The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  ‘I find it extremely concerning that thieves could get into the palace, kill the guards, steal the Dragon Sword and escape! If the palace is not safe, then nowhere is safe. I think we need to call the army in to provide some security.’ The plumply perspiring Count Cessor, whose lands took in the large western town of Cessor, made the opening declaration. Norstaline nobles had adopted the habit of being called by their title. Therefore the man addressing the Royal Council was known as Count Cessor, the thirty-fourth heir to a noble title, rather than plain old Gaven Ildale from Cessor.

  Merren stared at him with distaste. As a western noble, Cessor fawned over Duke Gello, and Merren knew he had been angling for one of his three daughters to marry the Duke. Anything Cessor said was as good as hearing it out of Gello’s own mouth. In the first few months of her rule she had tried to be accommodating and civil to these men, but as the months passed and they all but openly declared their allegiance to Gello, she lost patience with the polite approach.

  ‘Really? Throw away centuries of tradition and terrify the country by having soldiers search through streets for men who are long gone? This is the sort of ridiculous suggestion I would expect from someone whose head is as fat as their body,’ she said icily.

  Cessor, whose appetite for sweets was legendary, shook with anger, his chins wobbling.

  ‘But, your majesty, the point is we do not have the Dragon Sword any longer. For centuries we have been told it has been the guarantee of peace in our beautiful land. Without it, we could even sink back to the level of other countries. Surely it would be prudent to bring the army in now, rather than wait until it was too late?’

  This time the speaker was the oily Earl Worick, another western noble and another protégé of Gello’s. Small, thin and impeccably groomed, he annoyed her even more than the gross Cessor.

  ‘Do you have such a low opinion of the people, dear Worick?’ Merren smiled thinly. ‘Do you honestly believe that the only thing stopping the ordinary citizens of this proud land from killing each other is the presence of the Dragon Sword? Have I not heard you, and many others around this table, speak of how Norstalos is the greatest of all countries, how everyone else can only dream of being like ourselves?’

  She looked around the table triumphantly then sighed. From their closed-off faces, it was obvious that any words she spoke were going to fall on deaf ears. This was clearly a charade, set up by Gello. He had somehow managed to ensure all his opponents were away from this meeting, then advised his favourites what to do and say. There was to be no debate, she realised. They were going to issue a call for the army to come in, and beg Duke Gello to do what he wanted—take over the running of the country. Oh, they would dress it up with fine words like ‘for the duration’ and ‘only as long as necessary’ but these would just be fancy lies. She ignored the next speaker’s words, letting them wash over her.

  She realised with a jolt that this was the finish. By the end of the day she would be a prisoner in this palace, and Gello would have won. Only a miracle could save her now. True, she had sent out Barrett, but the wizard was just one man. What could he do alone?

  The thought of giving up the throne was like a dagger to the heart. There were so many things she wanted to achieve as Queen but all she had had time for was struggling to keep her throne. It was galling. After that fateful day, when Gello had fled the throne room in disgrace, leaving the Dragon Sword, she had known her destiny was to rule as Queen. The first Queen of Norstalos. It had become her obsession. Despite what the terms of the deal between King Croft and Duchess Ivene said, and despite what her father clearly thought, both Merren and Gello had known there would be only one victor. Norstalos could only have one ruler, not two. This was the culmination of that battle. One she now knew she was going to lose, and she could not bear it.

  Abruptly she stood, and Count Cessor, who had been noisily declaiming that Norstalos was now in a state of emergency and, unless the army was brought in, would descend into chaos, petered out to an embarrassed silence.

  ‘Your majesty?’ Worick prompted.

  ‘I will not waste another moment of my time on a bunch of Gello’s lapdogs,’ she declared. ‘I know what you plan to do and I have no intention of being part of this ridiculous charade a moment longer. Issue the decree your master wants, then run back to him and grovel, in the hope he gives you a pat on the head for a job well done.’

