by Duncan Lay
Two of the troopers picked up broken-off lances, now little more than short spears, and raced at him. He saw instantly they would try to keep him at a distance with those, and herd him into a corner where he could be finished off.
No sooner had he thought that, than he sprang to meet them, the Dragon Sword cutting off the tip of the makeshift spear carried by the man on his right, his old shortsword opening the other soldier’s throat a heartbeat later. The other two were yelling war cries and trying to get around the raised garden bed, so Martil decided to give himself some room. The second man, who still held the splintered lance, was wearing a breastplate, so Martil just jabbed the Dragon Sword at the centre of his chest, bracing his wrist for the force of the impact. He expected it to check the man, force him to back away and create some space. But instead of the shock of metal ramming against metal, the Dragon Sword slid through the steel breastplate, the point slicing through the armour at the back as well, emerging in a spray of blood.
Martil stopped in shock, his eyes unable to believe what had happened. Swords could not cut through armour as if it were butter. Without thinking, he twisted his wrist and pulled the Sword out. It no longer resembled an old sword but had taken its true form. He stared at it. Not a drop of blood marred the surface. The man he had stabbed was also in shock. He stared down at the hole in the front of his armour, touched it as if he could not believe such a thing were possible, then a gout of blood spurted out from the rent and he fell backwards.
The other soldiers had not seen what had happened, and they charged in regardless. Martil was still distracted by what the Dragon Sword had done and would have been unable to defend himself except Conal raced in, screaming at the top of his voice, swinging Martil’s spare sword with plenty of venom but hardly any effect. It was just enough, because the sheer ferocity of his attack made one of the soldiers hesitate, and alerted Martil. He spun around and used his left-hand sword to block the blow that would have killed him. He stepped back and decided to test the Sword. He feinted towards one man, then brought the Sword back around in a vicious arc that sliced through lance, breastplate, mail, bone and flesh. The soldier screamed in agony and disbelief as his steel breastplate and mail shirt, which should have stopped all but the heaviest of axe blows, offered him no more protection than cloth. Martil was filled with exultation at the power of the Sword. No wonder men would rally to it! You could not be stopped while holding such a weapon. He felt as if he could take on an entire regiment of Berellian axemen alone, if he had this in his hands. He was not prepared to let the last soldier get away, so he lunged at him.
Terrified of this weapon that cut through the finest armour, the soldier flailed wildly as he backed away. Martil blocked one blow with ease, then brought the Dragon Sword down in a brutal blow that split apart the man’s helmet and head, spraying blood and brains all over Barrett’s carefully-tended plants.
‘I’ll say one thing, I’m glad I’m fighting with you, and not against you,’ Conal commented.
Martil looked down at the wreckage of what had been four men picked by Gello for their skills. He was splattered with blood, but the Dragon Sword was spotlessly clean. He sheathed it.
‘Now I see why men want this so badly—to carry it in battle is to feel like a god,’ he breathed. He felt like laughing. Normally combat drained him emotionally, physically and mentally. But the way the Sword had cut apart those men left him feeling as though he could do anything.
‘A very messy god,’ Conal stepped around a particularly large pool of blood. ‘Time to go, before any more turn up.’
Martil shook himself. ‘You’re right. And thank you. You saved me back there—I’ll not forget it.’
‘Me either—I intend to make it work for me,’ Conal grinned.
‘Well, that’s the end to Conal the Cowardly. No coward I know would attack a pair of heavy cavalrymen with a shortsword.’ Martil clapped him on the shoulder and they hurried to join the others.
Barrett had already opened a path to the oak tree, and was sitting on the grass before it, eating almond-honey sweets and drinking water.
‘Are you hurt?’ the Queen demanded as they ran up.
‘Not my blood,’ Martil smiled. ‘That Sword is unbelievable! It just cut right through the armour those troopers were wearing! No wonder they all want it!’
