The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

Martil ignored her, as he stared instead at the plan, and an idea began to blossom.

  ‘Martil! How about some paper!’ she said, louder this time.

  He could see it now. A column of troops, riding up towards the keep, suddenly attacked from all sides, with no room to manoeuvre and utilise their horses. In fact, in those confines, the cavalry would become a liability.

  Meanwhile Karia was getting frustrated. He did not usually ignore her. A few weeks ago, her next move would have been to throw a tantrum but she did not want to do that now. Perhaps if she just said it loud enough to get his attention.

  ‘Daddy!’ She yelled it before she even thought about it and was initially pleased when he looked up then realised what she had said. What if he didn’t like being called that? What if he got angry, or wanted her to go away? She could feel her cheeks burning and kept her head down, so she would not have to see him upset.

  ‘Karia,’ he said softly, but she would not look up. The knowledge of what she had called him was a warm glow in his chest but he did not know how to refer to it. ‘Karia, I think you’ve solved my planning problem. How about I find you some more breakfast, then we can go for a walk through the woods, where you can show me what magic you have learned this week?’

  She was just happy he was not angry—and also happy he still wanted to spend time with her. Perhaps she should just pretend it had not happened, also. So she just hugged him.

  He knew he should say something to her, say how proud he was she had called him that, tell her how much he loved her. The fact he could not was haunting him. But he did not know how. So he just held her. They stayed like that for a long moment.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you some breakfast,’ he said gruffly, to cover what he really felt.

  It was after noon, when everyone was ready to break a morning’s work with the midday meal, when Martil called them into the audience chamber. He knew they had expected him to spend all morning working on a brilliant plan, so he had no intention of telling them he had found the winning strategy in a child’s drawing and had then spent most of the morning playing dolls or catch with Karia.

  The small council of war, including Tarik, who had been summoned back from his forest ambushes, listened as he outlined the obvious choices. The first was to seize the town, fortify the walls and try and hold off Havrick’s army. But there was no way to spread out their trained men to defend that length of wall. Simple arithmetic showed each man would have too much to hold. It was an impossible task.

  The second choice was to just hold the keep, but that would mean giving up the rest of the town, leaving the townsfolk to Havrick’s less-than-tender mercies.

  ‘I cannot allow that,’ Merren stated flatly.

  Martil nodded. ‘So that leaves us with our third choice. Use the town’s defences against Havrick. In fact, Count, the town was built specifically to have a defence against an invader that had broken through the outer wall.’

  Sendric nodded. ‘Of course. The main road to the keep. It twists and turns, so an attacking force could be confused, split up, and attacked from the flanks and rear. The town’s designers took the possibility of a surprise attack, or goblins breaching the wall, into account.’

  ‘That is what we shall do. Havrick’s men will ride in, expecting us to be up at the keep. Once they are spread out over several streets, we shall strike. We shall use flame wagons to cut off their retreat and their advance. The surrounding houses we shall fill with archers and javeliners, to keep the vanguard and rearguard pinned down, while we strike in the centre and push backwards and forwards, splitting them up. Unable to use their numbers effectively, we can destroy each half. But it will be grim work. We cannot expect them to surrender quickly or easily. Remember, they think we are peasants and rebels. I will not lie—our trained men will have to lead the attack. I cannot send untrained townies in against soldiers. We could suffer heavy losses, even in victory.’

  ‘Is there another way?’ Merren asked quietly.

  ‘I cannot think of one,’ Martil admitted. ‘Although if any here believe they know of one, they should say it now.’

  There was a long silence, and then Merren turned to Sendric. ‘Will the town fight?’

  ‘Of course, your majesty. They will be especially eager to fight knowing armed men are in the town and they must protect their families.’

  Merren turned back to Martil. ‘Would it not be better to bring the families here, for safety?’

  Martil took a deep breath. He was conscious of the Dragon Sword at his side, and what it might be thinking of this plan.

