The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  The Queen relaxed. ‘I thought…I wondered where they were going…’

  ‘We would never leave you,’ Martil said quickly, understanding her concern.

  Merren smiled weakly at him and then sat down at the table, her head in her hands. Gone were the power and the poise that Martil had seen since he had first met her, instead there sat a young woman who looked tired in both body and spirit.

  He and Karia ate in silence for a minute, Martil wondering if he should offer Merren a bowl of the rather tasteless stew.

  ‘Why?’ Merren blurted suddenly.

  ‘What?’ both Martil and Karia said.

  ‘Why did the Count not help us? I do not understand it. It’s always so easy in the sagas! It makes me wonder if Gello and his cronies were right, and Aroaril does not want a woman on the throne of Norstalos.’

  ‘That cannot be true,’ Martil said instantly.

  ‘It’s just that, after going through so much over the past few years, of struggling and plotting, having to be twice as tough as any king would be, just to get half the respect, I never thought there would be problems once I had the Sword!’ She seemed to be almost talking to herself, but Martil felt as though her words were going straight to his heart. It was obvious the royal persona, which she used to keep everyone at a distance, was gone. This was the Merren she usually kept hidden.

  ‘And you know what the worst thing is? I never even said goodbye to my friends properly. I let them go into terrible danger without even giving them a hug. Why? Because I have spent so much time trying to be the sort of tough ruler the nobles want, I can’t be myself any more. And all the time, it didn’t matter. I could have done it my way and Gello still would have gone down this path.’ She rubbed her face tiredly. Karia slipped off her chair and crossed over to Merren. She did not really understand what Merren was saying but it was obvious the Queen was upset. So she gave her a hug.

  Merren stroked Karia’s hair absently, then helped her onto her lap. ‘There are things I could have done better. If I get the chance again, it will be different. Although that chance looks rather small now. I have half a mind to just leave. Let the country fall apart, let Gello lead it on a path to war and destruction. Go and sit in Tetril, or even down in Rallora, as a normal person. I can do what I like, say what I like, and marry who I like. See what they think of that.’

  Martil’s heart had lurched when she had mentioned marrying who she liked, but he recognised she was not truly serious about it, just trying to let out some of the feelings welling up inside her. He felt close to her then. ‘You won’t do that,’ he said softly.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ she agreed. ‘Because that’s what they want. They want me to run away, so they can say Norstalos should never have had a Queen. Well, I shall show them. I’ll be the best ruler this country has ever seen!’

  Martil listened to her words, his food forgotten. He was transported back through the years, to the day when the army recruiter had come to the village. All had listened to the man, who had talked of how, once the brutal Berellians had been beaten back, the country would enter a golden age. The words had proved as false as the Berellians’ promise to keep the peace. He thought he would never listen to such a speech again. He had heard too many honeyed lies from kings and nobles in his time. But from her it was different. She had nothing to gain from this, she was just speaking her mind. He felt this was a pivotal moment. With the right words now, he could persuade her to abandon her plan to retake the country. But he found he did not want to do that. There was something about her that spoke to him. He could not crush her dreams. Instead he wanted to give her hope, even though it would put him even closer to the fighting. He had started this journey on a whim, now he would take his first deliberate step in a campaign not just to win her war but more importantly, to win her.

  ‘Merren, it was not your fault. But all is not lost. We can still start the way I suggested. It will just take that much longer without Sendric’s help,’ he said firmly.

  ‘How?’

  ‘After the battle of Meads, the Ralloran army was smashed. Oh, we made it into the mountains, a few thousand of us, but we could not face the Berellians and Avish in open battle any more. All that was left was to wipe us out and then divide up the country. Luckily for us, they decided to divide our country before they finished us off, and fell out over where the new boundaries would be drawn. Still we did not have the strength to take on even just the Berellians, so we split up and started raiding. We stung them, until the Berellians were just guarding the land they held. Then we started taking back villages and small towns. That is what we shall do.’

  ‘You think we can do that and win?’ Merren asked doubtfully.

  ‘If Rallorans could do it, without a rallying point like the Sword, then surely we can,’ he smiled.

