The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  Martil heard Conal’s cry and knew he stood alone, dozens of men around him. He was not thinking about death, about Merren or Karia—his mind was empty.

  His swords spun in a manoeuvre he had only tried once before, the eight-sides-at-once pattern, weaving a glittering web of steel about himself as he spun on the spot. Men dared not step too close, for the blades were going too fast to judge—and if the Dragon Sword was the one that came around, no shield was going to save them. They jabbed and lunged nervously, sure that someone else was going to strike the killer blow.

  Frustrated, Jennar pushed his way through the men, shoving some back towards the stairs, where the handful of men who had obeyed his orders were being kept at bay by the remaining defenders.

  ‘The Queen! Get the Queen!’ he roared at them, but they stubbornly insisted on trying to fight Martil.

  Desperately, Jennar forced his way to the front, as the Dragon Sword eviscerated the man before him. The only way to stop this foolishness was to kill the man. He drew back his sword and waited for a chance to strike.

  Up on the wall, Merren watched Martil’s desperate fight with a mixture of pride and horror. Pride that this man was her Champion, and surely no other warrior could have stood alone this long against those odds. Horror at the thought he must die soon, for although Rocus’s men were in the gate tunnel now, they could not reach Martil in time.

  Beside her, Karia had cried out as Conal had fallen, and now she saw Martil was alone, only his speed, his swords and Barrett’s magic saving him from death.

  ‘Don’t watch,’ Merren said thickly, not wanting her to see Martil die. But Karia tore free of Merren’s grip.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, and thrust her hand towards Martil.

  Martil was aware of the men around him, aware of the swords reaching for him, but he could not pause or alter his pattern, for, once started, it could not change. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the officer step in, lunging towards him, and knew the blade would sink deep. He was bracing himself for the impact when fire erupted around him. Staggering to a stop, almost falling, he stared in shock at a wall of fire completely encasing him, no more than an arm’s length from his body. He looked up to the wall to see Karia pointing at him and understood what was happening. Understood, too, that what she was doing must be taking an enormous effort.

  ‘Karia! Don’t!’ he screamed, his voice hoarse, his mouth and throat dry, his breath heaving from the massive exertion he had put himself through. But he knew she could not hear him.

  Jennar was shocked at the wall of fire that erupted in front of him, blocking his killing blow, but at least the barrier achieved what he had been unable to do—make his men turn away from Martil and look towards the stairs, and the Queen on the wall.

  ‘Leave him! Come on!’ Jennar led the rest of his men in a charge towards the wall, only to see the first horsemen erupt out of the gate tunnel and charge into them.

  ‘Hold them off! Get the Queen and it’s all over!’ he shouted, shoving men over to form a crude defensive wall, while he bounded towards the stairs.

  Merren watched, astonished, as Karia summoned a wall of fire to protect Martil, amazed that someone so small could do such a thing. She was dimly aware that the fighting was getting closer. The only thing keeping the soldiers back were the long spears of the boys being jabbed at the leading soldiers while the old men used their shields as weapons. She could also see the first of Rocus’s men burst out of the gate tunnel. She recognised Rocus, his armour smeared with blood, as he drove his horse into the soldiers, the warhorse kicking and biting, as it had been trained to do, Rocus hacking down with his sword.

  Then Karia collapsed, just fell sideways, and Merren had to lunge to catch her. She saw how white the little girl was, how her breath was shaky and her skin clammy, and prayed she had not killed herself in her efforts.

  Martil saw Karia fall and in that instant, the flames that had protected him died away. He saw Merren cradle the little girl, saw the fear on Merren’s face and had only one thought: to get to them.

  Martil’s men were flooding into the gate tunnel now, charging into the soldiers, using the weight and speed of their horses to smash through. But a score or so of soldiers were still trying to get up the stairs and grab the Queen—who held Karia. Martil sprinted across the courtyard, the ache in his lungs, the soreness of his arms, and the sting of the many wounds he had taken all forgotten.

