by Duncan Lay
Martil embraced him. ‘Thank you. You arrived just in time.’
The big guardsman flushed, his cheek bearing a small scar from a wound taken at the end of the battle.
‘We’ll follow you anywhere, Captain. Just say the word,’ he promised.
Martil patted him on the back and moved on.
Wime had been working hard. The streets were now cleared of bodies, and two score of tired men were washing away the blood and other stains from the cobbles, using bucket upon bucket of water. The bodies had been taken outside on wagons, and a mass grave dug for Gello’s men. The townsfolk were being buried on the other side of town, where a mound would be raised to honour the dead. Tarik had the prisoners do much of the digging, which at least kept them busy and out of trouble. But Wime had become involved here as a militia officer.
‘I have a score of the prisoners in chains already, men that have been identified by townsfolk as rapists, thieves and murderers,’ he said. ‘We shall have to deal with them soon and go through the others.’
‘Do you think some will be willing to serve with us?’ Martil asked.
Wime wiped away grime and sweat from his forehead. ‘I don’t think so, Captain. Besides, why do we need them? Now we have won here, hundreds will flock to us.’
Martil forced a smile. ‘You are doing well, my friend. Make sure you get some rest.’ He watched Wime go and touched the Dragon Sword absently.
He managed to find Barrett using his magic to help some of the many wounded. The mage looked exhausted and Martil made a point of clapping him on the back.
‘I have to thank you, wizard,’ Martil told him seriously. ‘People may be talking about what happened at the keep but as far as I am concerned, and as I keep telling everyone, the only reason I was able to get there in time—and the only reason I am still walking and talking—is thanks to your magic.’
Barrett smiled. ‘I do appreciate that,’ he admitted.
Martil smiled back. ‘I will not forget what you did. Without your help, both Karia and Merren would be captured or even dead. I want to shake your hand.’
Barrett made no move to do so. ‘I want you to know I have nothing against you. But I only used my magic to help Karia and Merren, and because I see how important you are to our cause. I do not want to be your friend. We are rivals, not friends. Despite all my warnings, you have not stopped your pursuit of Merren. Well, battle has taught me one thing. I am not going to live my life just dreaming about doing things. No more will I hide my feelings. I shall be doing all in my power to show Merren that she should choose me, instead of you.’
Martil took back his hand, shocked at the mage’s words. ‘I thought you told me that Merren was not some prize to be fought over?’
Barrett shrugged. ‘That was before the battle. Look, I have nothing against you, but I will always regret it if I do not try to win her heart. If you can accept that, then we can work together.’
Martil swallowed back the words that crowded into his mind. He still owed the wizard a debt. ‘I think you’ll find that it has nothing to do with either of us. It is all down to what Merren wants to do.’
‘Then we shall leave it up to her,’ Barrett paused for a moment. ‘I do regret this. And after Merren rejects you and chooses me, I do hope you will not feel too bitter about it. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’
Martil watched him go wordlessly. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Recruitment was going well. Young men were rushing to join up for the cause.
And Duke Gello liked to think they would have joined him of their own free will, even if they had known the real reason. He had paid the country’s bards to spread tales of how every other country was jealous of Norstalos. How they had joined together to steal the Dragon Sword and only the bravery of Duke Gello had saved it. But now, the stories said, the other countries might attack and it was the duty of Norstalines to protect their country. And he was impressed with the way the people responded to the bards. Many of these were famous, mobbed wherever they went thanks to the country’s fascination with sagas. Anything they said was treated as the truth. It was enlightening to see how many came forward just because the bards encouraged them.
He decided to take total control of the bards. Gello had always had a fundamental distrust of a group of people who earned their living wandering around, spreading gossip. He had nothing against the sagas—he had to admit, he did enjoy those—but he was not going to let a mob of undisciplined bards control what the people knew about the rebellion and his rule. So all bards had to be registered with him, on pain of death. Then they had to agree only to announce the news he wanted. There would be no lurid tales of rebellion up north. Instead, he wanted stories spread about the treachery of the Tetrans and how the Avish, Berellians and Rallorans were scheming against Norstalos. As a sweetener, they could expect regular payment from the palace—and the freedom to perform any sort of saga they wanted, from his list of favourites.
Meanwhile, his hold on the country tightened. The rebellion was confined to some woods, and he had a powerful force up there hunting them down. It would only be a matter of time before his cousin was either dead or being dragged back to face his justice.
It was now autumn, and tax time. Tax gatherers were heading out to tally harvests and shopkeepers’ profits, taking two shares in ten in either goods or coin. Gello doubled this. It caused plenty of complaints but, after he had hanged a few people, the muttering was confined to the marketplace.
To stop people trying to complain about the tax increase and to ensure there would be no further problems, he ordered all town councils disbanded, and removed all militia. Instead, the garrison commander in each town became responsible for the town council’s duties—which Gello had simplified just to taking taxes—and for making sure the streets were safe. Again, Gello wanted that made easy. Anyone who tried to speak out against him was to be arrested, anyone caught committing a crime or was on the streets after dark was enrolled in the army.
