The Wounded Guardian (10 page)

He kept travelling from tree to tree, lining them up one by one in his mind, keeping in place the exact order in which he had to travel, like so many doors through which he had to pass. Further and further he went, until he could feel the impression of the trees straining at his mind, struggling to break free of the careful order. This was the most dangerous time. Just miss one of these steps and a wizard would be forever trapped in the journey, lost in their own mind. It was difficult, it was frightening, but Barrett loved it. This was where he liked to be, out on the edges of magic, testing the limits of both his mind and his body. This was what made him the greatest wizard in the country, perhaps the world. Others would seek to break the journey up, to minimise the risk, but he drove himself on, gathering a seemingly endless array of trees, until he came to a last one, near the border of Tetril and close to the Royal Magician’s lodge that he could use to recover.

Now his mind had made the trip, all he had to do was open the way for his body to follow. The process had taken only a few heartbeats and he was prepared to travel halfway across the country. Keeping the way open with his mind, he stepped into where the first tree should be—and walked through it, then through every other tree in the same instant, before stepping out on the other side, near the Tetran border. The effort of such a journey hit him a heartbeat later, driving him to his knees, so he was forced to haul himself up on his staff. He just had the energy to smile in triumph. He had done it, he was
ahead of the thieves! All he had to do was rest for a day or so, then he could intercept them. He guzzled down water and then stuffed the cheese into his mouth, as his body was crying out for food and drink. There would be more supplies in the lodge, he knew. He just had to get there.

He began to stagger down the path towards the lodge and it was then the first tendril of fear touched him. He could feel his energy draining away with each pace. He had never felt this exhausted before and, unbidden, an image of Tellite, all twisted skin and bone, sprang into his mind.

‘I am strong!’ he told himself, although it was all he could do to summon the energy to open the place up and collapse onto a bed.

As he lay there, fighting to get his breath back, he knew the reality was different to his brave words. The way he felt, it was going to be days before he was ready to search. Tellite may have died, but he had done Duke Gello sterling service that day, he reflected bitterly.

Queen Merren was infuriated by the paltry number of nobles who had turned up for the council. Many were missing—and most of those were the ones she normally thought of as, if not her supporters, then at least opponents of Duke Gello, which was nearly as good. In fact, as she counted the ones around the table, it seemed as if there were only just enough to form a quorum. This was ridiculous, given the events of the night before. It also meant these men could force through anything Gello wanted them to. A vote on an issue by the Royal Council was not binding on her; she could still decree exactly the opposite of what they wanted. But without the support of the
nobles, the ruler of Norstalos would have nobody to enforce the laws and decrees. And without an army, she had nothing to use as persuasion for the nobles.

She forced down her disquiet and concentrated on the discussion which, naturally, was of the Dragon Sword and its theft.

‘I find it extremely concerning that thieves could get into the palace, kill the guards, steal the Dragon Sword and escape! If the palace is not safe, then nowhere is safe. I think we need to call the army in to provide some security.’ The plumply perspiring Count Cessor, whose lands took in the large western town of Cessor, made the opening declaration. Norstaline nobles had adopted the habit of being called by their title. Therefore the man addressing the Royal Council was known as Count Cessor, the thirty-fourth heir to a noble title, rather than plain old Gaven Ildale from Cessor.

Merren stared at him with distaste. As a western noble, Cessor fawned over Duke Gello, and Merren knew he had been angling for one of his three daughters to marry the Duke. Anything Cessor said was as good as hearing it out of Gello’s own mouth. In the first few months of her rule she had tried to be accommodating and civil to these men, but as the months passed and they all but openly declared their allegiance to Gello, she lost patience with the polite approach.

‘Really? Throw away centuries of tradition and terrify the country by having soldiers search through streets for men who are long gone? This is the sort of ridiculous suggestion I would expect from someone whose head is as fat as their body,’ she said icily.

Cessor, whose appetite for sweets was legendary, shook with anger, his chins wobbling.

