The Wounded Guardian (4 page)

‘Of course. And if you want to keep patting Tomon, you can sit in front of me and stroke his neck while we ride,’ Martil offered.

She thought that was a good idea, so he lifted her up into the saddle. It took a little while to sort out the reins and to make sure she did not fall off as she patted Tomon, but eventually he was able to urge Tomon into a brisk walk. Up close, she was particularly fragrant.

‘Who’s Father Nott?’ he asked, more to distract himself from her smell than anything else.

‘When my mother died, Father Nott took me in. I grew up with him, and only went to live with my Da about six months ago, at the last Feast of Aroaril.’

Martil felt his hopes rise a little.

‘He has a family, then, this Father Nott? His wife and kids would be pleased to see you again?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s very old. Older even than you.’

Martil sighed. It sounded as though her life had been stranger than his own.

‘At least there’s still your uncle,’ he offered.

‘I don’t want to see him. I’m going to stay with Father Nott!’

Good. The sooner I get rid of you, the better
, Martil thought.
And perhaps then I can get some peace.

But then he shook himself. This whole trip was about his new start, away from the fighting. The deaths today were regrettable, but they would be the last. He would make this ride with the girl his penance. Surely nothing else could go wrong.

The farm was nothing much, just a handful of fenced paddocks around a large stone farmhouse. It was half a day’s ride from the town and the nearest neighbours were several miles away. Inside, the man once known as War Captain Macord sat in his kitchen, a half-finished bottle of wine and a couple of tall candles on the table in front of him. A farm had been all he had dreamed of during the war. Now he did not dream, he just wished he had died before ever hearing about a Berellian city called Bellic.

Reluctantly he poured himself another glass of wine, but as he raised it to his lips, a knock on the door made him stop. Without thinking, his hand went to his belt, where a long dagger hung ready. His clothes were unwashed, his face unshaven, but the dagger was clean and sharp. Swiftly he crossed to the door, moving lightly on his feet, although the stomach protruding over his belt showed how long it had been since he had been in armour. He peered carefully through a side window. There was nothing outside, and he did not even think about opening the door. Instead, he turned and made a rush for his bedroom, where he kept a sword and armour handy. He burst through the door, ready to bar it behind
him—only to see a figure in black standing beside his bed.

The man’s arms flicked forward and Macord just had time to see a pair of throwing knives fly out before they slammed into his chest.

‘King Markuz sends his greetings, Captain Macord,’ the killer said to the gasping man.

Cezar walked away from the farmhouse as the fire he had set started to lick tongues of flame out of its windows. He had doused the body in lamp oil and thought it likely the militia would never find the terrible wounds in the chest, or know that Berellia had reached out to take its revenge on one of the Butchers of Bellic—at least not until he had killed more of them.

Chell was a typical Norstaline village. It had one hard-baked dirt road running past about 100 small homes, mostly made of wood, but a handful made of stone and a few of mud brick. There was an inn, a church, the militia post and of course the market with its fenced yards. The huge dung heaps mouldering beside houses added little to its appeal, while the sounds of chickens and pigs provided a raucous welcome.

It was the same as a thousand other villages across the continent and was never going to make the list of places you must see before leaving Norstalos. But to Karia it was something special. Despite the past six months she had spent living rough in the woods or cowering on Edil’s farm, it was home, the only true home she had known.

Her memory was good—Father Nott had said he had never taught a child like her—so she could clearly remember what it had been like. Days of
peace and calm, of lessons taught and questions answered, prayers in the cool of the dark church or in the quiet of the home; of being read stories in the evenings, receiving soft hugs and being tucked into her own bed with her own special dolly, and being kissed goodnight. People looking after her—not just Father Nott but the many women who helped out in the church. Other children to play with, and talk to. And best of all, there had always been plenty of food. Food brought in by the women of the village. Anything from stews and pies to tarts and cakes and glasses of fresh, creamy milk. Father Nott had been old, and often busy, but he had always smiled at her and was always ready to answer her many questions.