  The remaining soldiers in the courtyard had had enough and were surrendering, only the handful on the stairs keeping their swords in hand. Martil tore into those men like an animal. Any who got in his way were sliced down without a second thought, whether they were fighting or not. He drove himself up the stairs, the Dragon Sword carving a bloody path ahead of him. The first few men he cut down from behind. The next tried to fight back but the Dragon Sword sliced apart their defences and their flesh. Other men jumped or threw themselves from the stairs rather than face him, but up ahead, men and boys were being killed or pushed aside by the leading soldiers.

  Martil shouted as the last surviving defender, Count Sendric, took an overhand sword blow to the shoulder that knocked him flat on his back. With a clear path to the Queen, the soldier who had downed Sendric raced forward. Martil hurled the Dragon Sword, which spitted the man cleanly, only the hilt hitting the man’s mail stopping it from going further. He used his ordinary sword, as well as his anger and fear, to cut down another soldier, and shoulder-charged another pair off the stairs.

  The only man left was the officer, who raced over to where his soldier lay and reached for the Dragon Sword.

  ‘Stay back, or I will kill the girl and the Queen!’ he shouted.

  Martil ran on, hurdling the screaming wounded, ignoring the man’s voice.

  ‘Then I’ll kill you with the Sword!’ Jennar had no intention of harming the Queen, or the girl, but they were his ticket to victory. With the Dragon Sword at her throat, these men would surrender. And he could return both the Sword and the Queen to Gello in triumph. There was no way this warrior, no matter how good he was, could stand against him. He had seen how the Dragon Sword made a man invincible. He grasped the Sword, a smile on his lips as he imagined his victory—then screamed in pain and horror as the dragon on its hilt came to life, sinking golden fangs into his hand.

  Jennar reeled backwards, holding his bleeding hand, not realising he was moving towards the Queen. He looked up to see the blood-smeared warrior running at him, his face twisted in a killing rage. Jennar felt fear for the first time that day.

  ‘Enough! It’s over! I give up!’ he cried.

  Martil heard him say something but he did not bother to listen. He reached down and hauled the Dragon Sword out of the soldier’s body at the run, then brought it around in a massive blow that had all his anger and fear behind it. Jennar’s body, arms still raised in surrender, was sheared in half. It toppled off the wall and fell to the courtyard below. Martil did not even bother to look. Instead he dropped the Sword and fell to his knees beside Merren.

  ‘How is she?’ he croaked.

  Merren looked up, into a face from a nightmare. Martil’s skin was still a strange colour, and it was also stained with blood, and worse, from the fighting. Yet the real agony was in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

  A noise behind him made her look up, to see Rocus and a pair of his men pounding up the stairs, swords in hand.

  ‘It’s over! They’ve given up!’ the big guardsman announced.

  Martil took Karia from Merren’s arms and began to hurry down the stairs, heedless of the moaning, bleeding wounded he had to step on.

  ‘I need a healer! Now!’ he roared.

  22

  The healers and priests were busy indeed that night—and into the next morning. By necessity, as well as by Merren’s orders, they concentrated on the townsfolk and Martil’s men first. The dead were many, the worst casualties being from the battle in the keep. Only a dozen of the men who had stood wit
h Martil in the gate tunnel were still alive, all of them wounded, including Conal. Sendric was on his feet, his broken arm in a sling, while three of the boys who had stood with the Count were dead, all the others wounded. As well as the dead in the keep, there had been many deaths in the street. Rocus had lost three more guardsmen, Wime two more of his militia, Sirron was gone, as were another two of the farm boys, while some thirty townsfolk had died in the fighting. At least another hundred had wounds of some kind, from simple cuts to limbs lost, to wounds in the chest and belly that would kill them without divine intervention.

  The death toll from Havrick’s force was also high, especially in the keep, where barely fifty infantrymen survived the carnage. Even more were wounded, and, without attention, dozens died through the night. Merren ensured they had water, and that their comrades could bind up their wounds. But for those with chest and belly wounds, or missing limbs, there was nothing to be done. All the healers and priests were busy with the town’s wounded and their own army surgeons did not arrive until it was too late for many. Even then, there was only so much those two men could do.

