The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  ‘What were you thinking of doing with the Sword?’ Martil asked. He was all too aware the time for making decisions was here but he wanted to put it off for as long as possible. He had thought to find answers but now he just had more questions. And a magical sword that the entire bloody country was going crazy about. He could not help but think of Father Nott. Had the old priest seen this?

  Conal scratched his chin, making a rasping noise. ‘Well, I hadn’t decided but I know Ferg wanted it sold. He reckoned this Gello would pay almost anything to get the Sword back. I reckon he’d just feed you your balls until you begged for the chance to give him the Sword. No, if you ask me, the only person who would really pay for it is the Queen. But you’d have to be pretty smart to see her without Gello knowing.’

  Martil thought carefully. His oath was fulfilled, his future path free to choose. But what about Karia? He doubted she would want to stay with him, although where would she go? He smiled to himself. The queen would pay him probably ten thousand in gold for this sword. For that he could hire several families and let Karia choose the one she liked best. She deserved some happiness. But what of him? He had a vision of a mansion by the northern sea, the one he had dreamed of. He was walking through its large rooms, alone, with only the cries of the murdered children of Bellic to fill its emptiness. He shook himself, trying to blank that out, but the empty feeling inside him remained.

  ‘What’s happening? I’m bored,’ Karia announced, walking over to him.

  ‘We’ll be going soon,’ Martil promised automatically. Then he thought about his answer. ‘We might take a trip to Norstalos City. Would you like that?’

  ‘Isn’t that where Father Nott went?’

  ‘Yes, it is. We’ve got to get rid of the Sword but after that, you might even be able to visit him.’ And I’ll be having some words with him, he added silently.

  ‘Great! I need to tell him that I’ll be all right, that you’ll be taking care of me.’

  Martil looked into those big brown eyes and saw nothing but honesty staring back at him. A few days ago that prospect would have filled him with horror but now, strangely, it sounded good.

  ‘Do you mean that?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I do. I’ve been thinking. Now Uncle Danir is gone, I’ll be staying with you. You can buy me more dresses, and new dolls, maybe a horse of my own, some chickens to look after, and we can play games, especially catch, I like playing catch, and you can brush my hair, read me stories, maybe show me how I can read too, and sing me to sleep.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Martil could not help but ask.

  ‘You can look after me.’

  Martil felt an unexpected surge of affection and happiness. As a war captain he had walked down streets as flower petals were strewn at his feet. He’d had women hurling themselves at him, or more accurately, under him. Men had wanted to shake his hand and bow to him.

  But he had never expected a little girl to say she wanted him to look after her. It was a compliment he had never had, never sought and never expected to get. He was surprised to find how much it meant to him.

  Feeling happier than he had in years, he went to kneel down, so grasped the hilt of the Sword to move it out of his way—and when he looked down at the Sword, he could have sworn the dragon on the hilt was looking at him. The eyes were definitely sparkling. Or had they just caught the light from the doorway? He put it from his mind, it was irrelevant. What was he to do? When he had left Rallora, he had sworn never to get involved in wars or fighting. Being named the wielder of the mythical Dragon Sword was not likely to lead to the quiet life he had imagined. But he could hardly throw it away if that would mean his death. That was exactly the sort of thing the do-gooding dragons might do. Bloody flying magical pests. How could he have been so stupid as to draw it? He could not think what to do next, which was ironic, because he had made his reputation as a man always prepared to make tough decisions. He slumped into a seat.

  ‘Martil, I think we should take the Sword back to its real owner,’ Karia said softly.

  ‘What? Why do you say that?’ Martil felt he needed direction. And after what Karia had said to him, he was certainly willing to listen to her.

  ‘It’s what Father Nott would do. He’d say this was stolen, so it should be returned.’

  ‘Father Nott, eh?’ Martil was a bit reluctant to do anything the priest suggested, given the way things had turned out so far.

