The Wounded Guardian (18 page)

‘Watch yourself. And her,’ Darry said bluntly. ‘You have quite a reputation, enough to put those Avish off their drinks, but Danir isn’t called the Destroyer for nothing. Why in Aroaril’s good name are you going to see that blackheart?’

‘A priest told me to,’ Martil shrugged.

‘A priest told me not to swear, drink or hump any women who aren’t my wife! Just because a priest says something, doesn’t mean you have to listen! At least take a bunch of those Ralloran guards I have staying here. Those boys would happily follow you, and turning up with a score of them would make even Danir think twice.’

Martil shook his head. ‘I won’t lead men again. I swore I was done with that when I left Rallora. I’ve had enough of ordering men to their deaths. Besides, I’m going to give Danir his niece back, not try and bring him in. If I turn up with a score of warriors, we’re going to fight, and what happens to her then? This is something I have to do.’

Darry stared at him. There was no reasoning with some people. ‘Your funeral, my friend.’ Darry shrugged and cleared away the bowls.

Kettering could not believe this was happening. A moment ago his biggest worry had been trying to get his hair to sit right on his scalp. Then a stranger had walked in, dragging a dead stableboy with him, and was now holding a knife to Kettering’s throat.

‘I need information and I need it now. Did you have a Ralloran warrior staying here? A man with two swords?’

Kettering was about to angrily declare that the privacy of the guests was more important than his life, then his brain realised what the end result of such a comment would be.

‘Would that be a man travelling with a little girl?’ he quavered.

Cezar’s interest was piqued. What was Martil doing with a small girl? Then he reminded himself to focus on the job at hand. This was the fourth inn he had checked, and it was the first he had heard of either a Ralloran or a girl. He had hoped to question the gate guards, but when he saw they were Rallorans, knew they had to be avoided instead. Worse, he knew time was running out. He had left men dead at the previous three inns and surely the militia would be involved soon.

‘He might be. The important thing was the swords. Two swords!’

‘Yes, there was one. A few days ago. Stayed with his ward or something. He was heading east, to Tetril.’

Cezar reached into a pouch and produced a handful of gold.

‘Can I trust you to stay quiet about this?’ he growled.

Kettering’s carefully-arranged hair fell in every direction as he nodded his head vigorously. ‘Not a word. Discretion is my middle name.’

‘Breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll come back to rip your guts out,’ Cezar warned, then dropped the coins on the floor. When Kettering bent down to pick them up, he stunned him with a blow to the head. Kettering slumped onto the floor, unconscious, then Cezar slipped the bloody knife into his unresisting hand. He surveyed the scene with satisfaction. A dead stableboy, a handful of gold stolen from three other inns and a murder weapon. He knew the militia would enjoy that, and waste no time on a story about a mysterious stranger asking questions about a Ralloran warrior.

The change from Norstalos to Tetril was immediately obvious. The Norstaline farms close to the border were sparse and massively fortified. The Tetran farms, as if knowing they were safe from Danir’s deprivations, let sheep and cattle graze in fields close to the road, and instead of stone, the construction was of mud and thatch.

Karia did not look at the view. She could not help but think about what would happen at the village. So far her life had been of two extremes: the gentle care of Father Nott and the brutality of her da. Now Martil had given her something else to think about. It was different to Father Nott but was far better than Da. The thought of trying something else again had her feeling sick. Thoughts like these kept her occupied and they made better time than usual, especially as a nervous Martil unconsciously hastened Tomon along. So it was before noon when they reached the turning for Thest. Despite Darry’s directions, Martil had been
concerned he might have missed the marker stone. But when he saw it, it was so obvious he had to stop himself from laughing. Easily the height of a man on horseback, the unusually curved stone even had a smaller stone placed on top—either by fate, or more likely, a villager with a sense of humour. Either way, the resemblance was remarkable.

‘What’s so funny?’ Karia demanded.

Martil remembered the girl had not known her mother, and had been brought up by an old priest.

‘Just something I saw,’ he tried to dismiss.

‘You mean the stone over there that looks like a tit?’ Karia said innocently.