  Merren had thought victory would have brought celebration and an end to worry but she was discovering it just brought more problems to solve. Admittedly the alternative—to be dead or a prisoner of Havrick’s—was far worse, but that was scant comfort for the families of men who had been killed. Sendric was still shaky, and unable to help, while only one of the town councillors had survived the desperate fight at the keep, although he had lost a hand. The others had stood their ground and died. Wime was responsible for picking up the dead and clearing away the burned wagons and for finding all the wounded. Rocus was attempting to organise the surviving fighters and collect arms and armour. Tarik was watching the many prisoners they had taken.

  Martil, meanwhile, was beside Karia’s bed, and refused to leave.

  A priest had been found, and had announced she was exhausted, but would recover, with some bed rest, food and water. Martil just sat beside her, blood oozing from a dozen crudely-bandaged wounds. None were deep, thanks to Barrett’s protective magic, for at least two might have killed him otherwise. He ignored them, save to tighten the bandages around the ones that threatened to drip onto Karia. Otherwise he just sat there, watching her.

  The night turned into day and Martil barely noticed when Merren walked into the room.

  ‘Captain, she is resting. But there are many other people who need you,’ Merren said quietly. ‘I need your help. There is much to be done.’

  Martil turned around and she could instantly see he was on the edge. Pain, fatigue and worry had eaten deep lines into his face, while blood, smoke and sweat had mingled to leave him looking filthy, and wild.

  ‘She sacrificed herself for me. That officer was going to kill me. And she saved me,’ he said thickly.

  ‘And you saved me—you saved all of us. The families out there can talk of nothing but the way you held off fifty men by yourself. There is little celebration going on—too many are dead or wounded—but you gave us a victory.’

  Martil shivered as he thought again of those desperate moments, when only the fear of what the Dragon Sword could do kept the men away from him. He also shuddered at the thought of some of the men he had killed in anger. Havrick had been trying to surrender, as had the other officer. Havrick may have deserved to die but the last man…

  ‘That fighting brings out a side in me that I do not wish to see. I wanted to kill. When Sirron died, I was looking forward to taking out my anger on those men. And that last man—he was unarmed. And I cut him in half,’ he said shakily.

  ‘It was in the heat of battle. You had nearly died, and you had seen the men around you cut down. Karia had fallen and he was threatening to kill both her and me,’ Merren pointed out.

  ‘Excuses. I cannot make excuses for myself. The Dragon Sword makes it easy to kill, and I am beginning to enjoy the effect it has, both on me and the men who face me,’ he groaned. ‘This was why I never wanted to fight again.’

  Merren decided to stop offering understanding and appeal to his sense of duty.

  ‘Martil, I need your help,’ she said again. ‘What are we to do with the prisoners? Some of those who lost friends and relatives in the battle want them strung up. Barrett wants us to recruit them. The Dragon Sword can help us decide if they are serious about helping us or just want to escape a noose.’

  ‘I can’t leave her. I have to be here when she wakes up.’ Martil looked up at Merren, wanting her to understand. ‘I killed her father. I took her away from the only true home she ever knew. By all rights she should hate me. And yet she nearly sacrificed herself to save me.’

  Merren took a deep breath. She had to be careful here. To say the wrong thing might send him over the edge. ‘She loves you. You may not have fathered her but as far as she is concerned, you are her guardian.’

  Martil turned away, back towards Karia, and she could see his shoulders trembling. Instantly she knew that just Karia was not enough. There had to be more. Carefully she walked over and placed her hand on his left shoulder, for a bloody bandage covered the right. She looked down to see tears running down his face. He was not sobbing, just letting them cut through the blood and sweat and grime and then drip onto the floor.

  ‘So many dead, so many wounded, either at my hand or at my command, and yet I weep because of a small girl,’ he said quietly, almost in wonder.

