The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Ready? Draw and loose!’ Tarik hissed, and the twelve great bows thrummed, a noise that made one of the sentries turn his head. Not quickly enough. Each man was struck by three arrows, the force throwing them from their feet. One jerked for a few moments but then all were still, none having even had the chance to cry out. In the firelight, Martil could see blood sprayed up the walls from where the arrows had ripped into the men.

  ‘Rocus! Wime! Sirron!’ Martil pointed, showing the men where they should go, and the guardsmen, militia and farm boys fanned out through the pikemen’s camp, groups of men going to each neat pile of pikes, pulling it apart silently then hurrying back to the stables, where they rested the weapons against a wall and went back for more.

  ‘Tarik, get your lads up on the wall, just in case anything goes wrong,’ Martil ordered.

  But it went well—at least until Barrett got himself involved.

  ‘How goes it?’ he whispered.

  Martil gestured to where a steady stream of men carried stolen pikes back to the stables.

  ‘And the sentries?’

  ‘Dead. Tarik’s boys took them down before they had a chance to cry out.’

  Barrett grabbed Martil’s arm. ‘You should have called me! I could have put them to sleep without killing anyone!’

  Martil ripped his arm free. ‘This is a war, wizard. I thought you were tired. And besides, if something goes wrong here, I’ll need you to do it to all of them, not just four.’

  ‘Can we keep the noise down until we’ve got all the pikes?’ Conal hissed at them.

  The stream of men slowed to a trickle, then a grinning Sirron appeared with a pike in his hand.

  ‘This is the last one, Captain,’ he smiled.

  Martil felt the tension leave his shoulders. The town was theirs.

  ‘Form up! Two lines! Draw swords!’ he ordered quietly. ‘Tell the Count and the Queen that we are ready.’

  They swiftly formed up, then Martil took up position at one end, Barrett at the other. Finally, out came Merren and Sendric, both dressed in court finery, to stand with Martil.

  ‘We are ready, your majesty,’ Martil told her in normal tones.

  She nodded. ‘Then begin.’

  Martil drew the Dragon Sword. ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ he bellowed. ‘Come out and bow down before the Queen!’

  The pikemen stumbled out of their tents, woken by the shout, but, as it was not a sound of alarm, they were wondering if one of their fellows was playing a joke. They walked out to find their weapons gone, a double line of men in armour, swords drawn and shields locked, facing them, and a line of archers on the wall above, from where they could pick a man off as easily as a dragon could fly.

  ‘Where is your officer?’ the Queen demanded.

  A short man with curly black hair and sleep-reddened eyes pushed his way to the front.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Bibbert. Who are you?’ he growled, walking towards her. Unlike most of his men, he had snatched up a dagger before leaving the tent.

  ‘She’s Queen Merren. And you will be dead if you take another pace!’ Martil barked at him.

  Bibbert looked up at the archers, blinked, then came to an abrupt halt. The dagger dropped from his nerveless fingers.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked finally.

  ‘We are taking back the town. You may either join us, or spend the rest of your lives in the dungeon,’ Merren told them.

  ‘Taking back the town…You mean to hold it against Captain Havrick?’ Bibbert gasped as the words sank in.

  ‘More than that. We intend to defeat him,’ Merren said coldly. ‘We have the Dragon Sword!’

  But Martil could see they were not impressed. Bibbert was thinking, in fact most of his men were thinking, there was no way such a small group could hold off companies of infantry and cavalry. Join them and you would die, or spend a few days in the dungeon and emerge when Havrick took the town. It was not a difficult choice. One or two men started forwards but were instantly held back by their comrades.

  Merren turned to Martil, and her face was sorrowful.

  ‘Very well, put them in the dungeons,’ she sighed.

  ‘Take them away!’ Martil ordered Wime and he began to lead the men off, one squad at a time.

  ‘Is your dungeon big enough?’ Martil asked Sendric.

  ‘It was built to hold no more than fifty men. We do not have that much crime here. They will be a little crowded, but it will be enough to hold them for a few days, until Havrick is defeated,’ the Count said confidently.

  Martil turned to Merren. ‘My Queen, you have one town back under your control,’ he said gravely.

  She smiled. ‘Thank you, my lord Champion. Now we must tell the people about it.’

  The pikemen were being taken down to the dungeons, but Martil could not relax. The supplies, the horses and the families had to be brought out of the tunnel, and organised. Conal and Gratt disappeared, going to make contact with the town council, while Sendric wanted his old flag to be flown again, a white eagle over a white castle on a sky-blue background. There were too many jobs and not enough men for it, but as dawn lightened the sky, and the last of the pikemen were behind solid iron bars, he was beginning to feel as if they would be finished by noon, at least.

  The sounds of the town stirring into life drifted over the wall, and Martil organised for a score of the warhorses to be prepared, as well as Rocus and a squad of his guardsmen.

  ‘No helms! We want the people to see your faces,’ he instructed. ‘Now, send for the Queen.’