  ‘Your majesty, I must protest!’ Cessor cried.

  ‘Protest all you like, you fat fool. Aroaril will be the final judge of what you do here. May He have mercy on your rotten souls because, believe me, I will send them to Zorva if I get the chance.’ She spat the words at him, then stormed out of the chamber, enjoying their shocked looks, although she knew this was but a feather to balance against the lead weight of Gello’s scheming victory. Slowly she walked back to her apartments. She thought she might as well try and enjoy her last moments as Queen, so ordered food and drink and musicians, called for her ladies-in-waiting and even thought about ordering a bard to come and perform. But she could not relax. Her stomach was churning, the food was like ashes in her mouth and the music discordant to her ears.

  She did not have long to wait. The musicians were only into their second tune when a commotion outside grew so loud that they missed their place. Her ladies-in-waiting gazed at the Queen as the sounds of shouts, trumpets and hooves echoed around the room, so she sent Rana to see what was happening.

  ‘My Queen! The palace is surrounded by cavalry!’ Rana called.

  Merren felt her heart jump. So fast! Gello must have had them ready. She walked carefully out onto the balcony and looked down. Her remaining Royal Guards had blocked the gate, but were faced by more than a company of heavy cavalry. At their head was an unmistakeable figure. Duke Gello.

  ‘By the authority of the Royal Council, I have been asked to step in, on an interim basis, until this crisis has passed,’ he was bellowing. ‘Here is the official decree. As soldiers of Norstalos first, and Royal Guards second, you are hereby ordered to disband and return to your regiment. My men will be responsible for the security of the palace, and indeed the country.’

  Merren wondered for a moment if her Royal Guards were going to defy Gello, but they were massively outnumbered and would have been slaughtered. Not that she really expected them to die for her, but she felt it would have meant something if they had been so infuriated by Gello’s treachery that they had tried to stop him. She wanted to shout out to them, ‘This is the man who had your friends killed last night!’ But even as she toyed with that thought, she saw the commander of the Royal Guard, Captain Kay, order the men to take off their official surcoats and swords, and lay them in a pile in the courtyard.

  Merren looked out towards the plaza, where a score of townsfolk were watching the scene, obviously curious but hardly distraught at the overthrow of their monarch. Where were the crowds of outraged citizens? Where were the guards who would rather die than desert their Queen? She wanted to ask why that was, but could not find the words. Her ladies-in-waiting clustered about her, all unable to say anything. None reached out to comfort her. She would have liked them to, although she would have thrown off their hands, for she did not want to appear weak.

  Just as she thought that, Duke Gello looked up—and even from this distance, Merren could see his triumphant smirk. How she longed to see him humbled!

  ‘May Aroaril help me. Find me a Champion who can wipe that smile off your face,’ she swore.

  Wollin was a long ride from Chell, and it was made far longer by Karia. She knew Martil did not want her to be with him but that was fine, she did not want to be with him either. She wanted to be back with Father Nott. Of course Father had said she could not stay with him, but that was just silly. He was the best person to stay with and far nicer than Martil or her da and brothers. So the solution was easy. Just make things as difficult as she could and Martil would take her back to Father Nott. She had tried this technique on her da but he had just hit her unti
l she stopped. This Martil had promised never to hit her. Unless he changed, she was going to annoy him until he gave in and took her back. Asking for food seemed to infuriate him, so she did it as often as possible. Her stomach, unused to all this food, seemed to require plenty of toilet stops, and they seemed to annoy him too. It was actually quite fun to do this, see how far she could push him. Every time he seemed to be getting angry, he managed to get himself back under control, although she could hear him muttering what Father Nott had told her were square words. The only problem was, nothing she did was making Martil turn around his horse and ride back to Chell and Father Nott. So she decided to try harder. She was curious about everything she saw, so it was a natural progression to start asking questions.