  ‘Because you are a good man,’ Merren said softly, feeling her throat tighten. This was a deliberate thing she was doing, yet at the same time it was instinctive. She did feel an attraction to this contradictory man: so deadly in battle, so vulnerable away from it. She stroked his face gently and he reached up to her wordlessly. She eased herself onto his lap, careful to put her weight on his right leg, for the left thigh was bandaged heavily, blood seeping through. He held her tight, and she stroked his face, wiping away some of the dried blood and grime, loosened by tears. He was the child at that moment, she recognised. She had to be delicate, not only because of his physical wounds. She had to judge precisely where to draw the line, when she was becoming aware that she did not really want to draw a line.

  Martil had felt lost, drowning in a sea of despair. He had focused on Karia because he felt that was the one thing that could stop him going mad. But to feel a simple embrace, the effect it had on him was dramatic: almost at once the tension began to leave him and he began to feel himself returning, as if from a long journey. As awareness returned, he detected the faint scent of lavender on her clothes, and became acutely aware that his head was pillowed on her breasts. Exhausted beyond endurance though he was, the embrace still began to move beyond one of simple comfort, and he could not help but notice that her thighs were on his, and his hand was on her hip. He looked up and saw she was aware of this also.

  Merren knew she had to get up soon but her careful calculations were becoming harder to make. He was undoubtedly a worthy Champion but she saw him now as more than that and felt tempted to see where things would go.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Karia yawned and stretched.

  Merren instantly stood up and crossed over to where a tray of food was ready.

  ‘We have some food here,’ she called out.

  Martil, meanwhile, had dropped to his knees.

  ‘Daddy! You’re all right! I was so afraid!’ Karia hugged him and he held her back, feeling her small arms tighten around his neck and her head nestled into his cheek.

  ‘You saved my life. You were so brave.’ He kissed her forehead and looked into her big brown eyes. Now the words came easily to him. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’ Karia burrowed into his shoulder. He had said it! Part of her wondered if this was a dream, but just the smell of him alone—blood, smoke and sweat—told her this was real. Finally, someone would take care of her, not let her go, not leave her again.

  Merren watched them. She could not tell whether their tears were of laughter, relief, sadness, love, or all four
. She knew she could not stop hers falling, either.

  The guilt and the responsibility for what had happened, for the wailing families and the wounded men, those were hers. She almost wished she had not met the women at the camp and begun to understand them.

  ‘Merren, are you all right?’ Karia asked and Merren looked down to see both Martil and Karia watching her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she smiled, wiping away a tear from her eye.

  ‘Come here,’ Karia invited, holding out a hand to her. ‘It always feels better when you have a hug.’

  Merren laughed and sat on the bed beside Karia.

  Merren felt both arms go around her—one small and soft, the other long and muscled. They stayed like that for a long time, drawing strength from each other and giving strength to each other. But much as it helped, Merren felt a flicker of fear. It was going to be extremely difficult to keep control of her relationship with them both.

  Martil wanted to go out and see what was happening, but Merren ordered him to take a bath and get his wounds seen to properly. The priests were exhausted, as were Barrett and the town’s two wizards, who had turned up during the night on Havrick’s baggage train and immediately begun working to help the wounded, but a healer was summoned who stitched Martil’s wounds, smeared a herbal poultice over the worst of them, then rebandaged them. Every muscle in his body was aching, and where those were not aching, his stitches stung and pulled. But with clean clothes and the blood and smoke washed from his face, hands and hair, he at least looked like a winning general. Karia was still exhausted and stayed in bed, although part of that was because he did not want her to see what was outside.

  He found Rocus in the courtyard, along with scores of wounded men, including Conal, who was obviously well enough to sit up and tell everyone how he had single-handedly—literally, single-handedly—won the battle, and managed to keep Martil alive. Around him were many of Martil’s original force: guardsmen, hunters and militia, men who had fought well and bravely. With them too were farmers and townsfolk, who had defeated Gello’s soldiers with almost no training. They cheered him, even though many were hurting and some still bleeding. He made sure he spent time with as many as he could before moving on to see what Rocus had been doing. The big guardsman had taken over the stables and turned it into an armoury. They now had enough weapons and armour to equip a small army, although much of it was bloodstained and would need to be scrubbed with sand and vinegar if it was to avoid rust.