by Duncan Lay
Given what happened next, he would have preferred it if they had. Baron Gerrin, after a prod from the officer behind him, cleared his throat.
‘Pretty words, but the Queen should know it is actions that speak louder! She sends a message of peace but who does she send to deliver it? A thousand murdering Rallorans, the Butchers of Bellic, led by the man who personally slew a hundred children that day! You want us to surrender to such as you? No sooner would you be inside the gates than you would be raping and pillaging again! It is all your kind knows, and all you live for!’ he tried to roar, although it began more like a shriek.
Martil sensed, rather than saw, Kesbury start forwards, but he simply raised his hand and the sergeant stopped in his tracks. He was having enough trouble holding in his own anger.
‘I understand. Gello has obviously bought you off. Then I appeal to the militia, and to the town council with you. We are not here to fight. We are here to protect you from Gello. We saved the town of Sendric from Gello’s men, who tried to sack it! I fought alongside men such as you to protect women and children from murderers who wore the red crest of Gello!’
But his appeal seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Gerrin, looking more confident, took a step forwards. ‘We know the truth of the matter. The Queen wants her throne back, and she does not care how many have to die to put her there. Do you deny you are all Butchers of Bellic?’
‘We are servants of the Queen and we are not here to harm you!’ Martil had to grit his teeth to stop himself from exploding.
‘Then why does she send men who have slain children? What is she paying you for this? Is your reward to be let loose on another innocent town?’ Gerrin called, seeking to include everyone on the walls in the conversation.
Martil unclenched his fist only with a great effort. Behind him, he could feel Kesbury and his other men also struggling to control their rage, but any reaction would only prove these lies.
‘You obviously do not know the real story of Bellic. Why do you believe that we are here to harm you…’ Martil began carefully, only for the Baron to interrupt.
‘You lie! On both accounts! A bard arrived here only days ago, telling us of what happened at Sendric! How you and the Queen attacked the town, and killed hundreds of Norstaline soldiers who were trying to protect it! How scores of the townsfolk died as well, the rest made to work for you! He told us how the Queen has hired every Ralloran in the country to fight for her—and how every single one of you was kicked out of your own country because of what you did in Bellic. And he sang us the Real Saga of Bellic, the one Rallorans do not allow to be performed!’
‘Lies!’ Kesbury bellowed. ‘That’s a lie!’
‘Keep that tame goblin of yours away from us…’ cried Gerrin, and Martil had to grab Kesbury, hold him back from jumping at the nobleman.
‘This is not helping us, Sergeant!’ Martil hissed but he was barely in control himself. He turned back to the group with an effort of will. ‘The Real Saga of Bellic?’ he asked. Was there really such a thing? The one he had heard was hardly flattering to the Rallorans, telling how they slew an entire town in revenge for a dead village and a broken flag of truce. Could there be something worse than that?
‘Aye! How the Rallorans themselves killed a village full of their own people, giving them an excuse to attack Bellic, and how they broke into the town under a flag of truce!’
Images of the tortured villagers swam into Martil’s vision and he tasted bile in his mouth. Before he knew it, the Sword was in his hand and Gerrin was cowering away from him. The militiaman drew his own sword and stepped in front of the nobleman.
‘Flag of truce, Ralloran!’ he snarled, his broad face twisted in anger.
Martil came to his senses only with the greatest of efforts and it took him two attempts to sheath the Sword. He pointed a shaking finger at Gerrin.
‘You lie. The Berellians murdered a village, and the flag of truce was broken by the Berellians, not me. That is the truth,’ he said thickly.
‘And you expect us to believe that? What next, would you have us think that every bard in the land is in the pay of Duke Gello?’ Baron Gerrin sneered.
Martil ignored him and looked instead at the militiaman, who had not sheathed his blade.
‘And you all believe this, that we are here to trick our way inside this town and slaughter all who live here? That is why you fill the battlements with ordinary people, standing side by side with Gello’s bastards?’
