The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Done! A pleasure doing business with you!’

  Martil watched him hurry off, and signalled to Rocus to pay the man and then drag the wagons off to the keep.

  ‘Sir?’ Nerrin said, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear what you said. And it would be an honour for my men and me to serve you once more, sir!’

  Martil looked at the tough, red-headed Ralloran warrior and felt the temptation to add a dozen prime men to his little army. They would be worth ten times their number in shopkeepers. But then the memories of the Ralloran battlefields came flooding back.

  ‘Sergeant, this is not your fight. You and your lads have done all the fighting you need to. Relax and earn your money from merchants. But mind he pays you a bonus, your bravery earned him double the fee we are giving others!’

  ‘But, sir…’

  Martil put his arm around the man’s shoulder. ‘Nerrin, I am taking a bunch of townsfolk into battle against professional soldiers. We may outnumber them slightly but there are scarce fifty men I can count on. I would love nothing better than to have you and your men on my side. But I have seen too many good Rallorans die under my command. I cannot have any more die in a fight that is not their own. Let these Norstalines stand up for themselves. They are always telling us how good they are. As for me, I have no choice. I drew their Dragon Sword, now I am the Queen’s Champion. But you—you should go away, find a wife, and raise some kids. Don’t walk into another war.’

  ‘Sir, you know any Ralloran who served with you would walk into Zorva’s realm and spit in his face for you.’

  Martil stared into Nerrin’s eyes. ‘That is why I cannot ask them to. You understand? Now go, you are not to take part in this battle. That is an order!’

  Nerrin’s face showed his reluctance but he still drew himself to attention.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The Ralloran saluted and signalled to the rest of the guards to follow. He hated to leave Captain Martil but he could not disobey a direct order. He watched Martil walk away, then blinked. It seemed to him that the hilt of the captain’s sword was shining at him. Strange, for the sun was not even out.

  Not all problems were so easily solved. Martil had the various forces rehearsing twice a day now, using trumpet calls to relay his orders. Simple ones, such as advance and retreat. For anything else, he would rely on Barrett using magic to communicate with his officers. The early attempts were a shambles: wagons arriving at different times, men charging down streets that did not meet up with the main approach road, men falling over and injuring themselves. But they were getting better. Slowly.

  And all the time he was spending training the men meant he was not seeing much of Karia. And she was less than impressed with this—and constantly pestered him to spend time with her—and added to his existing guilt by telling him how much she loved him. Much as he wanted to indulge her, so many lives depended on him that he could not spare her much time. Nor could he bring himself to tell her how he felt. Karia, meanwhile, was both frustrated and upset by Martil seemingly ignoring her. He had tried to explain things to her and, while she could understand why he had to keep leaving her, it did not mean she liked it.

  Meanwhile, Barrett was keeping an eye on Havrick. The men who had been forced out of the town had scattered, but a dozen had stayed together and travelled to Havrick, telling him the town had risen behind him. His search parties had now travelled quite some miles into the woods—in the wrong direction—and he had to recall his wide-ranging forage parties before he started his march back towards Sendric.

  ‘He’s pushing the men too hard. The supply wagons are not catching up until late at night, and he’s moving so fast that they don’t have time to forage. By the time they reach the town, they will have run out of food,’ Barrett reported.

  ‘Excellent. The men will be tired and hungry. That may prove to be a decisive edge,’ Martil smiled.

  ‘I estimate they will arrive in two days’ time. And that will be a hot day for marching.’

  ‘Better and better,’ Martil agreed. ‘Our men will rest during the day, eating and drinking as much as they can. We have to force them to do this, for many will be too nervous to feel like food, but they will fight better and longer on a full stomach.’

  The officers nodded. As well as seventy crossbowmen and a score of archers—a few more hunters having been found to join Tarik’s dozen—he had one hundred men with javelins to put into houses, and a mass of more than four hundred men armed with a variety of weapons, from spears to axes to pikes to swords, and wearing a variety of armour, from thick leather jerkins to mail hauberks to several thick winter coats. The last would not stop a sword blow but gave the wearer a feeling that they had some sort of protection.