‘But, your majesty, the point is we do not have the Dragon Sword any longer. For centuries we have been told it has been the guarantee of peace in our beautiful land. Without it, we could even sink back to the level of other countries. Surely it would be prudent to bring the army in now, rather than wait until it was too late?’

This time the speaker was the oily Earl Worick, another western noble and another protégé of Gello’s. Small, thin and impeccably groomed, he annoyed her even more than the gross Cessor.

‘Do you have such a low opinion of the people, dear Worick?’ Merren smiled thinly. ‘Do you honestly believe that the only thing stopping the ordinary citizens of this proud land from killing each other is the presence of the Dragon Sword? Have I not heard you, and many others around this table, speak of how Norstalos is the greatest of all countries, how everyone else can only dream of being like ourselves?’

She looked around the table triumphantly then sighed. From their closed-off faces, it was obvious that any words she spoke were going to fall on deaf ears. This was clearly a charade, set up by Gello. He had somehow managed to ensure all his opponents were away from this meeting, then advised his favourites what to do and say. There was to be no debate, she realised. They were going to issue a call for the army to come in, and beg Duke Gello to do what he wanted—take over the running of the country. Oh, they would dress it up with fine words like ‘for the duration’ and ‘only as long as necessary’ but these would just be fancy lies. She ignored the next speaker’s words, letting them wash over her.

She realised with a jolt that this was the finish. By the end of the day she would be a prisoner in this palace, and Gello would have won. Only a miracle could save her now. True, she had sent out Barrett, but the wizard was just one man. What could he do alone?

The thought of giving up the throne was like a dagger to the heart. There were so many things she wanted to achieve as Queen but all she had had time for was struggling to keep her throne. It was galling. After that fateful day, when Gello had fled the throne room in disgrace, leaving the Dragon Sword, she had known her destiny was to rule as Queen. The first Queen of Norstalos. It had become her obsession. Despite what the terms of the deal between King Croft and Duchess Ivene said, and despite what her father clearly thought, both Merren and Gello had known there would be only one victor. Norstalos could only have one ruler, not two. This was the culmination of that battle. One she now knew she was going to lose, and she could not bear it.

Abruptly she stood, and Count Cessor, who had been noisily declaiming that Norstalos was now in a state of emergency and, unless the army was brought in, would descend into chaos, petered out to an embarrassed silence.

‘Your majesty?’ Worick prompted.

‘I will not waste another moment of my time on a bunch of Gello’s lapdogs,’ she declared. ‘I know what you plan to do and I have no intention of being part of this ridiculous charade a moment longer. Issue the decree your master wants, then run back to him and grovel, in the hope he gives you a pat on the head for a job well done.’

‘Your majesty, I must protest!’ Cessor cried.

‘Protest all you like, you fat fool. Aroaril will be the final judge of what you do here. May He have mercy on your rotten souls because, believe me, I will send them to Zorva if I get the chance.’ She spat the words at him, then stormed out of the chamber, enjoying their shocked looks, although she knew this was but a feather to balance against the lead weight of Gello’s scheming victory. Slowly she walked back to her apartments. She thought she might as well try and enjoy her last moments as Queen, so ordered food and drink and musicians, called for her ladies-in-waiting and even thought about ordering a bard to come and perform. But she could not relax. Her stomach was churning, the food was like ashes in her mouth and the music discordant to her ears.

She did not have long to wait. The musicians were only into their second tune when a commotion outside grew so loud that they missed their place. Her ladies-in-waiting gazed at the Queen as the sounds of shouts, trumpets and hooves echoed around the room, so she sent Rana to see what was happening.

‘My Queen! The palace is surrounded by cavalry!’ Rana called.

Merren felt her heart jump. So fast! Gello must have had them ready. She walked carefully out onto the balcony and looked down. Her remaining Royal Guards had blocked the gate, but were faced by more than a company of heavy cavalry. At their head was an unmistakeable figure. Duke Gello.