  Merren had wanted to ride through the town, to greet the people and show them they were free once more. Since her talk with the women back at the camp, she was determined to show the people—in this case the townsfolk—that she was worth fighting for and not some distant, uncaring monarch with no concept of ordinary life. Old surcoats with Sendric’s coat of arms were brought out, then Rocus took the flag, and they were ready to go. Karia, naturally, wanted to come along, an idea Merren thought marvellous.

  So the townsfolk awoke to the sound of trumpets blaring, looked out of their windows to see the old, familiar flag flying high above the town, and heard a strange procession moving through the streets. First came the town crier, then Rocus with the flag, then Count Sendric, the Queen, an armoured man riding with a small girl and finally a squad of armoured men in Sendric’s colours.

  Martil felt faintly ridiculous at first, listening to the crier shout out that the Queen and the Count had returned, and how Sendric was the first free town in Norstalos. But Karia was enjoying it immensely, waving at everyone, whether they waved to her or not.

  Word began to spread, and the few sleepy townsfolk who greeted them when they first rode out soon swelled to a crowd, as neighbours were woken and friends and relatives told. Children ran alongside, laughing, and soon the crier was barely able to be heard over the sounds of cheering and music.

  Women offered flowers, or plates of food. Martil tried to refuse, but Karia was having none of that. Soon it looked as though he had a small flowering bush riding in front of him, although one that was complaining bitterly because he only let her eat two honeycakes.

  By the time they had ridden around the town and were on the way back to the castle, the crowd of cheering people was so thick, they were hard pressed to keep going without stepping on anybody. And trailing behind them was a huge number of men, both young and old, most carrying some sort of weapon, from crossbow to club to old rusty sword.

  ‘It’s all going so well!’ Merren laughed.

  The gloom that had enveloped her at times back at the camp was gone. She could feel they were really taking a step towards freeing her country. As Queen she had ridden among her people often enough—waving demurely, and receiving the usual waves and a few cheers in return. When Gello had taken over her palace she had stared out at the plaza and longed for the people to show they missed her. She had been disappointed then but this was making up for all of that. The response was huge.
She had never seen people so happy to see her. All her doubts had fled now. She was sure this was the way to win back her throne.

  But when they arrived back in the keep, it was to find there had been an unseen problem. While Havrick had been in control, and the Count in hiding, a small number of people had seen this as their chance to become rich. By offering help to Havrick, they had been allowed to take over other people’s shops, or homes. Now it was time to pay the price for their actions, as their neighbours turned on them, so Martil was forced to send out Wime and his militia to stop these people from being killed.

  As it was, he soon found himself standing at the front gates of the town, looking over a score of men, some with families, all bearing bruises and other marks, most clutching just a few possessions they had managed to snatch up before being thrown out.

  ‘You can’t do this to us,’ one man bellowed. He was sporting a fine black eye, and his rich clothes were stained from where he had been pelted with rotten fruit.

  ‘He killed a baker and made his family work like slaves for him. Havrick let him do it because he was sending bread to the troopers,’ Wime muttered.

  ‘You got what you deserve,’ Martil told him. ‘You thought to use people’s suffering to make yourselves rich. Well, now you can go and beg off Havrick’s table once more. Tell him what has happened here. You might even get to live. But don’t come back. Because if he comes back here, he will die. Tell him that.’

  ‘You fool!’ Black Eye shouted. ‘Anyone can see this is Duke Gello’s time! His men will come back here and crush you like bugs! And we shall return with him, and rule the town! I’ll be back, to piss on your corpse!’

  Martil just spat and walked away. ‘Shut the gates,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t have time to deal with scum like this.’

  He climbed wearily back into the saddle for the ride back to the castle and the hundreds of problems waiting for him there. Luckily Conal and Sendric had done much of the early work, but, as the War Captain, he was responsible for organising the townsfolk into a small army, capable of taking on Havrick’s professional troops.

  ‘If only I had an extra head, and perhaps another pair of arms,’ he told Wime as they rode back along the streets that would form the killing ground when Havrick arrived.

  ‘You could see the wizard. I’m sure he could help you out there,’ the veteran militiaman grinned.

  Martil laughed. ‘If I know Barrett, I might end up with more than I bargained for.’ He glanced over at the militia officer, who had proved so steady and reliable over the past few weeks. In fact all of the officers had come along. Even Rocus could be entrusted with a command now, he felt.

  ‘How do you think the town will go?’ he asked.

  Wime whistled softly. ‘Ask me after the battle,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be putting coopers, smiths, bakers, farmers, herdsmen, shopkeepers and apprentices in against men who have been trained for years and believe they are an army of conquest.’

  ‘Are they angry enough to stand?’

  ‘They’re angry. There were many robberies, rapes and quite a few deaths at the hands of Havrick’s men,’ Wime said, then hesitated. ‘I discovered at least eight of the dead were Rallorans.’

  Martil looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘They were working as security on inns in the town. It has been the mark of a rich inn that it can afford Rallorans to guard its doors. It seems they took their task seriously, even when the inn was full of troopers. But against armed men, they didn’t stand a chance.’

  Martil spat. ‘It’s another reason to get my hands on Havrick. So the townies are angry. Good. But will they fight?’

  Wime looked around. Even half a day after the original parade, there were still people out waving and cheering at them.