‘Are you all right?’ Karia asked nervously. She had not wanted to see the fighting. Now the sight of Martil covered in blood was scary enough, but there was a look in his eyes that was worse. He looked like her da had before he used to attack travellers. She found herself trembling and turned away, unable to look at the blood on his face and clothes.
‘I’m fine,’ Martil said, looking down at Barrett, wanting to impress him and the Queen with what he had done. ‘Is this the right time for a picnic, wizard? Although the way that Sword works, I could take care of the entire company of Gello’s lapdogs.’
‘I’m just gathering my energy,’ Barrett said stiffly. ‘And how would you fare if they turned up with a squad of archers? Magic is what will save us here.’
Martil snorted. He was sure the Queen would know he was a worthy Champion. He squatted down on the ground and ripped up handfuls of grass to try and scrub his hands and face clean.
‘Does that hurt?’ Karia kneeled down beside him. She liked assisting people who were hurt, she had enjoyed going out with Father Nott when he had helped the sick.
‘No! It’s not mine—those troopers were nowhere near good enough to hurt me,’ he snapped.
Karia’s face crumpled. Why wasn’t he being nice? Was it something she had done?
Martil saw her eyes brim with tears and thought he should say something to her but the aftermath of the fighting, as well as his anger towards Barrett, ruled that out. Then horns sounded in the distance and they all turned to Barrett. He gestured at the seedlings between them and the house and these became trees again, sealing off the oak from view. Then he placed his hand upon it and closed his eyes. Sweat stood out on his face, and his breathing came harder, before he thrust his staff into, and through, the tree.
Martil wrapped Tomon’s reins around his wrist, then, holding the staff in one hand and Karia’s hand in the other, he stepped into and through the tree, emerging in an unfamiliar area. This clearing had no grass, instead leaf litter and a few stunted bushes. It looked as if it were in a real forest. Immediately afterwards came the Queen leading Barrett’s horse, Conal and his heavily-laden donkey, and then the wizard himself, who pulled his staff back through with a dramatic flourish.
‘Is it sealed behind us?’ the Queen asked.
For answer, Barrett merely rapped on the trunk with his staff, proving it was solid.
‘We are a few miles out of Sendric, near another royal magician’s lodge,’ he sighed. ‘We should rest there before going further.’ Then he almost slid down his staff to sit on the ground, puffing and panting, trying to get his breath back.
The Queen, meanwhile, clapped her hands together in delight, spun on the spot, embraced Karia, patted Conal on the shoulder, kissed Barrett on the cheek and then paused in front of Martil.
‘We have much to talk about. But I do want to thank you now for your help, and reassure you that Norstalos will not forget you,’ she said solemnly.
Martil felt his cheeks flush a little and he struggled to focus on her eyes as he gazed at her. She was almost his height and as he looked at her, he could feel his stomach turning over slowly, a sensation he had not experienced since asking his first girl to dance at the annual Festival of Aroaril.
‘We must get away,’ Barrett’s rasping voice broke the long silence and they both turned.
Martil led the way, or rather led Barrett on his horse. The Queen followed, with Karia in front of her, on Tomon. Karia, still smarting from Martil’s dismissal, rode in silence, not even bothering to ask questions. Martil knew from her silence that she was upset but he could not do anything while he had to watch the wizard. He glanced up at Barrett. The w
izard did not seem as tired as when he had brought them to the capital. But still he swayed in the saddle, and Martil could not help but think he was putting it on in order to look more impressive for the Queen.
The lodge was about half a mile away, and was far larger than the one near the border. There were bedrooms for all, as well as a large kitchen, a dining room and a lounging area. It also had stables out the back. Conal looked after the horses, while Barrett went off for a rest. The kitchen was well stocked with supplies of dried fruit, salt, dried meat and oats. It had been kept clean and had a faint smell of lavender, imparted by dried bunches of the herb.