  ‘I would advise against that. The men will fight harder, knowing that, if they lose, Havrick’s men will rampage through the city. If their families are here, the men’s minds will also be here. In their minds we are already half-defeated, for we have made plans in case of disaster.’

  Merren nodded slowly and Martil held his breath.

  ‘I see what you are saying, and much as it goes against my instincts, it makes sense. The townsfolk must fight harder than they have ever done before. Knowing they will be protecting their families might prove vital.’ She placed her hands on the table. This was the chance she had prayed for—but could she take that decision, knowing she was dooming many men to death? A few days ago the choice would have been easy. Now it weighed heavily on her conscience. Finally she looked up. ‘We shall leave tomorrow, and take the town tomorrow night. Let the men have the night to be with their families, then we shall leave here in the morning, on a march that, Aroaril willing, will take us to Norstalos City.’ It was a decision that had to be made. She just hoped it would be the right one.

  Barrett surged to his feet.

  ‘I give you the rightful Queen of Norstalos!’ he roared, and they joined his cheer, raising their cups of water or wine.

  She acknowledged their salute and swore to herself she would make this sacrifice worthwhile. These men had to know they were fighting for a better Norstalos.

  That afternoon was incredibly busy for Martil. All the supplies they had stolen had to be organised: the horses loaded up with as much as they could carry, the rest to be carried by the men, women and children. Martil did not want to leave a single sword or arrow behind. Having several hundred recruits was no use if they wore old cooking pots for helms, pillows for armour and carried a kitchen knife and a lump of wood.

  The mood in camp was strange; the men and their families were excited about what they were doing, but also nervous at what such a battle might mean. The farmers, those who were too old or too young to fight, were to stay behind until it was safe again, but had offered two cattle for the night’s feast. These were roasted, and the men and their families gorged themselves. When all were full, a few musical instruments appeared, and they began to dance around the fires, a last night of revelry before a battle.

  Martil was dragged out of a cave, where he was counting arrow sheaves, so he could report to Merren.

  ‘You cannot miss our last night of fun,’ Merren greeted him. ‘Would you like to dance? Or is our fearless captain afraid?’

  ‘Only of what people might say,’ Martil admitted, thinking of Barrett, and adding the unspoken thought that he was also nervous about what he might feel, having her lithe body so close to him.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Come along.’

  She grabbed his hand and he had no choice but to follow her out. The other dancers saw them and spread out to give them room, clapping and cheering.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you look foolish. Just follow my lead and don’t fall over,’ she said quietly, although he found the advice to ‘not fall over’ hardly comforting.

  She took his left hand in her right, and put his right hand on her waist, just above her hip. Her left hand was resting on his shoulder. She was wearing a dark green dress that set off her eyes and, he could not help but notice, her figure. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the dress, while her hand was warm on his shoulder.

  ‘Here we go.’ She w
inked at him and then was off, twisting and spinning, Martil desperately keeping up. True to her word, she made it look as if he knew what he was doing and he even managed a grin as Barrett glared at them from beside the fire. Sweating lightly now, he was mightily relieved when she spun to a stop and he could cover his nerves with a wave to the cheering men and women. He led Merren back to where Karia was bouncing up and down and clapping.

  ‘My turn now!’ she declared.

  ‘Be careful with him, he gets scared out there,’ Merren told her.

  ‘I do not!’ Martil protested, then had to wipe his sweaty brow.

  ‘He doesn’t lie very well, does he?’ Karia said critically.

  ‘Do you want a dance or not?’ Martil growled.

  Dancing with Karia was far easier. He just picked her up and spun her around and she giggled.

  ‘I love this!’ she laughed. ‘Keep dancing with me, Daddy!’

  Martil almost cringed at the word. He wished she would stop saying it, because every time, saying something in return was getting harder. He didn’t know if it was his determination not to look into the future or just because he had never said such a thing before. But he could not say what she wanted to hear, what she deserved. Desperate to distract her, he looked around. Many other children were also dancing. The night had a strange air about it, as if the people were trying too hard to have fun, but were afraid of what the next days would bring. Martil could see many of the farm boys sneaking off into the bushes with women. He could not blame them.