Martil nearly fell off his horse. ‘Wh—what…where did you hear that?’ he spluttered.

‘Oh, Da brought back a woman to the farm, not long before we left. He said she was a hoer but I never saw her do any work with a hoe. She didn’t even go near the fields at all! Anyway, the boys kept asking her to show them her tits, so she would, and they looked a bit like that, only not facing that way.’

Martil had no idea what to say. He did not know whether to try and explain why that was wrong, or just pretend the whole conversation had never happened.

‘Why did they want to keep seeing her tits?’ Karia continued.

Martil sighed. Fighting Berellians was easy compared to this.

‘They shouldn’t have said that, especially with you around. She should not have shown her ti—herself to other people,’ he found himself saying.

‘I thought so,’ Karia agreed. ‘Lots of women came to see Father Nott, and he never asked to see any of their tits.’

‘A wise man,’ Martil said, hoping desperately that was the last comment on the matter.

Despite the prevailing forest, the trail to Thest stayed resolutely in the open, although it traversed every hill and cutting. Martil could see it was designed to keep anyone on it in full view, while providing plenty of opportunities for ambush. Martil expected bandits to appear on the trail at any moment and escort them into the village. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. The first indication that an ambush was close, he knew from bitter experience, would be the silence of the wildlife. But although they were dangerously close to thick wooded areas, the wildlife stayed obstinately loud. Birds still sang, foxes and rabbits darted out in front of them, even a few deer came to take a look. With every passing mile his tension grew, and he kept looking around, trying to see if anyone was watching them. Nothing seemed to indicate the presence of armed men.

He was checking behind him, when they rode over the crest of a small hill and Karia declared: ‘Here we are!’

Martil spun back, hands going for his swords—only to see they were almost in the middle of the village of Thest. It sat, or perhaps sprawled, across the trail like a sullen old dog, smelling just as bad. The huts he could see were all rough, as was the inn. There was no market area, no church, and certainly no militia post here.

It was all quiet and still. A few scrawny chickens pecked around a stinking manure pile, and a couple of half-starved dogs were fighting over something between two huts. But there were no people in sight. That, more than anything, made Martil nervous.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Karia wanted to know.

Martil did not answer, but heeled Tomon forward. He had not come this far to turn around now. He just rode forward slowly, expecting a crossbow bolt to strike at any moment, making sure Karia was right behind Tomon’s neck, so she was not in as much danger.

Nothing happened. The huts looked, if possible, even worse close up, and the stench of the village was foul.

‘Poo-eee!’ Karia said in disgust, holding her nose. Even Tomon tossed his head.

But nothing else happened. Martil rode Tomon past the first hut and stopped there, peering into the low doorway and the gloom beyond, trying to see movement or the shine of armour. But there was just a chicken, scratching around.
The second hut
, he told himself. He jumped down off Tomon and darted inside, sword leaping into his hand. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom and his nose far longer to adjust to the smell. But there was nobody in there. It held a small fireplace, a bed, a table and two chairs. They had once been of reasonable quality, but were now filthy, leading Martil to think they were the result of raids. But there was little else. One chair had been knocked over and there were a few plates on the table, one holding the remains of a meal. That was it. It looked as though the owners had left in a hurry.

Martil sheathed his right-hand sword and stepped out. Now he was not afraid of an ambush, but he was wondering where everyone had gone. His nose told him there were no fires burning, the only smells were human and animal waste—and plenty of it.

‘What’s happening?’ Karia asked, from where she still sat on Tomon. The silence was starting to worry her, as well.

‘I don’t know,’ Martil admitted.

He tried to think why the village was like this. It could not be plague; there were no bodies.

The Tetran army? Why had the huts not been burned?

All out on a raid? But where were the women and children?

Slowly, fearing what he might find, Martil moved through the rest of the village. Some of the huts appeared to have been left intact, with clothes, food and possessions. Others appeared to have been cleared out and everything taken. It was a mystery that baffled Martil.

‘Can we go now? This is boring,’ Karia complained.

