, as Karia’s screams had attracted attention from the few homes nearby.

  Father Nott watched them go and wondered if he had done enough—or too much. It was up to them now. He wished he had been able to go with them but that was not his destiny. That was a bitter thing to realise. Then there were the things he had seen but had not spoken of to Martil. A vision of how those two would not just save each other, but a third as well, so the three could save this country and eventually the world. How, or what from, he had no idea. But it was the only comfort he had. He just had to have faith.

  ‘You can’t keep screaming, you’ll make yourself sick,’ Martil told Karia, as he tried to put some distance between the screams and the village.

  This had no effect, so he decided to resort to bribery. ‘I have some almond-honey sweets. But you can only have some if you stop yelling,’ he offered, although it was hard to get the necessary persuasiveness into his voice when he had to shout.

  However, this seemed to work, for soon the screams became sobs, the sobs became sniffles, and she was able to demand: ‘Where’re my sweets?’

  He dug out a handful and watched them disappear with amazing swiftness. It seemed that all the yelling had given her an appetite.

  ‘When can I go back to Father Nott?’ she demanded.

  ‘We’ve been through this. You can’t go back. You have to go and live with your uncle in Thest,’ Martil said patiently.

  ‘I hate you.’

 
He sighed. ‘This should be a fun journey.’

  ‘Well, I’m not having fun,’ she told him.

  Norstalos was a peaceful country. It had been for centuries. And before that, the Royal Palace in Norstalos City had stood as a bastion of peace. Even in the darkest years of old King Riel’s reign, before he had gained the Dragon Sword, it had not been threatened. No unrest. No protests. No mobs demanding justice. Even the Poor Quarter was reasonably quiet—and not all that poor. So you could hardly blame the guards on the palace gate for feeling relaxed. Although they were veteran soldiers, they had been performing their duties for years without incident. What was the point of guarding something that had no threat?

  Chelten knew all this as he led his six men across the plaza towards the palace. They made no attempt to hide, although there were no hiding places. Instead they marched casually up to the front gate. As hand-picked members of Duke Gello’s bodyguard, they had had ample legitimate opportunities to scout the palace and plan the night’s work. They still could have completed their mission had the guards been on high alert. But against a group of dozy men, lulled into boredom after guarding a palace in the softest, most secure city in the world—it would be too easy. Chelten almost smiled thinking about it as he approached the guards. His reward for the night would be the satisfaction of turning the Duke he had served all his adult life into the King. And then serving a king would bring material rewards—gold, land and women—from a grateful Gello.

  ‘Halt! Who are you and what is your business?’ one of the gate guards challenged. There were only two of them, although there was a bellpull behind them that would sound the alarm. But neither guard made even the slightest move towards this alarm. At first glance Chelten’s group was strange enough—they had arrived after midnight and were dressed all in black; black tunics and black leggings, broken only by the badge of Duke Gello over the left side of their chest.

  Duke Gello was the commander of the army. Where could the harm be in men with his badge?

  ‘We are from Duke Gello—part of his bodyguard. We are here to steal the Dragon Sword, throw the country into chaos and allow our master to seize power,’ Chelten said conversationally.

  Both guards roared with laughter.

  ‘An excellent jest! But seriously now, who are you here to see?’

  Chelten pointed behind them.

  ‘Who’s your watch officer tonight?’

  Both instinctively swivelled. ‘Lieutenant Blunt’s on tonight,’ one said. ‘Do you want us to call him?’

  Chelten smiled. ‘No, I’ll find him,’ he said casually, then drew a long knife and slammed it into the back of the first guard’s neck. He liked working with knives. Knives could be concealed so easily on the body, whereas people were always asking you to take swords off, or hand them over. Besides, killing with a knife meant you had to get close to your victim. The second guard started to turn, but before he could open his mouth, Chelten’s men were on him, one holding his mouth shut as three others thrust short-swords into his lungs and heart.

  ‘Quickly now!’ Chelten urged them on as they dragged the bodies into the shadow of the gate and hurried over to the guardhouse where the rest of the guards would be relaxing between shifts. Not that Chelten was concerned by a handful of the Royal Guard. He had picked and trained his men for this night over the past year and he would back them against a force three times their number.

  So it proved. Four men were relaxing in the gatehouse with their officer but, without a warning, they stood no chance. They were hacked down without mercy.

  Chelten smiled thinly. He signalled for two men to watch the gate, then led the other four into the palace grounds. They paused by a servants’ door before going inside and he decided to run through the instructions one last time. They had trained incessantly for this but killing the guards would have got their blood racing. He wanted no mistakes.

  ‘The Dragon Sword will be guarded by no more than four men. We will need to be swift. Any servants we see must be killed instantly. Understood?’

  ‘Why don’t we finish the job and just go in and kill the Queen? The guards are dead and the palace is at our mercy!’

  ‘Three reasons, Karney—first, her quarters will be warded by magics cast by her tame magician. Try to get in there and you’ll be trapped until morning. How would that look then, eh?’ he slapped the man’s chest, right over the badge of Duke Gello. ‘Second, if we killed the Queen, suspicion would fall on the Duke, and the nobles might just rally around an alternative that put himself up for King, like Count Sendric. Third, and most important, I say we don’t, and I’ll rip your guts out if you disobey me! Clear?’