  He danced with Karia until he saw her eyelids drooping, then put her to bed; she protested she was not tired although she nodded off during a story. When Martil returned to the fire his thoughts were on Merren. But his hopes of getting her alone again were being stymied by Barrett, who was following him around like a lost puppy. He could at least sit beside her at the fire. She, too, was aware of Barrett but was determined to make Martil think of something other than a looming battle.

  ‘What was it like, growing up in Rallora?’ she asked.

  Martil almost had to rack his brain to remember a time when he had not had a sword in his hand.

  ‘Peaceful,’ was the best he could manage. ‘I lived outside a small village, where my family had a sheep farm. We looked after the sheep, sold the wool and the meat, went to the local church, learnt our letters at the local priest’s school, went to dances, enjoyed warm summers and huddled before the fire in winter. It was a good life, but I suppose I had become bored with it, which was why I jumped at the chance to join the army. Of course, it might have all changed now. The village was burnt out, my friends and family killed.’ He paused, horribly aware he was spoiling her mood now. ‘What about you? What was it like growing up in a palace?’

  ‘No sheep,’ Merren said immediately.

  ‘I knew you’d make a joke about the sheep. You Norstalines always reckon Rallorans are a bunch of sheep-shagging barbarians,’ Martil joked, then realised what he had said.

  ‘Yes, I was saying that to the Ralloran ambassador just the other day,’ Merren said wryly, ‘and he was reminding me that Norstalines are the only people who can shit rose-scented marble.’

  Martil stared at her in shock.

  ‘Well, he didn’t actually, but I was talking with some of the families the other day. One of them is Tetran and she was saying that to the others. I may have had some of the best teachers in the country but I am learning plenty from just listening to ordinary people,’ she smiled.

  ‘It must have been lonely, growing up there,’ Martil said what he was thinking.

  ‘It was,’ she admitted. ‘I never knew my mother, and barely knew my father.’

  ‘Tell me about your father,’ he invited.

  Merren smiled wanly. ‘He drew the Dragon Sword, so he must have been a good man. Sadly, I did not see much of it myself. I think he was haunted by guilt—he felt guilty for being born and taking the crown from his sister Ivene, he felt guilty whenever he saw me, for he loved my mother and would take no other wife, although most of the nobles begged him to do so, especially after Gello failed to draw the Sword. I can understand him, in some ways, but I can’t forgive him for leading us to this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He put us in this situation. He was the rightful King, and wielder of the Dragon Sword. He could have put a stop to Gello and Ivene’s plotting. But he would rather risk the country than offend his sister and nephew. He tried to appease them and they spat on the trust he placed in them. If he had been stronger, we would not be in this desperate state, it is as simple as that.’

  Martil heard the bitterness she struggled to keep out of her voice.

  ‘Sounds as if he wasn’t all that good. I’m surprised the Dragon Sword let him get away with that,’ he offered.

  Merren gasped.

  ‘What is it?’

  She turned towards him, a stricken expression on her face.

  ‘What you just said—all this time I suspected that Ivene had a hand in my father’s death but I could not see why she would kill him then, when her plans were not far enough advanced. Now I know why he died so young.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The Dragon Sword. He had the chance to save his country but would not take it. He stopped being a good man. The Dragon Sword must have stolen his life.’

  She sat back, stunned by her own revelation. She truly did not know what to feel. The part of her that had raged against her father—for the strictures he had placed upon her, the lack of love he had shown her and the ridiculous deal he had made on her behalf—that part wanted to say he deserved it, that it was just punishment for what he had put her through. Another part wanted to weep, to mourn for a man she honestly hardly knew, yet who had shaped her life. She was amazed she had not come to this conclusion before. What Martil had said made everything fall into place.