‘Do you deny you are all Butchers of Bellic? Do you deny you drew a sword under a flag of truce? How can we trust such as you?’ the militiaman asked harshly.
Martil looked at him and could not summon the words to convince him. They would never believe him. He clutched at the hilt of the Dragon Sword but it was cold and offered no comfort. He would give them a parting shot, then leave. He could do no more good. Besides, he had to get out of here—he felt sick.
‘I speak the truth. You have been lied to, by Gello and his bards. I shall prove that I mean no harm. My men and I will march away this very day. The Queen herself, along with Count Sendric and her loyal Norstaline division, will come here instead, to prove that what the bard told you about the battle of Sendric was just one more lie!’
He grabbed Kesbury, turning the soldier around, and missing the look of fear that Bayes and Gerrin exchanged. Instead, he marched his men away, trying to ignore the insults that showered down from the walls; ‘baby-killer’ and ‘murderer’ were among the kinder ones.
‘Sir, I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me,’ Kesbury said, and Martil was horrified to see tears running down the big man’s face. He remembered then—Kesbury had been a corporal in the squad he had taken to the village. He had been moved to tears then, as well.
‘You did better than I did, Sergeant,’ Martil said. ‘I was ready to turn the Dragon Sword on them when they claimed we killed the villagers…’
‘What do we do now, sir?’ Kesbury asked.
‘What we told them. We are going to march away.’
Nerrin and the other officers, as well as the men, were surprised to receive orders to break camp and return to Sendric. They were horrified and furious when they found out why.
‘This is an emergency, Lieutenant,’ Martil told Nerrin. ‘We have to get back to the Queen and warn her what Gello is doing. How many Norstalines are going to believe us after hearing those lies, when they’re so obsessed with the bloody sagas? The Queen is the only one who can save this situation. Hopefully us marching away, keeping our word, will help her.’
‘And if there’s more of these bards spreading the tale of the Real Saga of Bellic? What then?’
‘Just pray that there’s not,’ Martil said grimly.
He made it into his tent and closed his eyes for a moment. Where was Karia when he needed her? He searched desperately for happy memories of her, something to block out the looming darkness that threatened to overwhelm him; sought to find again the feeling he had when with her. Losing his family, his friends, his home and being surrounded only by death and pain for so many years had forced him to harden his heart, or go crazy. But then that little girl had worked her way inside. She had become the family that he had lost, the friends he had seen die, but, best of all, she could make him forget everything except what they did together. He smiled as he recalled sitting with her, reading one of those ridiculous sagas. She had been helping him out, making up silly voices. He had actually become lost in the story, lost in the moment. The peace he had felt then, the warmth between them—it had almost struck him like a blow. After years of being empty inside, to be given that…It was something beyond price. But the strange thing was, feeling so good with her made him feel worse now, without her. He had to see her. And soon. Or he felt the darkness would overwhelm him.
2
Ezok nodded politely to the half-a-dozen nobles he knew and controlled the urge to smile triumphantly as he walked past them. It had only been a few weeks since he’d had
his first private meeting with King Gello, yet his influence was such that he could call on Gello on a morning set down for the Royal Council. The Norstaline nobles, who had risked a treason charge to put Gello on the throne, were made to wait outside as Ezok, an ambassador from a traditional enemy, was ushered into the council chamber. It was heady stuff.
‘My dear Ambassador—your bards are excellent! The effect they are having is extraordinary!’ Gello’s face was alight with triumph as Ezok entered.
‘And this is but the start of Berellia’s help, sire.’ Ezok bowed deeply.
Ezok allowed himself to be shown to a comfortable chair next to Gello’s own, and accepted a goblet of wine.
‘And your own bards, they are performing the saga as we supplied it, sire?’ Ezok asked.
Gello chuckled. ‘Oh yes. Some of them are even doing it willingly!’