‘I’ll just check out the inn,’ Martil decided. Like most of the buildings in the village, it was on the verge of falling down. It seemed only dried mud and old ale barrels were keeping it up. He tied Tomon’s reins to the rotting hitching rail, which had half-fallen down at one end. The door was shut, so he drew his right-hand sword and kicked it open. He waited for a second, but nothing sprang out, so he jumped inside, ducking to the right, away from the door, to get his back to the wall in case of a sudden rush. Nothing. It was basically just a large room. A large, smelly room. The stench of stale beer was thick in his throat, while food decayed on filthy plates on even dirtier tables. But there was another smell over all of that. He moved across the room. The bar was simply a couple of old doors, laid on top of some empty barrels. And unless his nose was
mistaken, it was also the source of the foul stench that overlaid the other, familiar smells.

Cautiously Martil approached the bar, and peered over quickly. A man lay on his back on an old mattress behind the bar, mouth open, and a thin trail of spittle dribbling down. He was snoring very softly. He was middle-aged, although he had obviously seen a few fights in his time. The thin scars on his right forearm told a tale, but not as much as the leather cap-covered stump of a left wrist, where his hand should be. He was wearing fine clothes, of a good weave and cut, although stained with food, drink and other things Martil did not want to think about too much. He had a long nose, a roughly stubbled chin and wispy hair that was tousled into a mop. In short, Martil would have loved to have left him and walked away. But as he was the only person alive in the village, and he needed answers, there was only one thing for it.

He looked around and saw an old tankard, half-filled with a murky liquid that smelt vaguely of ale. Rather than go to the well and draw up a bucket of water, he decided that would do. Besides, it wasn’t going to make the smell much worse. He grabbed it and tossed the contents into the man’s face, then stepped back, waiting for a reaction. He had to admit, it was spectacular.

With a howl, the man leapt to his feet, wiped the worst of the liquid off his face with his hand, smelt his hand and let out an even bigger howl.

‘You bastard! That was my own piss!’ he roared. ‘I’ve got a mind to…’ His hand started down towards his belt, where an empty knife scabbard sat, then stopped, partly because there was nothing there, partly because Martil had drawn both of his swords. He
changed mental gears and continued smoothly ‘…offer you a drink and politely discuss preferred ways to wake a man up. Or the political situation in Norstalos, should you prefer.’ His voice was a little hoarse but Martil could tell two things—he had a trace of a Norstaline accent still, and he had been educated. An ordinary bandit did not talk like that.

Martil smiled at him. There was no humour in it. ‘Who are you and what happened to this village?’ he demanded.

‘Before I start confessing to anything, who’s doing the asking?’ the man asked suspiciously, then added hastily as Martil twirled his swords: ‘I was just wondering.’

‘Zorva’s balls, I’m not in the Norstaline or Tetran armies, nor am I a militiaman. But I will have some answers,’ Martil said in frustration.

The man looked at the swords and shrugged. ‘I am Conal and as to what happened here, that could take a while to explain.’ The man wiped an odorous drip off his cheek and shuddered. ‘Do you mind if I have a wash first, and do you have anything to eat?’

Martil looked at him with distaste. ‘By all means have a wash. As to the food, that depends on what you can tell me of the fate of Danir the Destroyer. The quality of the food depends on the quality of the information. I have news that will interest him.’

‘I doubt that,’ Conal snorted. ‘But if my news is worth food, I hope you’ve brought fine beef and a better cook, for I have a tale worthy of a great meal.’ He looked around hungrily and scratched his crotch industriously.

‘You sell it well enough and we shall see.’

Not wanting to let Conal out of his sight, he followed the man out of the inn. If Conal was surprised to see a small girl sitting on a tall horse, he said nothing, just stumbled around the side of the inn, towards the village well.

‘Who’s that? He smells!’ Karia announced loudly.

Certainly loud enough for Conal to hear, and turn back. ‘Well, so would you, if someone had just thrown your own piss all over you,’ he grumbled.

‘Did you have a bath in your own wee?’ Karia thought that was hilarious. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am the last of the Destroyer’s men, Conal the Cowardly, at your service.’ He bowed low.