The past six months had been very different. Life on the farm had been hard, no fun, no lessons, little food but plenty of work. She had been ordered awake before dawn, to cook breakfast for her father and three half-brothers. After cooking, she had to feed the animals, fix buckets and work at any other task Edil thought about. Any animals she tried to befriend usually ended up on the dinner table and any questions were either ignored or received a kick or a blow in response. She was a clever girl and quickly worked out the best way to survive was to do what Edil or her brothers said and just keep quiet. That, and to remember only to cry at night, when they were asleep.

Her prayers to be allowed to go back to Father Nott went unanswered, although her prayer to leave the farm had been heard, after a fashion, when they had taken to the road. But even the farm was better than life as an outlaw. It had sounded good when she had first heard it. After a few months they would all
be rich, and then they could move to a city and live like kings. In reality it was a muddy, wet, cold camp in the forest, hardly any food and even more kicks and blows.

So the deaths of her father and half-brothers had not left her devastated. She missed them not at all. She did not like the strange man who had walked into the camp and told her that her father and brothers were dead. He acted funny, and kept talking to himself. But if he would take her back to Father Nott, then she would forget he was obviously a murbeling maniac.

As always when she tried to think of something happy, she thought about Father Nott. Thoughts of him were all that had kept her going on the farm and in the forest. Of course, every time she had told Edil she wanted to go back to Father Nott, she had been hit for her trouble, until she finally stopped asking.

At least this Martil didn’t hit her, and his horse was nice. She had always liked horses best, because they would not be eaten on the farm. Still, she thought Martil should be punished for killing her Da and her half-brothers, although she had hated them as well. It was all rather confusing.

Asking questions was a habit she had made herself forget during her time with Edil but this ride was different. Knowing she was going back to Father Nott had her feeling excited for the first time in months. So excited that she could not help herself and had to start talking, despite months of Edil trying to hit that habit out of her. And when Martil did not stop her, she kept talking. In between eating, of course, because there was plenty of food and she had not eaten much for the past two days. And when
she saw Chell, it was all she could do not to burst into tears. Soon she would be home again.

Martil had never been so pleased to see a backwater village like Chell. He had thought the little girl would ride in sullen silence. But one question led to another until he felt as though his ears were buzzing.

They had to stop every so often for food, then to let her go to the toilet, then for more food.

In an effort to distract her, and to keep his sanity, he tried to find out about her—and about Edil. He had heard many strange and sad stories but it was somehow different to hear it told like this, by a little girl who might have been discussing how she had spent the day playing with her dolls. She told him she had been raised by the local priest after her mother had died in childbirth. Edil had been too busy with the farm to look after a little girl. Or perhaps busy with his sideline of robbing people, for when she had returned to live with Edil six months ago, the farm was falling apart due to lack of care. Animals died, or were so scrawny that no buyer was willing to pay more than cost for them. Edil and his sons raided their neighbours’ flocks at night but someone had been lazy and not checked all the brand marks had been changed. When they tried to sell the new animals, the militia stepped in, and when they ran, the tax-gatherers took the farm. From what she said, Martil could tell she had been half-starved, beaten regularly and treated worse than a servant. Interspersed with the tale of how the farm failed were stories of the animals she had befriended, only to have them killed and eaten by her family. Before then, Martil had wondered how she could talk of her father and brothers being killed so easily, but after what she had seen on the farm, it was
not a surprise. It was more of a surprise that she had not been driven crazy by what had happened.

But perhaps the answer to that lay with Father Nott, the priest who had raised her for most of her life. She could not wait to see him—and after an afternoon with her, neither could Martil.

Karia pointed out the church but Martil could have spotted it himself. It was one of the finer buildings in Chell, which admittedly was not a difficult thing to achieve. The militia post was in good condition, of course, but then there were always prisoners around to keep it tidy.

The church, however, was of dressed stone and wood. It was also impressively clean. The priest’s home was just behind it and Martil was pleasantly surprised to see it was just another village house. He had known priests who had insisted on having enormous homes, demanding it as part of the village’s duty to Aroaril.