  At another time Martil would have dismissed her suggestion out of hand. But he just felt lost. Karia was at least suggesting a way forward. Besides, when she had said she wanted to stay with him, it had made him feel happier than he had in years. Now he wanted to make her happy. Not exactly the best reason in the world to make a potentially life-changing and life-threatening decision, but the way he felt now, it was good enough.

  Thinking aloud, he said, ‘We should return the Sword to the Queen. If she is the rightful owner, then she should get the Sword back. And she will know how it really works and know if I am truly the wielder, or if that is just a legend.’

  That was the heart of the matter. He could not just walk away, worrying that some magical sword was going to suck the life out of him. He should have known that running away never solved anything. He had run away from Rallora and look where it had landed him now.

  ‘And, yes,’ he added, ‘if it was stolen, it should be returned.’

  ‘Not exactly a motto I have lived my life by,’ Conal admitted, ‘but anything’s worth trying once.’

  ‘Glad to hear you say that,’ Martil observed wryly. ‘We’ll stay here the night, then ride on to Norstalos City. How about you?’

  The old bandit scratched his chin. These past couple of days had given him plenty of time to think. Survival over the past few years in this village had been about not thinking too much, so it had been a struggle. He could see nothing but trouble attached to the Dragon Sword but equally, he wanted to know more about it. Besides, what did he have to lose? His true life had ended years ago. This was just a shadow existence. But he could not talk about that as yet.

  ‘I might come with you. There’s nothing for me here. Besides, having slept on it for a few nights, I’d like to see what it does,’ he said, deliberately casually.

  Having agreed to come along, Conal insisted on sleeping in the inn for the night. Martil had no intention of spending any more time with that smell, so he made Conal help him clean out one of the huts.

  ‘What happened to Danir’s hoard? Did the villagers take away piles of gold?’ Martil asked, as they sat down to a stew he had made from oats, dried meat, salt and water.

  ‘Who was he stealing from? Farmers and merchants too poor to hire enough guards to scare us off. We had food enough, but gold? Any we took was spent by Danir and his sons. The bandit life is hardly what they sing about in the sagas. I mean, do you think we’d live in a shithole like this if we were all rich?’

  Martil could not help but agree. Even so, he noticed Conal had dug up a small bag, which he now kept fastened to his belt.

  ‘Just a few silvers I saved, over the years,’ he shrugged in reply to Martil’s unspoken question. ‘A man needs something to live on in his dotage, to avoid the chill of winter and the pangs of hunger. Speaking of which, another bowlful, thanks.’

  ‘You do realise I’ll be charging you for this,’ Martil told him, as Conal helped himself to a second serving of stew.

  Conal stared at him in mock horror. ‘After I gave you the Dragon Sword?’

  Martil ignored him.

  The village also yielded one final surprise. Conal disappeared into a shed and came back with a rancid-looking donkey, which smelt even worse than he did.

  ‘Her name’s Noxie. She’s a loyal friend, even if she is a bit loud sometimes,’ Conal explained.

  Martil waved away his explanation and hoped some fresh air might improve the animal’s fragrance. The only good thing about it was it meant they could go faster than Conal’s walking pace.

  Kari
a had been excited about camping out in the hut, and to celebrate the honour of her letting Martil look after her, she had wanted to play with the ball, the top and the dice, then made him tell her stories and sing her his silly song, then tell her how he would take care of her and where they would live before she would even think about going to sleep. After the stress of the day, Martil enjoyed immersing himself in it. Conal watched them silently for a while, then walked slowly back to the inn and shut the door.

  Cezar was beginning to feel confident once more. The inn at the border was an obvious place for Martil to stop, but was not an ideal place to kill him. Somewhere quiet, in the country, would be better—somewhere he could take his time. All he had to do was wait at the inn until Martil arrived, then follow him out. One man could not stay up all night, every night. Sooner or later he would sleep—and then Cezar could strike. And he was only a day’s ride from that inn.

  Martil yawned as he rode. Sleep had not come easily to him the night before, even with the dolly that Karia had given him to look after. He had ridden into Thest half-expecting to fight for his life and now he was riding out with the Dragon Sword and an old bandit in tow. It was a strange exchange. Also, he could not shake the thought that the Sword was somehow watching him, somehow measuring him—and no doubt finding him wanting.