  Karney, and the other three, quickly nodded, so he waved them inside. He was annoyed but only slightly. Killing the Queen was the course of action he had proposed to Duke Gello. With the Queen dead, the way would be clear for Gello to take the crown, as the next in line to the throne. But the Duke had other ideas.

  ‘Chelten, I cannot seize the crown! That would lead to all sorts of problems. No, I must be seen to be reluctantly taking on a heavy responsibility because my dear cousin is not up to the job of ruling.’

  ‘And how will they see she is not up to the task?’ Chelten dared to ask. Normally he would not have been so bold but Gello had to trust him absolutely to tell him this. After all, what they were discussing was treason.

  ‘She’s a woman! Women can’t rule! It is a fact that should have been obvious years ago but my fellow nobles need something dramatic to prove it to them. When the Dragon Sword is stolen, it will show she cannot keep the country safe and they will turn to me. You, of course, will steal it and take it out of the country. Then we shall have Norstalos, and from there we can crush every country that does not bend to me!’

  ‘Being killed would also show she couldn’t protect the country,’ Chelten had offered, almost drunk with the thrill of being able to speak to the Duke like this. Besides, he was reluctant to leave the country just when the Duke was seizing power. He wanted to be there for that—and for when the rewards were handed out.

  ‘It is an attractive idea but her death would create more problems than it would solve,’ Gello sighed. ‘She was ordained by the church, and no doubt they would accuse me of the death. Unfortunately most of the peasants still listen to the blithering of the priests and I don’t need unrest in the villages. What I need are the peasants volunteering their sons for my army of conquest, not muttering about regicide and revolt. Then there are the nobles. I’ve won most of them over to my side and I have them ready to act. As soon as the Dragon Sword is gone they will call for me to take over. But if the Queen is dead there are a few who might bring up the Dragon Sword…’

  Gello paused then and even in that intimate atmosphere Chelten knew his master well enough not to say anything. Gello had been the Crown Prince, groomed from birth to be the next King. But then he had been unable to draw the Dragon Sword, meaning he could never take the throne. The disgrace and humiliation had led the Duke to this point. It may have been years ago but it might as well have been yesterday. Chosen for his skill with a blade, Chelten had been assigned to protect the young noble. Chelten, just a few years older than Gello, had idolised the young Duke and King-in-waiting. Both had been devastated when Gello had tried, and failed, to draw the Dragon Sword. But while Chelten was still content to serve the Duke, Gello’s disappointment turned to anger and bitterness, then hatred at the way his cousin would take the throne. A burning desire to take back what he saw as his stolen birthright had launched Gello on this path.

  ‘No, this is the best way. Having you “discover” the Dragon Sword in another country will be the official end of my cousin and prime the country to invade our neighbours. A glorious future awaits!’

  Thinking of that glorious future lightened Chelten’s steps as he led his men in a silent rush through the palace. He had walked this route a score of times during the day. The Dragon Sword was kept on the second floor, in a converted meeting chamber. He led
his men up side stairs and along a wide passageway then paused them at a corner. He drew his knives and nodded at his men. This was no time for talking—the last guards would be paces away. They could even hear the pair of them chatting softly; the usual talk of men on boring guard duty—about drink, women and when they would get off the night watch. Chelten signalled to Karney to lead two men into the chamber to take out the guards there. The last man would watch Chelten’s back. It was the way they had planned, although Chelten was supremely confident of taking out two of the Queen’s Royal Guard. Royal Guard! That was a laugh. Royally useless, they were. A pack of peasants, only chosen from King Riel’s old regiment, the Rangers. Thought that put them above everyone else but they would soon find out that was a fatal mistake. He let his anger flower for a moment, then stepped around the corner, already moving into a run, feet silent on the wooden floor in his soft leather shoes.

  The two guards looked up, and only had enough time to choose whether to ask a question or fight back. Unfortunately both had become too used to a soft duty and chose to ask what the man in black was doing, rather than focus on the bright knives in his hands. A fatal error.

  The other two guards may have been alerted by the noises outside but they had been relaxing, eating a meal at a small table. They had just drawn their swords when Karney burst in and immediately found themselves facing three skilled swordsmen. It only took moments for them to die. Chelten let his men shut the door, drag the bodies away and retrieve his knives. Instead he walked across the room to where the fabled Dragon Sword sat on an elaborate stand in the centre of the room. Even in the dimly-lit chamber, its hilt and scabbard seemed to sparkle, adding both light and lustre to the shadows. He stepped closer and stroked the bejewelled scabbard. It was truly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The leather scabbard felt curiously warm to the touch and he felt his hand drawn towards the elaborate golden hilt. The hilt was the dragon’s body, the pommel its coiled tail, while the wings flared to form the quillons. His hand ached to touch the hilt, to see if he could draw the Sword. He could feel his heart beating faster as his fingers drew near. Another heartbeat and he would be touching it…what if he could be the wielder of the Dragon Sword? It was a thrilling thought. His fingers moved closer, then a warning hiss made him jerk back his hand as if scalded, and he spun to see who had made the noise.