  ‘I shall speak to the men,’ Merren decided.

  That night the volunteers massed in the courtyard, where they made an impressive sight. Merren and Martil stood above the gate, Martil holding aloft the Dragon Sword, a squad of guardsmen holding torches, so they were bathed in light.

  ‘Soldiers of Norstalos!’ Merren shouted, Barrett ensuring her voice could be heard across the courtyard. They cheered that line, as Martil had known they would. He had secretly instructed Wime and Sirron to get their men to lead the cheering of the speeches, so that the other men would be in the right mood.

  ‘Soldiers of Norstalos, we shall write a new and glorious chapter into the history of this proud country! The man who ordered his soldiers to rape and kill your friends and family, to burn homes and steal all they could, is coming here to destroy this town. But he will find you, instead! We shall defeat him, through your bravery, and in years to come, Sendric will be able to boast that New Norstalos started here! Our road to triumph started here, and you will be forever proud of that!’

  They cheered her again, and Martil had to wait until it had died down before he stepped forward and held up the Dragon Sword.

  ‘Here it is! The Dragon Sword given to King Riel all those centuries ago! In all that time, no Norstaline army has lost when it was led by the Dragon Sword! Remember that! It will help you win!’ He waved the Sword high then and they cheered him. ‘Now go and enjoy yourselves—and know this, any man who is wearing the blue sash of a volunteer can drink at any inn in town and never worry about paying a coin!’

  That brought an enormous cheer, and they filed off then, eager to test his statement.

  ‘Lose the torches and join the fun, lads,’ Martil told the guardsmen, who were delighted to obey.

  ‘They will be ready now,’ Martil predicted, waving at the men who jostled their way out of the courtyard, spreading out in search of inns. He felt a little sick. He hated making speeches before battles to fire men up so that they would die more willingly on the morrow.

  ‘What about you?’ Merren asked. Her stomach was churning at the thought of what tomorrow would bring. He was supposed to be the strong one, yet he seemed to be in a worse state.

  Martil shrugged. ‘We’ve done all we can. It is up to the men—and Havrick—as to how the battle goes now.’ He looked out over the town and laughed harshly. ‘I swore I was done with my last battle when I left Rallora, yet here I am, ready to fight another—and if we win this one, it will lead to even more. Truly, Aroaril must want to punish me.’

  Merren stepped closer. ‘Or Aroaril could be helping me. I know of no other warrior who could have brought us to here. And I doubt any other could give us victory tomorrow.’

  Martil shrugged. ‘Even if we win, many of those men will die; die under my command.’

  ‘No!’ Merren snapped. ‘They will have died under my command. This is my burden, more than it is yours. We are all here because of me. I will not have you take on that responsibility when their deaths need to be on my conscience.’

  Martil looked at her and saw the fear in her eyes, as well as the grim determination. For a heartbeat he forgot about the battle and thought only of kissing her.

  ‘Now I
have one important duty for you, Captain,’ she told him.

  ‘What is that?’ His imagination jumped ahead, his heart beat a little faster.

  ‘You need to read Karia a book, then get a meal and a good night’s sleep. She’s been annoying me, because she can’t see you. So cheer her up. That is a royal command!’

  He could not help but smile at that.

  ‘That’s better! You need to smile more, Captain. Your face has been entirely too grim of late.’

  ‘I can’t think why,’ Martil said wryly.

  Merren smiled and gestured towards the stairs. ‘Hurry up, Captain. I had to promise Karia that you would see her, or she would never have left me alone!’

  Martil escorted Merren back towards the keep, where they had all been staying. The women and children would wait here during the battle, so Conal would command a group of old men to guard its walls, protecting the keep in the unlikely event of the battle getting that far.

  Merren knew she needed to keep Martil’s spirits light but also wanted to hear what he thought about the speeches.

  ‘Do you think they will make a difference?’ she asked. ‘I have never had to give a speech before a battle before.’