  Martil ground his teeth until he was sure they would break. His frustration had risen with every toilet stop, with every demand for food or drink, but he felt he could handle that. Now she was breaking these up with questions about the plants they saw, the few birds they heard and the animals she wanted to see but which refused to show themselves.

  In the quiet of his head, he resolved not to be beaten by her. If the Berellians could not break him, then this small girl would not succeed. Whatever she tried, he would not lose his temper and let her win. He would not give her that satisfaction. Once he had reduced the problem to a contest, he felt more comfortable with it. But the problem remained. How to win it?

  He could not help but feel envious of Father Nott, of the way he had been able to handle Karia so easily. He thought a clever thing to do would be to try to give her something to look forward to.

  ‘We’ll be arriving at a big town soon. When we’re there, we’ll buy you some clothes and nice things. Then we’ll get a big meal, as much as you can possibly eat. So you should think about the sort of clothes you would like, and the sort of food you might want to eat. Would you like that?’

  ‘Can we go back to Father Nott afterwards?’

  ‘No,’ said Martil, for what he felt was the twentieth time.

  ‘I hate you.’

  With these sorts of conversations, Martil was delighted to finally arrive at Wollin. Chell had been a small village but Wollin served not just Chell but several other villages, as well as a number of farms within a day’s ride of its walls. It was a market town, so although it had a wall around it, it was a fairly flimsy affair, which offended Martil in its poor design and lack of height. But he was more concerned with how Karia would react once they were inside.

  The man known as War Captain Rowran loved to sail. Even when he had been in the army, fighting in the mountains, he had dreamed of the sea. It was somehow calming, and he had found himself going for longer and longer trips since he had returned from the war. Out of sight of land, away from people, his problems just seemed to disappear.

  That day had been a bad one. He had been having a quiet drink in a tavern and looking forward to an afternoon of sagas when the bard started the show by announcing that War Captain Macord had killed himself, burned himself to death in his own house, so instead of the planned program, he would do a series of sagas about the war and finish with the Song of Bellic. Rowran could feel every eye in the tavern turn to him. He knew he had to get out—and fast.

  By the time he made it to his boat, he just wanted to get away from everyone and everything. So he made the fatal mistake of not checking in the boat’s small cabin before hoisting the sail and heading out of the harbour.

  Cezar steered Rowran’s boat into a small cove under cover of darkness. The body had gone over the side—except for the heart, which was in its special box, inside a small pack he wore over his shoulder. He planned to ram the boat into some rocks and leave it there for the locals to find the next day. No doubt they would conclude that Rowran had fallen overboard. Now for Captain Oscarl, as Markuz and Onzalez felt Oscarl was the greater threat to Berellia’s ambition and the Fearpriest’s vision. Then he could hunt Captain Martil down at his leisure.

  Karia had never been to Wollin. And as she had spent the past few months living in a forest the noise, the smells and the bustle of the town made her forget about tormenting Martil. She was used to seeing a few sheep or cows. But here, the road was taken up by huge flocks and herds of them, forcing Martil to ride right around them. Crates of chickens clucked on top of wagons; other wagons rolled along piled with hay, fruit, vegetables and other foods the area provided. She watched, fascinated, as Martil steered them around and past the farmers, and towards the gate.

  The wall towered above, while the noise of the city made her dig her fingers into Tomon’s mane for comfort.

  ‘And what is that smell?’ she demanded, holding her nose as they rode into the main street.

  Martil explained it was the smell of a town, of thousands of people all living close to each other, the smell of their waste as well as that of the various animals that lived with them.

  ‘It’s disgusting! How can they live like this?’ She tried to breathe through her mouth.

  Martil refrained from adding that the old dustcloth dress she was wearing was far from pleasant, although the bath she had had seemed to have removed the worst of her smell.

  For Karia, the town was just too much of everything. Her eyes, her ears and especially her nose struggled to take it all in. Well-dressed men and women walked together, their clothes far richer than anything she had seen before. Labourers and servants hurried past, on their way to serve others. Stallholders bellowed out their wares, while carriages rattled past.