‘Then I think it is time to move to our second stage, sire. We have a special guest to accompany some of our bards—we’ll be calling him the Lord of Bellic.’ Ezok winked.
Gello laughed openly. This plan was working out better than he had dared hope. His people’s love of sagas and blind trust in bards meant that instead of rebelling against him, they were actually now frightened of his cousin and her mongrel Rallorans! The unrest in the towns had dried up—people were starting to cheer him in the streets! He was even using the saga on the new regiments he had created, to ensure their loyalty.
‘My dear Ambassador, why don’t you stay for the council meeting? It would be my pleasure to have you as my guest.’
Ezok inclined his head until he could control his smile.
‘Thank you, sire.’
Romon looked in disgust at the scroll that was handed to him.
‘And we have to say this, exactly this, every time?’ he sniffed, holding the scroll up by the corner, as if it had been dipped in something foul.
‘You will if you want to keep your tongue in your head, and not nailed to a wall somewhere,’ the head Berellian bard snapped. ‘This is the only saga you perform, no requests for anything else. And you all know the news you have to deliver.’
‘But we’re bards, for Aroaril’s sake! We’re supposed to be trusted! If we go around telling these, these…ridiculous falsehoods, how will our profession be viewed?’
‘If we tear out your eyes, how will you be viewed?’ the Berellian growled. ‘You’ll each get a pair of guards to accompany you. Any attempt to perform another saga will result in your arrest—and later punishment. Is that understood?’
Romon had no choice but to nod and attempt a smile.
‘Good! Now, you’ll each be assigned an area to cover, but we want to keep you moving, so the peasants hear this from several of you. Move to the front and we’ll give you a list of towns, and the order in which to visit them.’
Romon found himself in a queue behind Healey, an old friend.
‘Can you believe what we’re being made to do? First Gello demands we perform his news, then this! It is wrong, my friend!’
‘We both know it is, but what choice do we have?’ Healey whispered back.
‘But what are we doing to the honour of our profession? And what will it do to our country?’
‘I’m more concerned about what not doing it will mean for my health,’ Healey grunted.
Merren looked out over the countryside near Sendric and sighed. Declaring you were going to be a ruler who cared about your people was all very well, but it carried with it an extraordinary amount of work. She was enjoying meeting the people and loved the way they were responding to her, but at the same time it was exhausting.
And her situation was not being helped by Karia. Already upset that she had been left behind by Martil, she’d turned to Merren. That had been fine back at the caves, because Merren had had little to do. But here, with a hundred people wanting her, it was proving impossible to give Karia the time she demanded. And now the little girl was starting to use magic to get attention—a trait that concerned both Merren and Barrett. Twice now Merren had had to call in Barrett because her door had become magically sealed. And several times in the middle of important meetings, one of Karia’s dolls had climbed onto the table and ‘walked’ towards her—the first time, the sight of a seemingly Zorva-possessed toy had almost created a panic.
Karia was confined to her room but that was obviously not a long-term answer. Barrett had suggested a possible solution: reward her for good behaviour. He’d told Karia she could have a ride in the countryside and a picnic, as long as she stopped misbehaving. Merren suspected an ulterior motive for the picnic but in a moment of weakness, no doubt brought on by fatigue, she’d agreed to his plan.
At first the picnic had been almost relaxing, but now she could see her original suspicion was correct.
The picnic had been fine while Karia was with them, but then Barrett persuaded her to walk down to a nearby stream and find some wildlife to bring back to show them. Karia was delighted with the idea but Merren less so—Barrett now had an excuse to try and charm her. Ever since the battle of Sendric he had been clumsily trying to woo her; it was becoming a real concern. Not least because she couldn’t afford to offend him—she needed the unique skills that only he could bring to the rebellion. Barrett had obviously seen Martil’s absence as an ideal opportunity. It was getting to the point where she would have to say something to him. But what?