  ‘I wish I could believe that,’ she sighed.

  Martil took a deep breath. He had sworn never to do this but the course he had chosen demanded it. For a moment he wondered if he would be doing this if he was not attracted to her. But that was pointless; he was attracted to her and he was doing this. He stood and walked around the table, then drew the Dragon Sword and dropped to one knee by her side. He took her hand, and felt his heart pound a little faster. It took some effort to concentrate on her face. Her eyes seemed to look deep into him and he tried not to let any of his feelings show.

  ‘I am pledging my life on it. I shall see you returned to the throne or I shall die,’ he said simply. After all, that was what the wizard had insisted would happen, so it was not too much of a dramatic statement, he told himself.

  She smiled at him and he felt his heart jump again.

  ‘You don’t want to die!’ Karia exclaimed, and broke the spell.

  ‘I have always preferred victory to death,’ Merren chuckled. ‘Is there any stew left? I’m starved.’

  Martil forced a laugh and busied himself getting her some stew, trying not to think about the promise he had just made.

  ‘One thing though—how long did the Ralloran wars last?’

  ‘Well, it was nearly seventeen years,’ he said.

  Merren looked troubled. ‘That is my one concern. I do not like leaving Gello in power for so long. And, if you cannot unlock the Dragon Sword’s hidden powers, you will not have so long. You will die before then. You must be a good man.’

  ‘He’s nice,’ Karia defended him. ‘I don’t want to see him die. Who’s going to make me toast or play dolls with me then?’

  Martil looked at Merren, who had an amused smile on her face. ‘You play dolls? The fabled Captain Martil, a Butcher of Bellic, plays dolls?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. And catch. When I can’t avoid it, I sing bedtime songs.’

  Merren looked at him quizzically. ‘I can see the Dragon Sword’s problem. Which is the real wielder—is it the man who looks after a small girl who is not his own, who can calmly deal with requests for more food and more books, or the man who becomes so lost in battle that he kills unarmed men?’

  ‘Can we tell it which one to believe?’ Martil half-joked.

  ‘Perhaps we should not think about starting the rebellion yet. Perhaps we should live somewhere quietly until the Dragon Sword is convinced you are the rightful wielder, then come back.’

  Martil felt the irresistible lure of that offer. To live somewhere quietly with this woman and this child, why, it was the sort of life he had dreamed of when he left Rallora for what he imagined were the peaceful northern lands. True, the ideal woman had not been a queen, and had probably been a little more generously endowed, in the mould of Rabbag rather than Merren. And the children he had imagined would be boys, tough youngsters he could teach how to ride and how to use a sword. But he looked over at them, sitting at the table, and somehow knew deep in his soul that these two were better than the dream.

  ‘It sounds good,’ he said wistfully.

  Merren looked at him then, and he wondered if he had put a little too much of his feelings into his voice. He
quickly covered it by offering to read Karia a book, and used her excitement to mask his own emotions.

  But it was hard not to relax, sitting there in the quiet cabin; a little girl on his lap, listening to him read a book, a beautiful woman sitting quietly, watching them both. Hard also not to daydream, to imagine this was a real life.

  Karia settled down and enjoyed the attention. This was more like it. No shouting, no anger and no Martil covered in blood. Just a nice fire, a funny saga about a princess who was made to sleep with a small vegetable under her mattress and herself as the centre of attention. This was the sort of thing Father Nott used to speak about. This was the life she wanted.

  Merren watched Martil read to Karia and felt a strange, wistful pang. Her mother had died young and she had been raised by a succession of nursemaids and tutors. Her father had been distant and rarely had enough time to spend with her. Even after anointing her as the future Queen, he had only ever wanted to talk to her about royal duties. When she was a little girl, she had longed for time with her father like this. It had never happened. He was always too busy. Would things have been different had that happened? It was impossible for her to say. Still, it did make her think about her own future children. They would need care and attention if they were to grow up into people the Dragon Sword would accept. She looked at Martil as he read quietly to the little girl. She was not blind; she had detected his attraction towards her. She had immediately thought it was something she could use to help keep him loyal, as it had worked with Barrett. At least she was pretty sure it could work like that. Anyway, the important thing was encouraging him to keep being a good man, and not the Butcher of Bellic. He was no good to her as a dead Dragon Sword wielder.