  Martil looked at her and knew she needed some sort of comfort. She might look like she was in control—and she might even claim she felt nothing for her father—but he could see coming to such a conclusion had deeply affected her. He wondered if he should reach out to her.

  Then Barrett cleared his throat. ‘Your majesty, that was a remarkable realisation. I agree with you completely. But it is something we need to examine at a later date. Its ramifications are too big to look at tonight, particularly as we have such an important day tomorrow. Time we were all abed, don’t you think?’

  ‘Why, my lord wizard, I do believe you have the makings of a fine mother hen,’ Merren said, with just a trace of acid in her voice. ‘I shall now leave you. Good night, Captain.’

  The air in the tunnel seemed a little staler this time, although Martil had to admit, the presence of so many people and particularly horses was adding to the fragrance. The men who brought up the rear of the column were having a hard time of it in particular, stepping over and around piles of manure. Thanks to Barrett—and Karia—their march to the small wood and cave that hid the tunnel into the keep had been exceedingly easy, especially as Havrick’s men were searching in the wrong direction, a score of miles away. Opening a gate between trees for so many was obviously not feasible, but Barrett had opened several, allowing groups through at a time, to give them a literal jump-start on their march. Their only concern, that someone could detect the use of magic and the march, was a small one. According to Barrett and Tarik, the press-ganged wizards were rarely even being sent out with the searching groups—Havrick had apparently come to the conclusion that the searchers accomplished more without them.

  Now they were almost at their destination, and were certainly under the town, so Sendric and Conal were sent ahead to find Gratt. The servant would lead them up to the castle and be able to tell them what had been happening since they last saw him.

  Martil ordered everyone to rest and eat, for it had been a day of hard work and walking to get them to this point. Outside it was dark but few seemed sleepy. Nerves were enough to keep all awake. The wait ended after barely a turn of the hourglass wh
en Conal returned with Gratt, both wearing broad smiles.

  ‘Good news. It seems Havrick has made the mistake of ordering his men not to go into the keep. They must use the courtyard as their barracks. They are all asleep, except for a couple of sentries, and have thoughtfully piled their pikes in small pyramids beside their tents. We can have them disarmed and helpless before they even wake up,’ Conal grinned.

  Martil stood and stretched.

  ‘Pass the word. Families can wait here until we send for them. When will they change the guards?’

  ‘Not for another two turns of the hourglass,’ Gratt said confidently. ‘I’ve been watching them for days now.’

  ‘Excellent. Come on!’ Martil signalled to his officers.

  He left the men waiting outside the entry to the stables, while he, Gratt and Conal eased into the darkened stables and peered out into the courtyard. Martil hissed in disapproval at the sloppy way Havrick’s pikemen had set themselves up. Their tents were in rough rows, but fires lit each one clearly, while the four sentries stood around another fire, talking and drinking rather than doing any watching. Wordlessly, he signalled for the other two to follow him back into the stables, then summoned the others.

  ‘Tarik’s lads will take out the sentries, the rest of us take the pikes and then we’ll wake the sleepy bastards up,’ Martil ordered. He had had misgivings about stealing weapons from men but the alternative, creeping into their tents and slitting their throats, was not going to be approved by Merren. Or the Dragon Sword, he had thought glumly.

  ‘Are they wearing armour?’ Tarik asked.

  ‘No, they’re just in tunic and surcoat,’ Conal replied.

  ‘Broadheads then, lads. Come on.’ Tarik waved his men up, and they spread out, each standing in the shadows of the stables, where they were hidden but had a clear view of the target. Martil almost felt sorry for the guards. None was more than forty paces away and Tarik’s men had chosen broadhead arrows, which had a traditional steel head as wide as a man’s finger at the base, narrowing to a sharp point. For men in armour it was not as effective; then they would use the bodkin arrow, which had a needle-like head to concentrate the force of impact and drive it through metal. But the broadhead could do terrible damage to an unarmoured man or animal.