  Thinking about Conal made him turn around in the saddle. Had the Sword’s magic worked on him? He looked at Conal, who was ferreting around industriously in his right nostril. Conal finally extracted his finger, inspected the contents with a sigh of satisfaction, and then flicked it away.

  It would have to have very powerful magic, Martil thought. Questions about the Sword were too big for him to answer. He just had to hold to a course of action and see where it took him.

  First, get the Sword to the Queen, and worry about the rest later.

  Karia was delighted to be going away from the village. No more being a bandit, no more hiding out in forests and caves. That thought had scared her. Now she was going to stay with Martil, who could be silly, but was willing to do anything for her. Not even Father Nott had been happy to provide voices for her dolls or spend so long playing catch. Now he would buy them a large farm; she would get a pony and chickens, and fluffy lambs to look after, as well as more dollies and lots of books. Father Nott could come and visit as well!

  Conal was happy enough to follow. Even in this backwater, he had heard of Captain Martil, the Butcher of Bellic. Yet he had drawn the Dragon Sword. That said something about the power of redemption. He had to believe in it. Serving scum like Danir the Destroyer had been a source of shame, so much so that he had forced himself not to think about what he was doing, instead just focusing on surviving each day. But when you were woken up by a tankard of your own piss, he thought, the only way to go was up. Conal feared he had little to offer. Worse, seeing Karia had stirred memories he thought were long buried. His twin daughters would have looked like her and probably would have been just as cheeky, had they lived. Thinking about them was too painful. Far better to slip back into the character he had adopted over the past few years with the bandit band. He would stay like that for now. It was probably safer. And he was sick of riding in silence, lost in his thoughts. They were not to be enjoyed.

  So he encouraged Noxie to greater speed, catching up with Tomon. He regaled them with tales of his exploits, of coaches robbed, of women taken for ransom—who subsequently did not want to be returned to their husbands—and duels fought and won.

  ‘We’re not so different, you and I. Conal the Cowardly and the Butcher of Bellic,’ the old bandit summed himself up finally.

  Martil watched him scratch enthusiastically around his crotch, before sitting up slightly in the old saddle he had belted around the donkey and letting out a thunderous belch.

  ‘What a wonderful thought,’ he sighed.

  ‘No, hear me out on this,’ Conal insisted. ‘Both of us have reputations that do us no justice. At one point I was a father and a husband, respected, a sergeant of the militia no less. But to Norstalines around here, I am something they would wipe off the soles of their boots…’ Conal trailed off, wondering why he had said that. He had not meant to let slip who he had once been. Luckily no-one seemed to notice.

  Martil was struck by a thought. ‘You’re not a known bandit in Norstalos, are you? One who is to be arrested on sight, along with any companions?’

  ‘Maybe ten years ago, when I still had all my teeth and limbs,’ Conal shrugged, waving his stump around casually. ‘And perhaps when my face didn’t look as if a donkey had sat on it.’

  Karia giggled at this but he proved to be correct. The militia gave them no more than a cursory search. Martil had been concerned what they might say when they looked in his bags and found the Dragon Sword, so he had hidden it in plain view by wearing it, the magnificent scabbard concealed by his old leather one, the hilt tucked up under his tunic. His spare sword sat in his bags, but they ignored what was obviously an ordinary sword. Conal barely got a second glance, although perhaps that was because they did not want to be around his flatulent donkey any longer than necessary.

  Darry’s inn was far quieter this time, the various merchants and their guards having moved on, so he was glad of the business. Martil flatly refused to pay for Conal, so the old bandit booked himself a place in the common sleeping room, where a score of beds lined the walls. Martil took the same room he and Karia had used earlier. He used the opportunity to switch swords again, so the Dragon Sword stayed safely hidden in their room while they went downstairs to eat—and to find out the latest gossip from Darry. After an initial coldness, the innkeeper could not help but warm up. After all, he wanted to know what had happened in Thest.