The country groaned under the weight of the new taxes, but dared not speak up, for fear of the new laws. It was just the way he wanted it to be.
He was a little concerned at the delay in a final victory for Havrick, especially as cartloads of wounded kept rolling back to their barracks. But only a little. There was still plenty of time before winter made it difficult for campaigning. A Norstaline autumn was traditionally long, warm and mild. He had been infuriated with the reports of Barrett holding up the search, and how Havrick’s attempt to press the local wizards into service were proving futile. He had never had much time for wizards, generally despising them as a weak bunch with little ability, but he had to admit, Barrett was proving a handful. And he could offer no help. Since Tellite’s death, wizards had been avoiding him. Apparently most had gone into hiding.
And then came the news he had longed for. The Queen, showing all the military judgement he expected of a woman, had allowed herself to be trapped in the town of Sendric.
Victory could not be far away.
But he did not intend to rely just on Havrick. His dear mother had always taught him to have a plan in reserve and he had several already in motion.
He sent strong patrols north, to block off the passes leading to the northeast district around Sendric. These patrols had orders to turn back any men riding in groups. There would be no reinforcements arriving for the rebels.
He also had a blacksmith forge him a new Dragon Sword. The man had been labouring on it for weeks, in secret. He would be killed afterwards, of course, but far better to let him think he would be paid with a sack of gold instead.
He also sent for Father Prent.
The priest, who had helped him so nearly recapture the Queen, had proved to be a useful ally over the past few weeks. And the two of them had discovered they had a great deal in common. A mutual love of power, for one. After some early discussions, and verbal fencing, they had decided there was much they could do to help each other.
&
nbsp; ‘How are the plans for my coronation going ahead?’ Gello asked, once the priest had been seated and offered a glass of wine. ‘Are you sure the Archbishop will not try anything?’
That had been another minor concern. The Kings and now Queen—of Norstalos had always been crowned by the Archbishop of Norstalos.
Many of the peasants—and quite a few of the nobles—seemed to think that having the blessing of Aroaril was important. Gello could not care less. But he wanted to be crowned King and knew that, unless it was done by the church, there would always be whispers of illegitimacy. Worse was the possibility that priests would begin speaking against him from their pulpits. While he had no qualms about rounding up such treacherous wretches and having them executed, he knew it would upset the people. Far better to keep the church quiet.
The Archbishop had flatly refused to crown Gello while Merren was still alive. So he would be crowned by Father Prent, then he could dismiss the Archbishop, appoint Prent in his place, and plausibly say that he had been crowned by the Archbishop. Then, with Prent’s compliance, he could force the priesthood to tell their congregations it was a holy duty to obey his command to wage war on every other country.
His one fear had been that the Archbishop would tell his priests to start preaching that it was the people’s duty to support Queen Merren. But here Gello had the help of Prent, who knew how to work the church’s political process. He had called in a host of favours, reminded many senior churchmen of their dark little secrets and managed to paralyse the church in debate over whether it should join the struggle over the throne, or remain apart, responsible only for the country’s spiritual needs. With the church effectively sidelined, and the Archbishop unable to force his council of bishops to a decision, the way was clear for Gello to be crowned King.
He wanted the news that Norstalos had a King again to travel swiftly around the country. To that end he had prepared a fine ceremony, with plenty of free food and drink, and orders for every bard within travelling distance to attend. He had already written what they needed to tell the people.
‘It will be a wonderful ceremony, sire, and then you will officially be the King,’ Prent smiled. ‘Norstalos can take its position as the leader of the world.’
‘Indeed.’ Gello allowed himself to dream of that moment. They discussed a few other items, such as an increase to the Archbishop’s salary once Prent took over, before the priest had to return to his duties. Gello waited until the priest had left, then waved for a junior officer to come over.
‘I want to know the moment news arrives from the north,’ he instructed.
Martil had the captured soldiers moved out of the town, where they made a camp near the mass grave of their comrades. Having so many soldiers inside the city was uncomfortable for many of the townsfolk, especially those who had lost loved ones in the battle, and security was becoming a nightmare.
Once outside, the painstaking process of finding those guilty of crimes began. There were many farmers and townsfolk ready to lynch anyone wearing Gello’s red surcoat, and it was no good asking them to identify the regimental badge their attacker had worn. It took the experience of Wime and his senior sergeants, as well as help from both Barrett and particularly Father Quiller, to try and determine guilt or innocence—for almost every man accused declared he had done nothing more than stand back while his comrades stole, raped and murdered.
It was distressing to many of the victims, and it took almost a week of hearings, each one going for a full day, before they were able to try every man. All were then packed into the dungeons beneath the keep; even those judged innocent of serious crime, while they waited to hear their fate.