‘By the authority of the Royal Council, I have been asked to step in, on an interim basis, until this crisis has passed,’ he was bellowing. ‘Here is the official decree. As soldiers of Norstalos first, and
Royal Guards second, you are hereby ordered to disband and return to your regiment. My men will be responsible for the security of the palace, and indeed the country.’

Merren wondered for a moment if her Royal Guards were going to defy Gello, but they were massively outnumbered and would have been slaughtered. Not that she really expected them to die for her, but she felt it would have meant something if they had been so infuriated by Gello’s treachery that they had tried to stop him. She wanted to shout out to them, ‘This is the man who had your friends killed last night!’ But even as she toyed with that thought, she saw the commander of the Royal Guard, Captain Kay, order the men to take off their official surcoats and swords, and lay them in a pile in the courtyard.

Merren looked out towards the plaza, where a score of townsfolk were watching the scene, obviously curious but hardly distraught at the overthrow of their monarch. Where were the crowds of outraged citizens? Where were the guards who would rather die than desert their Queen? She wanted to ask why that was, but could not find the words. Her ladies-in-waiting clustered about her, all unable to say anything. None reached out to comfort her. She would have liked them to, although she would have thrown off their hands, for she did not want to appear weak.

Just as she thought that, Duke Gello looked up—and even from this distance, Merren could see his triumphant smirk. How she longed to see him humbled!

‘May Aroaril help me. Find me a Champion who can wipe that smile off your face,’ she swore.

Wollin was a long ride from Chell, and it was made far longer by Karia. She knew Martil did not want her to be with him but that was fine, she did not want to be with him either. She wanted to be back with Father Nott. Of course Father had said she could not stay with him, but that was just silly. He was the best person to stay with and far nicer than Martil or her da and brothers. So the solution was easy. Just make things as difficult as she could and Martil would take her back to Father Nott. She had tried this technique on her da but he had just hit her until she stopped. This Martil had promised never to hit her. Unless he changed, she was going to annoy him until he gave in and took her back. Asking for food seemed to infuriate him, so she did it as often as possible. Her stomach, unused to all this food, seemed to require plenty of toilet stops, and they seemed to annoy him too. It was actually quite fun to do this, see how far she could push him. Every time he seemed to be getting angry, he managed to get himself back under control, although she could hear him muttering what Father Nott had told her were square words. The only problem was, nothing she did was making Martil turn around his horse and ride back to Chell and Father Nott. So she decided to try harder. She was curious about everything she saw, so it was a natural progression to start asking questions.

Martil ground his teeth until he was sure they would break. His frustration had risen with every toilet stop, with every demand for food or drink, but he felt he could handle that. Now she was breaking
these up with questions about the plants they saw, the few birds they heard and the animals she wanted to see but which refused to show themselves.

In the quiet of his head, he resolved not to be beaten by her. If the Berellians could not break him, then this small girl would not succeed. Whatever she tried, he would not lose his temper and let her win. He would not give her that satisfaction. Once he had reduced the problem to a contest, he felt more comfortable with it. But the problem remained. How to win it?

He could not help but feel envious of Father Nott, of the way he had been able to handle Karia so easily. He thought a clever thing to do would be to try to give her something to look forward to.

‘We’ll be arriving at a big town soon. When we’re there, we’ll buy you some clothes and nice things. Then we’ll get a big meal, as much as you can possibly eat. So you should think about the sort of clothes you would like, and the sort of food you might want to eat. Would you like that?’

‘Can we go back to Father Nott afterwards?’

‘No,’ said Martil, for what he felt was the twentieth time.

‘I hate you.’

With these sorts of conversations, Martil was delighted to finally arrive at Wollin. Chell had been a small village but Wollin served not just Chell but several other villages, as well as a number of farms within a day’s ride of its walls. It was a market town, so although it had a wall around it, it was a fairly flimsy affair, which offended Martil in its poor design and lack of height. But he was more concerned with how Karia would react once they were inside.