  ‘If it affects one man, it will be worth it. That one man might turn the battle for us,’ he reflected, then thought he should sound more positive. ‘And this night with the families is just the thing to stiffen the men’s resolve.’ He gestured to where many of the women were joining the rush of men heading off to the inns.

  ‘What about you? What do you need to stiffen your resolve?’ she asked with a smile.

  Martil truly did not know how to respond. With a whore or a barmaid, the women he had most associated with over the past dozen years, he would have made a ribald comment. But with a queen…Even though he felt there was something between them, he suspected Barrett would probably be lurking around in case he tried anything. He had to change the subject—and quickly—before he blurted something he shouldn’t.

  ‘I need to tell Karia how I feel about her,’ he said without thinking.

  ‘She does know, although she desperately needs to hear it,’ Merren agreed softly.

  ‘Has she said something to you?’ Martil asked immediately, worried.

  Merren smiled gently, and a little sadly. ‘No. But I know how it feels to be a small girl who loves her father, and wants to hear how much he loves her, and waits in vain.’

  Martil did not hear the sadness, just the words. ‘Of course I love her! It’s just that saying it…’ he said defensively.

  Merren laid her hand on his arm.

  ‘I know. One day you will just say it, and everything will be fine. But you can’t force it. Anyway, I’ll look after her tomorrow. You just try and stay out of the fighting, merely direct the battle.’

  Martil laughed, pleased to be on an easier topic. ‘If there is one thing I know, it is a plan never works perfectly. Something will go wrong, or something unexpected will happen. I will probably end up fighting, because I am trying not to. It is the way battles go. And if my fighting saves men’s lives, then I will do so, even if it means my own is in danger.’

  He put his hand on the hilt of the Dragon Sword as he stepped aside for Merren to go inside the keep first. Strange, he must have been standing too near a torch. It was curiously warm. He shrugged and followed Merren inside.

  20

  ‘We should wait for the supply wagons to catch us up. The men are tired, thirsty and hungry. The town cannot escape us, so we can delay our assault until the morning, when the men are fresher,’ Jennar suggested, as Havrick and his officers surveyed the town.

  ‘Wait? Do you think a few score men and some shopkeepers and farmers can stop us?’ Havrick snorted. ‘Two companies will be all that’s needed to drive them out.’

  ‘With respect, sir, the men have been in the field for weeks. Most of the horses would be declared lame by a stablemaster at any barracks, my men have endured a forced march to keep up with the cavalry and everyone has spent the last few days on short rations. I know what the keep of Sendric is like. Even if the Queen only has one hundred men in there, we could lose double that taking it. But if we wait until tomorrow, when the men are fresh, our losses will be much smaller.’

  Havrick looked around. The infantry were mainly sprawled on the ground, drinking the last drops from their waterskins. The cavalry had also dismounted, to give their horses a rest. Many of these were almost painfully thin, the ribs showing through, the coats lacking the gloss of good condition. The ambushes and the repeated arrow attacks in the woods had left him short of men. The wizards, of whom he had held such high hopes, had proved less than useless and had been unable to keep up with the march. They were on the supply wagons and would not arrive until late that night, if not tomorrow. His infantry, their numbers boosted by the heavy cavalrymen who had survived ambushes but lost their horses, were down to barely one hundred and fifty. His heavy cavalry was now just one company, his light cavalry was in the best shape of them all, but had still lost most of one squadron. More than five hundred men was easily enough to put an end to this rebellion but to arrive back in Norstalos City with less than half of the men he had set out with would hardly help his career. Perhaps he should wait…

  ‘In fact, sir, might it not be best to just bottle the town up and send word to Duke Gello? Within a week, he could have two regiments of heavy infantry here, and we would win easily.’

  Havrick thought of the two war captains that would accompany their regiments north; how they would take the glory, claiming that Havrick was not able to finish off a few shopkeepers and farmers. He imagined his father laughing at him, and had to grind his teeth together to stop himself from shouting at Jennar. He was in charge and he would make the decisions. ‘We have enough men to do this ourselves. Duke Gello does not care about losses, only results. We shall wait until morning. Our presence here will give the townsfolk a chance to think about the assault that is coming. They may well hand over the rebels to us rather than fight.’