‘This is a real problem,’ Wime addressed the Queen’s council, which had shrunk a little. Merren and Martil were there of course, as was Conal, although he was still limping. A large bruise on Sendric’s face and an arm in a sling were the only remnants of the Count’s injuries but he was quieter than usual. The Count would be appointing a new town council in the morning, so for now Barrett, Wime, Tarik, Rocus and Father Quiller were the only other councillors. The old priest had proved to be a huge help in the days after the battle and Merren respected his calm opinions. Karia was back almost to full strength, and certainly to full noise, but was taking an afternoon nap, as Barrett was teaching her more and more advanced magic. What had happened at the battle in the keep had told the wizard that he needed to take her training to the next level.
Training with Barrett—and afternoon naps—were the only times Martil was willing to let her out of his sight. He would rather spend time playing with her than anything else—mainly because he was racked with guilt after the battle. Not only did he feel responsible for those who had died but he was also tormented by the way he had lost control of his anger and killed unarmed men. It was nothing compared to the aftermath of Bellic but it was certainly enough for those who knew him, such as Merren, to notice. Each time he felt as though he was going over the edge, Karia would pull him back from the brink. Since saving his life in the battle, he had been able to show his feelings towards her. He loved it when she gave him a hug or a kiss and he could not help but hug her back, kiss her cheek or forehead when they were reading together. For her part, she seemed to take it as no more than her due and he found she was calling him ‘Dad’ much more often. He never got tired to hearing it. He had been reluctant to leave her to attend council that afternoon but what they were discussing was not really for her ears, anyway.
‘We have more than three hundred soldiers here, counting the wounded that are going to live. Almost two hundred and fifty of those have committed some sort of crime, from murder to stealing food from farmers and townsfolk. What are we going to do with them? We must bear in mind this is a problem not just for now, but for the future. The punishment for murder and rape is death, but if it becomes known that we killed five out of six men who surrendered to us, we shall never again get any of Gello’s men to give up,’ Martil said.
‘Do we just let them go?’ Rocus snorted decisively.
‘Aye. These scum deserve everything they get,’ Barrett agreed. He had been using his magic to discern the truth, to pick out the signs that men were lying, and what he had heard had left him shaken and changed his view on winning them over to the cause. ‘They must be punished. We did not fight and suffer so murderers and rapists could join us. That is not what the people want. We might as well leave Gello in charge of the country.’
His declaration received rumbles of approval from around the table. Martil was reluctant to say anything. Since their little confrontation after the battle, he and Barrett had been going out of their way to avoid each other. However, he knew he must take a stand here.
‘Normally I would agree. But I must ask you this. When I arrived, many of you knew me as a Butcher of Bellic. I led one of five regiments into a Berellian town, not unlike Sendric, which we utterly destroyed, leaving not one person alive. I would say that crime is far worse than any Gello’s men have committed. Yet I not only lead your army, but women and children cheer me in the street.’ He sighed. ‘I cannot begin to tell you how badly Bellic affected me. The guilt will never leave me—nor should it. It was the same for many of the men I ordered to attack the town. I cannot make up for Bellic. I can only try. I know you are angry at these men, but perhaps some of them feel the same as I.’
Silence greeted his impassioned plea, and all eyes turned to Merren.
‘I hear what you are saying, Martil. It is a bitter irony that you are asked to sit in judgement on men whose crimes were no worse than yours. But I do believe you are different from most men, and that Bellic was a different situation. You were finishing a long, bitter war, where the Berellians had done exactly the same to many of your towns. Gello’s men were attacking their own people because they could, not because those people were defiant, or rebelling. Finally, we have the evidence of the Dragon Sword. It chose you as its wielder. That proves you must be a better man.’
Martil smiled
thinly. ‘My Queen, thank you, but there is no need to make excuses for me. I have the blood of innocents on my hands. So, what if there are some among them who also deeply regret what they did?’
‘What of it?’ Barrett snarled. ‘How can we face the people and tell them we are rewarding those who raped and killed friends and family?’
‘And how can we let men guilty of monstrous crimes join our army?’ Father Quiller pointed out.
Martil laughed, but there was no humour there. ‘You will discover that war makes monsters of us all. You start with the best intentions, and before you know it, you are using the enemy’s weapons against him. You cannot fight a war without ending up with blood on your hands.’ He looked down at his own hands, so recently cleaned. ‘The desire to win, to defeat your opponent, it is what keeps you alive. But it can also lead you down a dangerous path. You don’t just want to win, you want to dominate. Rape and murder are just a step away from that. I have walked that narrow path and seen many good men fall from it. Do not seek to judge a man until you have also walked that path. And there is one more thing to consider. We are talking about killing men who surrendered to us. In most countries such an act would be considered dishonourable at best—or even murder.’
Merren held up her hands, and stopped Barrett’s angry words before they came out.
‘Captain Martil is right—in one respect. The Ralloran Wars should teach us that it is easy to do evil, even when you think you are in the right. Out of respect for what he has done, I agree he may speak to them and give them a chance to atone for their crimes by fighting for us.’