‘I wonder how much it costs to keep these places nice and neat, and ready for the one time in years when the magician turns up,’ Conal observed sourly after wandering around. ‘How many of these things are there and why were they built?’
‘They date from the days of King Riel, when the Royal Magician was the ruler’s eyes and ears around the country. I have no idea how many there are and I, for one, won’t be querying the cost next budget time,’ Merren said dryly.
Martil washed, changed his clothes, then started to cook a simple stew of oats and dried meat. He managed to get Karia involved in the cooking, in an attempt to appease her, but it was obvious she was still not happy with him. He sighed but he had other people to impress, as well.
‘Not much of a celebratory dinner,’ he warned the Queen. ‘I’m afraid we can’t give you something better for your first night of freedom.’
The Queen laughed. ‘Rest assured it will taste sweet indeed, knowing it will be eaten without Gello’s guards hovering around. Although I wish I could see Gello’s face!’
12
Duke Gello was not thinking about control of Norstalos. That job was almost complete. True, Chelten and the other hand-picked men of his guard, the ones he had trusted to get the Dragon Sword out of the country, had failed to send a message saying they were safe in Tetril but that was a minor matter. Chelten had never failed before. The main thing was the Dragon Sword was gone, the Queen was a prisoner and he was strengthening his hold on the country by the day. No, Norstalos was not his concern now. Instead he had maps of Tetril and Berellia out, and he was trying to decide where he should strike first.
Every so often he would walk across to the throne and sit on it, just to see how it felt. The throne room was a special place for him. It had been the scene of happy memories, as well as one terrible one. But that was why he was here now. To wipe out that memory and regain the feeling he had had when he was a boy. He could remember his mother bringing him here, telling him it would all be his, one day. Arching pillars, a soaring roof, the marble floor, massive murals depicting King Riel saving the dragon, towering windows that looked across the rich city, space for hundreds of people to gather—they all spoke of the grandeur of Norstalos. As a boy he had dreamed so many times of sitting here—almost every time his mother spoke to him, she would begin by saying, ‘When you are King…’ As he grew, it was all he thought about. Then had come the devastating day—his twenty-first birthday, the day when he was acclaimed as a man. The day that should have been his triumph, when he should have drawn the Dragon Sword. His mother had told him it was his birthright, his destiny, as natural as breathing. But the Dragon Sword had refused him. The memory was still fresh, the pain still raw, although he had tried so hard to forget it, to bury it away. The throne room had been packed. Every noble, every army officer, every friend Gello had was there to witness it. It had been a massive celebration. Then had come the moment when he tried to draw the fabled Sword and failed. The cheers and chatter had died to horrified silence as all watched the young Gello tug futilely on the hilt. Watched the tears running down his face, heard the Duchess Ivene scream in disbelief and anger.
Gello had refused to stop, had kept trying to draw the Sword until his friend and bodyguard, Chelten, had rushed forward to stop his humiliation.
And, just before he had been taken out of the throne room, he had seen his cousin Merren’s face. Unlike most of the others, she had not turned away in either embarrassment or pity, but had kept watching. And he had seen the fierce triumph on her face, realised that this meant she would become Queen, would take the throne that should have been his.
In that moment, with his cheeks burning with shame, tears running down his face, everything had changed. His plans for making Norstalos great were forgotten. Instead he was filled with an anger so fierce, so hot, that he had almost cried out. He had sworn revenge, not just on her but on all of them. He would take the throne, no matter what. He would wipe out this dishonour. This would not be the deed he would be remembered for. He would not become Gello the Unworthy in the history books. He would show them all! He would be the greatest King the world had ever seen—better yet, he would be an Emperor! Emperor Gello! Ruling a massive continent and beyond!
That became the only thing he cared about. How he got there, what he had to do to make it possible, that meant nothing. He would not stop until he could wipe away every trace of his humiliation. Nothing and nobody else mattered.
And now he had taken the first major step.