  The sound of a horse disturbed the cosy scene. Martil guessed Barrett and Conal must be back. He stayed in the chair, wanting to hold onto the magic of the moment. But something made him wary, there was something about the footfalls as they crossed the veranda and dragged up to the door. He was already moving, lifting Karia up, when a hand pounded on the door and a voice, hoarse with emotion, bellowed:

  ‘Open up! In the name of Aroaril!’

  Martil handed Karia to Merren and signalled towards the bedrooms. She nodded at once, and darted inside one. Martil felt his mind clear as he readied himself for battle. There was nothing that could come in that door that was going to get through him to them.

  He freed the latch and jumped back, Dragon Sword held low, ready for the rush.

  Instead the door swung open and one man stumbled inside. A man who fell to his knees and raised his hands towards Martil in supplication. It was only when he turned his tear-streaked face up that Martil recognised him.

  ‘Count Sendric!’

  14

  Cezar slipped in through the window and crossed to the bed silently. It had been a long hunt. His delay in returning from Norstalos had allowed Earl Byrez to almost disappear into an underground network of Aroaril-worshippers and sympathisers.

  But, after his failure in Norstalos, Cezar was in no mood to give up. An afternoon of torture had revealed this location and he was now only steps away from finishing his mission.

  The shape in the bed was unmoving as he walked silently across the floorboards—but a whisper of noise to his left made him dive forwards; just in time, as a sword hissed through the air where his head would have been.

  Still kneeling, Cezar sent a pair of throwing knives flying back towards his attacker. One thudded into the wall, the other struck home.

  The man gasped in pain and Cezar drew a shortsword and leapt forward, deflecting aside a weak thrust to ram his blade home.

  The stricken man staggered back, and moonlight through the window revealed him to be Earl Byrez.

  ‘This is not the end,’ the dying man groaned. ‘My son will see Markuz destroyed.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ Cezar told him coldly before cutting his throat.

  There was little of the satisfaction he normally felt when completing a kill. He was still haunted by his failure to kill Martil, and now Onzalez had told him he could not go back to Norstalos immediately. He must wait for word from Ezok. But Onzalez had reassured him: ‘You shall face him and the fight will finish with you standing over his fallen body. I have seen it.’

  It was hard to be patient but at least that thought was a comfort. He would wait, and the waiting would make the victory all the sweeter.

  Merren, Martil and Karia watched the Count gulp down a cup of wine. Martil had helped the Count sit at the table, and then had summoned Merren and Karia from the bedroom.

  ‘What happened?’ Merren demanded.

  The Count passed a shaking hand over his face. ‘My daughter. It is my daughter. After you left, soldiers arrived, demanding answers. I told them I had sent you away, and I believed you had left through magical means. I invited them to search the castle, which they did, leaving empty-handed a turn of the hourglass later. Almost as soon as they had gone, I rushed down to see old Father Quiller, who has been our family’s priest since I was a boy. I asked him to contact friends in the capital, to see if my daughter was all right and if Gello had taken any action against Rana and the other ladies-in-waiting. It was in my mind to appeal to the local commander, a man called Jennar, to send word to the Duke that I had done nothing to help you. That way my daughter could be released. But within another turn of the hourglass, the news came back to us.’

  ‘Yes?’ The Queen’s face had gone white.

  The Count looked up at her and seemed to dissolve, tears running down his cheeks. ‘Your majesty, Gello’s men have…abused…then killed my daughter and the rest of your ladies-in-waiting. My friends were able to reply so quickly because they saw the naked bodies hanging from the palace walls.’

  The Count dropped his head into his hands, but Martil turned to Merren. Her face was pale, there was a muscle jumping along her jawline, and she seemed to be holding herself together only by an extraordinary effort of will. He half-reached out to her, to give her a shoulder to cry on, a hug for comfort—he did not know, only that he should offer something.