  ‘They are angry enough to attack. It’s whether Havrick’s men are willing to stand and fight back. That’s when the test will come.’

  ‘We can’t let them form a shield wall,’ Martil said almost absently, as he looked up at the houses looming over the street. The ones along this road had been built like small fortresses, with solid doors and no windows facing the street on the first level. He imagined how it would feel to have archers, crossbowmen and javeliners hurling missiles down at you, especially if you were in a tightly packed column. ‘Caltrops,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Caltrops. We need to throw them down along with everything else. If we can get horses rearing and throwing riders, it will help disrupt them completely.’

  ‘Another thing to add to the list,’ Wime sighed.

  It was a long list. Martil had half-thought that the days waiting for Havrick to show up would be full of anxiety, nerves stretched by the thought of when the soldiers would appear. But in reality, he did not have time to be worried. In fact, he barely had time to eat or sleep. As well as the weapons they had brought with them, there were the castle’s emergency weapons in the keep. These were javelins, which had the virtue of requiring little skill, just a strong arm, and were thus ideal for breaking up a massed goblin attack. More than a thousand of these short spears were in the castle, which meant Martil could put one hundred men in houses above the streets and let them cause havoc.

  But the biggest job was trying to organise the townsfolk. Many wanted to help, and some even had experience. There were a number of men who had served in the army and either retired or left because they would not openly support Duke Gello. Then there were the men who had either served in the militia or hunted regularly. Finally there were the ones who just wanted to protect their homes and families—these ranged from farmers who had left their homes to escape the depredations of Havrick, to apprentices bored with their menial duties and shopkeepers wanting to protect their wares.

  These men must be graded: from those who could be trusted to loose crossbow bolts from the safety of the second storey of a house, to those who would follow Martil’s experienced men into battle and fight, to those who were willing enough but either too old or out of shape to realistically take part.

  But his problem was, how could you tell them apart? A man who ran could create a panic and lose the battle in an instant. All professed their eagerness but Martil had to put each one through a mock battle with Wime’s crafty militiamen before he could make a judgement on them.

  Meanwhile there were myriad other problems. The town had been stripped bare of wagons, so new ones had to be found or built, then loaded with straw and oil-soaked wood, so they could be used to block side streets and stop Havrick’s advance. Then the smiths had to slave away, creating caltrops as well as trying to make spearheads, which were the easiest and quickest things to produce. Then there were the supplies. The town had been stripped by Havrick, and while all the remaining supplies had been brought from the caves, it was not enough. Especially as many farmers and people from surrounding villages were flocking to the town.

  Merren thought they may have been inspired by the Dragon Sword.

  ‘We can’t be sure. They could just be scared and seeking shelter. If there was one thing I have learned, it is that you cannot underestimate the stupidity of people during wartime,’ Martil warned.

  ‘But if not, then it means our decision was the right one, and the Sword is responding to you!’

  Once again Martil had to draw the Sword for her inspection but the lack of anything much did not seem to dampen her enthusiasm. Merren was thriving in the atmosphere. She was meeting with dozens of people each day, negotiating with the town council, persuading shopkeepers to unearth hidden supplies and just cheering up the volunteers by visiting them and talking to them. This would be the start of her New Norstalos.

  Her spirit was rubbing off on the town. People seemed genuinely inspired after meeting her and Martil did not want to spoil what was becoming a potent weapon for the defence. ‘Perhaps it is happening but not when we stare at it. Anyway, we should wait until after the battle to know for sure,’ was all he was willing to say.

  Merren might be helping but the
re were still many problems only Martil could deal with. One morning he was summoned to the main gate, where a squad of Rocus’s guardsmen were caught in a stand-off with a group of caravan guards.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Martil demanded.

  ‘We need not only the food they have brought, but the wagons as well. We offered fair market value but the merchant refused to sell, and threatened us when we told him he wasn’t going to be allowed to leave with the wagons so he might as well get a decent price for them,’ Rocus explained. ‘They said they were leaving either quietly or over our dead bodies, then one thing led to another and…’ He gestured towards where the caravan guards stood in a tight semi-circle, their backs guarded by a wagon, shields locked and swords drawn.

  Martil sighed. It was the last thing he needed now. ‘I’ll talk to them,’ he told the guardsman.

  ‘Who is in charge here?’ he called as he walked towards the group, probably a dozen strong.

  ‘Captain Martil? Is that you?’ a strangely familiar voice called back.

  Martil peered at the faces looking back at him from under steel helms and a memory stirred.

  ‘Sergeant Nerrin? From the inn on the border?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Stand down, man, and bring me the merchant you serve, so I can explain what is happening.’

  The merchant turned out to be a rather fat man with an enormous beard and a habit of sweating prodigiously.

  ‘These wagons are the lifeblood of my business!’ he blustered, looking anxiously at Nerrin, after Martil had explained what they were doing and why they desperately needed wagons.

  ‘You will be able to buy double the number of wagons once you are back in Norstalos City,’ Martil said impatiently.

  ‘Double, you said?’ the merchant asked, suddenly interested.

  ‘Double,’ Martil agreed wearily, wanting this over with. He was spending the Queen’s gems rather rapidly but victory always came at a price.