But it was not enough. He could sit here in the throne room and still hear the laughter ringing in his ears, taste the shame thick in his throat.
To wash that away, he had to do more. In his mind’s eye, his armies marched in all directions, smashing his opponents to submission, bringing back mountains of treasure and lines of weeping women. His name would echo down through history every child in the world, even those who had never heard of Norstalos before, would know his name! Gello the Triumphant! Then, perhaps, he would be able to forget the past.
Part of him mourned the fact his mother was not there to see his triumph but mostly he felt relief. At first she had blamed him for his failure to draw the Dragon Sword, told him he had not listened to her enough. Her control of him, already strict, became absolute over the next twelve years as they plotted to take what had been denied them. In the last couple of years, he had begun to chafe under her tight grip. He was going to be the ruler, not her! She had even begun to suggest she should take the throne as regent, that he only get the crown after her death. Well, that was not going to happen. He would not be denied again. They had fought and, at the end of it, he had found himself stumbling from her bedchamber, covered in blood. Chelten had cleaned him up and covered it up, the old Duchess buried in a sealed coffin a day later. He could not remember exactly what had happened, could only remember sobbing his way through the funeral service then waking up the next day feeling like a prisoner enjoying his first taste of freedom. For now the way was clear for him to take the throne. No, it had been a terrible mistake, but it had been for the best. After all, if she had still been around, she would be interfering even now. He could almost hear her voice in the back of his head, telling him to investigate why the men with the Dragon Sword had not sent him a message. Telling him to disband the regiments loyal to the Queen—and telling him to have her killed. Well, he was not going to listen to her any more. He was the one in charge now. He was the one about to become a legend.
He turned again to his maps, as he had done hundreds of times before. Of course, soon he would be invading for real, and this added extra spice. The Tetran army was a joke; he could smash it with two thousand infantry and his heavy cavalry regiment. But Tetril was a poor country. It had no gold or silver mines and would provide little for the invader. On the other hand, Berellia was a rich country, with gold and silver mines aplenty. However, while its army had been shattered by years of war with Rallora and Aviland, it still had a core of several thousand veterans. It also had plenty of strong castles and natural fortifications that could tie up a campaign for years. And he knew the Berellian King was working hard to build up his army once more. It was a tough decision, but he relished having the chance to make it. He was thinking about a crushing victory in Tetril first; to blood the new recruits he intended to amass, and to begin his legend of invincibility, when a terrifi
ed officer burst into the throne room. Gello looked up in surprise. He had heard the church bells ring out, but had ignored them. His guard detachments on each gate had been told to signal by trumpet.
‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘Your grace—it’s the Queen.’ The young officer wore Gello’s red surcoat, the one he had insisted the entire army adopt now he was in power, and the lance badge over Gello’s double-sword insignia showed he was from the heavy cavalry. He also wore an expression of abject terror.
‘What now? Is she after permission to visit the dressmaker because she cannot find a gown that coordinates with her shoes?’ Gello smirked.
‘Your Grace—she’s escaped!’
‘What?’ he spat.
‘The Queen’s Magician, Barrett. He and a handful of others, including a warrior using the Dragon Sword, switched the Queen for a whore while she was in church, then must have used magic to escape,’ the officer gabbled away.
It took a moment for it to all sink in, then Gello’s brain threw up the one phrase that had leapt out. ‘The Dragon Sword?’ Gello’s colossal anger was tempered with a flicker of fear. Having the Queen escape was bad enough, but with her was a Champion with the Dragon Sword? ‘Are you sure?’
‘Your grace, he cut apart a patrol. One stroke of his sword opened up steel breastplates like they were wet parchment. I would not have believed it possible unless I had seen it myself.’
Gello gulped. ‘Send word to every garrison commander. I want every town locked tighter than a priestess’s thighs in a cavalry barracks. If they hear of any meetings, protests or rallies, they are to use whatever force they deem necessary to stop them. Now get me my war captains.’