  But she merely held up her hand. A single tear escaped her, rolling down her cheek until she cuffed it away angrily.

  ‘Now, Sendric, you see what we are up against. For defying Gello, my friends, your daughter, were foully abused then murdered,’ she said in a voice so icy Martil thought it must surely break. ‘But if you and the other nobles who hate Gello had united behind me years ago, we would not have come to this. Now we must destroy Gello to put this right.’

  Sendric looked up. ‘My Queen, I am willing to do anything you ask of me. My life is unimportant. Ask of me what you will.’

  Merren stood, walked around the table and helped Sendric to his feet.

  ‘I share your pain, Sendric. Mine is made bitter by the knowledge good men like yourself were too scared to do anything before. But I can promise you this, we shall have revenge.’

  ‘What of the prostitute I hired to impersonate the Queen?’ Martil could not help but ask. He regretted the deaths of the ladies-in-waiting, but at least they knew what they had been letting themselves in for. Lahra, or Rabbag, had been tricked by money.

  ‘As far as I know, she was set free. Only the bodies of the ladies were hung from the walls,’ Sendric shrugged, obviously uninterested in the fate of a whore.

  ‘Gello’s birthday is soon. She was probably booked to perform there,’ Merren said bitterly.

  Martil decided to change the subject swiftly.

  ‘Count Sendric. Gello’s actions mean three things. First, he is incredibly confident. He is willing to alienate four nobles by killing their daughters…’

  ‘One noble,’ Merren corrected him. ‘The other three were daughters of wealthy merchants or former soldiers.’

  ‘Still, one noble. Second, he is happy for people to know what happens to those who oppose him. Third, he is not concerned you will find out how your daughter died. You know what that means.’

  ‘Aye. Eith
er there is a force on the way to kill me, or orders for the local garrison to do the same.’

  ‘Then we must gather what men you can and find somewhere quiet to use as our base. This lodge is too small, and too easy to find. We shall start raiding, and then we shall start to make Gello afraid of us.’

  ‘How many men will you need? I have my personal guard, then there are my hunters, and I’m sure some of the militia would be willing to help.’

  ‘No more than fifty. We need to start small, and work upwards,’ Martil said confidently.

  ‘Horses!’ Sendric said, alarmed.

  They could all hear hoofbeats, but Martil held out a hand.

  ‘Just two. It will be Barrett and Conal—unless you think you were followed, Count?’

  ‘No. I used the secret passage to get out. None could have followed me.’

  Sure enough, Barrett’s secret knock echoed through the cabin a moment later. He and Conal arrived with sacks full of fresh food, to be horrified by the news the Count brought, yet pleased it meant they could start working towards Gello’s downfall.

  ‘We have a busy night. We need to split up, get the men, get supplies and get to our new campsite,’ Martil declared.

  ‘Count Sendric. I appreciate you are the only noble in this small group, but War Captain Martil here is a veteran of the Ralloran wars. He is also the Dragon Sword wielder. I wish I had been taught the arts of war but my dear father and aunt decided I should be kept from them. As I cannot run a campaign, I will appoint Martil as my military commander.’

  The Count shrugged. ‘I do not care. I seek only revenge, then a quick death.’

  Merren walked over to him and forced him to look at her.

  ‘We are not doing this to die. We are doing this to win. Understand? You shall all be my advisers. I was banned from studying warfare by my father but I am a quick learner. So I will need to hear each night how our plans are advancing. Now come, we have no time to waste.’

  After a few days of frenetic activity, the tiny rebellion was taking shape. For Martil, these were strangely familiar times. It almost took him back to the days when he was training the Ralloran army. Sendric had found them almost fifty men, a combination of his personal guard, his hunters and militiamen of long experience that he could trust. Sendric had wanted to also bring Father Quiller along, but the old priest had refused, saying he needed to look after his flock. That had been something of a blow, as Martil knew they would need a priest’s healing powers at some stage. But at least, thanks to Sendric’s hunters, they found the perfect camp, a cave system in the hills, hidden by the woods.