  ‘And if they do not, sir? What are your orders for the town?’ Jennar asked.

  ‘We punish it. Destroy the town, so that no others dare to rise against us,’ Havrick declared. ‘Let Sendric be a lesson to any other rebels.’

  ‘Sir, with respect…’

  ‘Lieutenant Jennar, if you attempt to use that phrase to me again, I shall have you dismissed! I have given my orders! Now tell the men to stand down and rest—no less than fifty men for guard duty tonight. And, Jennar, you can be officer of the guard.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jennar saluted wearily, knowing he would not sleep that night. He wanted to protest more, for he could see his concerns about slaughtering the townsfolk on the faces of several of the other officers. But none said anything.

  He glanced over at the walls of Sendric, walls he had served behind for two years now. As a northern fortress town, it had always had a strong garrison in case of goblin attack. It was only recently that two other companies had come to join his men, ostensibly to secure the northern mines although in reality they had preferred to stay in the comforts of the town. So he knew many of the people inside, and he wondered about taking his company over the wall tonight to join the defenders. He knew the heavy cavalry troopers assigned to him would not come; he was hard pressed to get them to do anything other than complain that they had no horses. But his men would follow him, and could make all the difference tomorrow. He could feel something pulling him towards that course of action. It made no sense, yet his heart told him it was the right thing to do. The feeling was quite intoxicating and it took a physical effort to turn away from the wall. He was thinking about turning back when a trumpet call from the town made him turn, made everyone turn.

  A score of men in heavy armour, riding on captured cavalry horses, but wearing the blue surcoat of Sendric and carrying its white-on-blue crest, had ridden out of the gate and formed up before it. It was a challenge, an obvious challenge. Too obvious. Jennar opened his mout
h to say so but it was too late.

  ‘Mount up! We assault now!’ Havrick screamed.

  Already the heavy cavalry were forming up, wanting to charge these impudent rebels who rode their horses and wore their armour—and so flaunted their defeats in their faces.

  ‘They’re at our mercy!’ Havrick exulted. ‘That’s half their force there! We can smash them now and end this tonight. Once inside the town, our men cannot be stopped! Heavy cavalry at the front, lights behind, your men to bring up the rear, Jennar!’

  The column hurriedly formed up, going from their marching formation of four men per rank, to a solid column of ten men per rank, thin enough to go down a street, but strong enough to shatter a shield wall.

  ‘Ignore the townsfolk! They’re sheep to be slaughtered after the real work is done! Kill those scum up there, sack the keep, then you can have all the wine, food and women you want in the town!’ Havrick roared, before easing himself into the column of heavy cavalry, about two-thirds from the front.

  Meanwhile the men in blue sat patiently on their horses.

  ‘Get them!’ Havrick bellowed, and his trumpeter sounded the advance.

  Then the rebels turned and spurred their horses back into the town. Havrick’s men gave a roar and followed, although the horses were barely able to make it to the trot. Still, it forced Jennar’s infantry to jog to keep up. Jennar thought about telling Havrick that this looked like a trap but he knew it would not do any good. Besides, he was running out of breath attempting to stay with the cavalry.

  The walls did not show any defenders, and the gate was open, but still Havrick tensed as they rode underneath, then laughed when it became obvious there was no-one on the walls. That, more than anything, told him the townsfolk had not risen in any great numbers.

  He had been shocked to hear the Queen had taken the town, and at first had feared it meant the Dragon Sword was working, and the whole district would be against him. His initial terror had passed when his officers had informed him even just one company of heavy cavalry could shatter a mob of poorly-armed peasants. Then, when they did not march out of the town, he realised the rebels had made a fatal error. There would be no more fruitless searches through woods. No more despatches to the Duke where he had to lie about numbers of rebels killed. Just one final attack and then the chance to ride back to the capital and receive his rewards.