‘Merren, would you care for a glass of wine?’ Barrett asked, producing a bottle with a flourish. ‘I took the liberty of borrowing a fine vintage from Sendric’s castle stocks.’
‘Certainly.’ Merren forced a smile. Some alcohol would be very welcome.
‘I must say, while they are a vital part of our rebellion, it is nice not to have those Rallorans around.’ Barrett smiled as he handed her a glass of the white wine.
Merren took a large mouthful of the wine and nodded. She knew perfectly well Barrett was really referring to Martil—but he also had a point. They needed the Rallorans even though they brought with them plenty of problems. Every one was a troubled man.
‘Merren?’
She finished her wine and held out her glass for a refill, then saw Barrett was holding out a bouquet of flowers, obviously grown in an instant.
‘White roses—your old favourite, and I perfumed them with your favourite fragrance.’
Merren took them with a fixed smile.
‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ Barrett said softly.
Merren made a non-committal noise.
‘I thought tonight…once you’ve put Karia to bed…I might cook you a special supper? I think you’ve been working too hard lately and I would like the chance to spoil you a little…’
‘I am the Queen. I am supposed to be working hard!’ Merren said, a little more sharply than she intended, and groaned mentally as she saw his face crumple. ‘Barrett, I appreciate the offer but I just do not have time…’
Barrett snorted. ‘Well, you made time to have a private supper with Martil the night before he left!’
He knew he should not talk to her like that but the situation was just eating him up inside. She was all that he dreamed of, her face was always on his mind. And after they had both come so close to death in the battle for Sendric, he could not keep his feelings inside any more.
Merren controlled her temper with difficulty. ‘That was a farewell supper for Karia, who requested we both be there!’
The anger and jealousy that gripped Barrett’s heart vanished as he heard the fury in her voice. Attacking her was not going to work! He had to change tactics.
‘My Queen, I am sorry. Forgive me. It’s just that you mean so much to me…’
Merren recognised the danger. Swiftly she leaned in and patted him on the hand. ‘You mean a great deal to me, and the rebellion. I do not know what I would do without you and your wise counsel. Now let us call Karia back and we shall finish this picnic together.’
Barrett looked as though he would rather try to articulate his love for her but, M
erren was relieved to see, Karia had taken it upon herself to wander back, carrying a bird.
‘I’ve made a new friend,’ Karia announced, stroking the crow’s glossy head.
She could see that Merren and Barrett were not happy and wondered why. Still, she felt unhappy too. Merren and Barrett seemed to always be finding excuses to send her away. All her life she had been pushed to one side, put in the corner. Father Nott, for all his concern and kindness, had many demands on his time. Her father, Edil, had only cared that she did her chores and kept quiet. Only Martil showed he cared. Only he gave her his time without reservation. Like a flower starved of light and water, she drank in his attention, basked in it, grew on it. To feel wanted, to feel safe, and to feel needed—this was what she had longed for all her life. People always left her. Was it her fault, was there something about her that was strange? But Martil, having his love, it made her feel special, feel safe. She knew she hadn’t been behaving too well around Merren and Barrett but having them ignore her was a shock. Suddenly they were like everyone else. It just made her want Martil back more. Only they had sent him away! It was so unfair!
‘That’s a nice bird you’ve got there,’ Merren said brightly. ‘What has he told you?’
Karia smiled. This was more like it! ‘Great news! Martil’s on his way back here!’
Merren glanced at Barrett, who looked shocked—and probably not just because his plans for getting her alone were ruined. Martil was not supposed to be back for several days.
‘Trouble,’ she said grimly, not knowing whether to feel anxious or relieved.
Ezok closed the door of his study and prepared to make his report to Brother Onzalez. The idea of filling a shallow bowl with blood and then using the Fearpriest’s own magic to summon his image across great distances was a disturbing one, especially to a man who had been taught that everything had to be put into writing. Even now his quill hand itched to write a detailed report. But Onzalez would not wait for coded reports to be smuggled into Berellia.