  ‘Danir won’t be doing anything again. He’s dead,’ Martil said flatly. ‘Killed in an ambush gone wrong and the remnants of his band scattered to the four winds. Thest is deserted now.’

  ‘What? That’s the best news I’ve heard in years! But how do you know for sure?’ Darry’s ecstatic face suddenly creased in worry, as if the news was too good to be true.

  Martil hesitated for a moment. He had no wish to see Conal hanged, although no doubt the old bandit had earned it over the years.

  ‘When I arrived there, I found Danir’s son, dying from a wound to the belly. He told me what had happened,’ he said carefully.

  Darry stared at him in surprise, then whooped with delight and slapped the bar with his hand.

  ‘That calls for a drink!’ he laughed. ‘With that bastard dead and his gang of scum gone, the merchants will be back, with plenty of coin to spend! Tell me, did you have anything to do with their disappearance?’

  Martil had no wish to add further verses to the sagas about him, although he had the nasty suspicion Darry would be telling tales of Captain Martil and his Ralloran mercenaries wiping out the evil Danir.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he assured him.

  ‘A stroke of luck for you—and the little girl—and for me. Why, it almost makes up for the bad news coming out of the capital!’

  ‘What’s that?’ Martil asked, as casually as he could.

  ‘Dragon Sword’s still missing, of course. Now nobody has seen the Queen for days and Duke Gello has declared the army is needed to restore order. He is ruling under martial law. Martial law in Norstalos! Can you believe it? If you ask me,’ and here Darry lowered his tone, ‘Duke Gello may be trying to take control.’

  Martil tried to hide a cynical smile, but something must have shown in his face, because Darry sniffed and leaned back. ‘This sort of thing may be old to you, but this is Norstalos! We don’t do that! And it would never be happening if we still had the Dragon Sword.’

  ‘What of the Queen? Is she a prisoner?’ Martil asked urgently.

  Darry snorted. ‘Do I look like a bard? I’ve told you all I know—and want to know! Now, will you be wanting dinner?’

  Karia did not understand the talk about martial order. She had bigger things on her mind. And as soon as they
sat down, she wanted to confront Martil.

  ‘So, where are we going to live?’ Karia wanted to know.

  Martil shrugged. He was not thinking that far ahead.

  ‘Well, if the Queen gives us money, we’ll buy a place by the sea. Then we can keep a few animals, do some fishing, and you can go to school.’

  ‘I’d like that. Father Nott told me a farm could be fun, but I didn’t have any with Da and the boys.’

  Martil shook his head at the resilience of the young. But, thinking about it, he had seen it often enough in the wars. A child, having lost one or perhaps both of its parents, managed to find a new home and learn to laugh and play again.

  ‘But this school. What will they do there?’ Karia asked sharply.

  While Martil tried to explain, Darry bustled over with their dinner, which was a fine distraction. As usual, Karia devoured everything placed before her, as well as the dessert of an apple pie. He had a healthy appreciation of her abilities as an eater but tonight she seemed to be getting some serious competition from a man at the next table. He had staggered in and almost fallen into his seat before ordering food and drink. He appeared to be not much older than Martil, and was quite thin, with long black hair tied back from his face. He had bright blue eyes, a jutting chin and a slightly over-large nose. He did not appear to be particularly happy, not smiling or talking to anyone. But despite his leanness, or perhaps because of it, he managed to put away a huge amount of the stew and three helpings of the pie.

  ‘Who is that?’ Martil asked Darry, as the innkeeper cleared away their plates.

  The man’s tunic and trousers were expensive, and of a deep purple colour that was unusual enough to stand out. Martil at first thought he was some sort of minor noble—he had that look about him. But he travelled with no companions or sycophants, which in Martil’s experience was the usual entourage of such people.

  ‘He’s a wizard,’ Darry whispered. ‘Been popping in and out of here almost all day.’

  Martil looked and sure enough, there was a long wizard’s staff, propped up against the table.