  They made her nervous and, strangely, knowing Martil was there made her feel a little better as shopkeepers yelled up at them, desperate for their business. She told herself it was because Father Nott had liked him, so he could not be as bad as her da, even though he wouldn’t take her back to Father.

  Martil was amused by the way the town had first quietened her, then made her move back in the saddle so she was actually leaning into him, as if he was protecting her. It was certainly much better than when she was yelling, or trying to hit him. He racked his brain for something to say to exploit this but she saved him the trouble.

  ‘Why are all these people here? What are they doing?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Well, some live here, and some are here to sell their goods. They all need to eat, and there’s nowhere to grow anything in a town, so food has to come here. It is also sold here, and sent to even bigger towns.’

  She nodded, wide-eyed. In truth it was not too busy, there was plenty of room on the cobbled streets, and he rarely had to check Tomon to avoid someone in front of him. But she was obviously fascinated by the bustle and the colour. She gaped at the women’s dresses, while Martil enjoyed the respite from questions.

  ‘Here we are,’ Martil said, spotting the sign of the one shopkeeper he had been looking for.

  He rode Tomon across the street and then climbed down, tying the reins tightly to a hitching post in front of the store.

  ‘Where are we?’ Karia asked as he lifted her down. He half-expected her to run or scream, but the unfamiliar town was having its effect on her and she was trying to stay as close as possible to him. She may hate me, but I’m less scary to her than a bunch of fat merchants, he mused.

  ‘We’re at a dressmaker’s. And we’re going to get you some clothes. Come on.’

  He guided her past two well-dressed women and a servant who staggered behind them, his arms laden with goods, and into the shop.

  Menner was proud to boast that he was the finest dressmaker in Wollin. Of course, the fact there were only three dressmakers in the town, and the other two were run by old women who had never been to Norstalos City, let alone designed fine outfits for the gentry, was one he did not add to the story.

  He would have liked to stay in Norstalos City but the truth was, he was an even better gossip than he was a dressmaker. And after he had repeated a couple of salacious stories about Duke Gello, he had received a visit from some of the Duke’s personal guard, who were not interested in the latest colours and styles o
f doublet but were happy to inform him he would find himself wearing his own entrails for a necklace if he did not leave the city by the end of the week.

  Wollin was the town furthest from the Duke’s western lands, and he had found a profitable business here, selling clothes and dresses to the wives of rich farmers and merchants. The standard of gossip, however, was sadly lacking. He had just sold two dresses to one of his regulars when the bell rang and an interesting pair walked into his shop. A warrior and his daughter, by the looks of it. The man was obviously a Ralloran, judging by his tunic and trousers, while the girl was wearing…Menner shuddered. It looked like an old rag. Still, the man was wearing two swords, so it paid to be polite.

  ‘Welcome to Menner’s! How can I help you?’ He stepped out from behind his counter, letting them see how he was dressed in the latest fashion from the city, a bright yellow tunic, with puffed sleeves and a low collar, over orange trousers.

  Karia stared at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘We need clothes for a girl,’ Martil announced.

  Menner took the fabric of Karia’s tunic between finger and thumb and almost recoiled in horror before recovering swiftly. ‘My dear sir, you have come to the right place! We can have her dressed in the latest fabrics, and the latest fashions!’

  ‘She’s not going to meet your Queen. I need two pairs of tunics and trews and three simple dresses. One pair of warm shoes, one pair of leather shoes and one pair of sandals,’ Martil growled. Karia, meanwhile, was trying to hide behind one of his legs, peeping up at the strangely-dressed man whenever she thought he was not looking at her.

  Menner smiled. ‘Of course we can do that for you, but so much, it will take time, and there will be a need for a deposit…’

  Martil had no intention of spending any more time in Wollin than was absolutely necessary. He produced a thick gold coin and tossed it idly into the air. ‘I need them by tomorrow.’