He spurred Tomon over towards the church, where a hitching rail stood along the front of the building. There were few villagers about at this time of day; most would be still working in the fields—and the handful that saw him seemed to be reassured by the sight of both a small girl in the saddle with him and the fact he was riding towards the church. An armed man in this part of Norstalos would otherwise have excited plenty of comment and attracted the attention of the militia. But a man riding with his daughter, going to church, well, that was a horse of an entirely different colour. Martil waved at a couple of women and could not stop himself thinking that if he wanted to scout a village before attacking it, riding in with a small child was the perfect disguise.

He climbed down from Tomon and tied the reins to the hitching rail. He debated about removing his saddle and saddlebags, then decided that could wait. If Father Nott was willing to take Karia, he could be out of the village and riding hard for freedom that much faster. He lifted Karia down.

‘Will he be in the church?’ he wondered.

‘Not at this time. He’ll be at home or out visiting the sick. Don’t you know anything?’ Karia demanded.

‘Apparently not,’ Martil muttered, and let her lead him towards the priest’s house. ‘I just hope he’s as happy to see you as I’ll be to see the back of you.’ The city home of Duke Gello was more like a small castle, set on manicured grounds. With its tall towers crowned by a magnificent array of flags, it was impossible to miss. Even those who had lived all their lives in the city liked to stop and stare, peering through the bars of the huge gates at the glorious marbled mansion. But they quickly learned to listen out for the horns that announced Duke Gello’s arrival. For neither the Duke nor his black-garbed escort ever stopped their horses or even slowed down if people were in their path.

‘Make way for the Duke!’ the roar went up and the score or so of onlookers scattered.

Gello urged his big black warhorse to greater speed as he made for the gate, cracking his whip both left and right. If these peasants did not give him the respect he deserved by clearing a path and bowing low, they would pay the price. One older man, a little slow to move, yowled as the whip slashed across his shoulders.

Just behind him, the commander of his guard sent a pair of children leaping for safety as his horse’s
iron-shod hooves struck sparks from the cobbles. Gello’s mouth twisted in a smile of grim satisfaction at the cries of fear and protest that followed him but he did not bother to look around. Peasants needed to know their place and that rabble by the gate had just learned theirs. Guards swung the gates shut behind the last rider and the party galloped up the driveway to the stables that were bigger than almost every other house in the capital.

‘This is an outrage! We’re going to see the militia!’ the injured man’s wife screamed at the gate guards, while her husband howled with pain, his tunic slashed across the shoulders and blood dripping from where the whip had laid open his upper back.

‘Go to the militia? As if the shit-slingers could do anything to Duke Gello!’ one of the guards sneered.

‘Get out of here before anything else happens to you,’ the other slammed the haft of his spear into the metal bars of the gate, making them ring harshly. ‘Make us come out there and you’ll be sorry!’

Muttering, the crowd slunk away.

Duke Gello could have looked back and seen them go—but he had no time for that. These people were far beneath his notice. He strode through the house and up to his study, where his guests waited.

Count Cessor was plump while Earl Worick was lean but they had much in common. Their lands shared a border, they were two of the more powerful Norstaline nobles, they always obeyed Duke Gello and had answered his summons immediately. They leapt to their feet when he walked in, shadowed by the commander of his personal guard, a lean killer called Chelten.

Tall, wide-shouldered and thin-hipped, blond-haired, with a square chin, powerful nose and blue
eyes, Gello was the embodiment of a saga hero. Only the mouth, full-lipped and inclined to twist into a sneer rather than a smile, cast a shadow on that image. But for Cessor and Worick he was at his most fulsome.

‘You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come and see me like this,’ he said pleasantly.

Neither said anything, because Gello had not phrased it as a question.

‘My friends, the time is upon us. Having my cousin sit on the throne as a queen is an affront to this proud country, an insult to God and the dragons. I shall wait no longer. I intend to create a crisis. You two will lead the Royal Council to declare a state of emergency and appoint me regent. I will handle things from there,’ he smiled.

‘Crisis? What crisis could possibly justify calling for the Queen to be replaced? We still have many nobles who will not sanction that—we could end up being executed for treason!’ Cessor blurted.

Gello’s smile vanished. He stalked across to stand in front of Cessor, who tried to lean back into his chair to get away. He would have gone back further only Chelten loomed over him from behind.

‘Are you saying you don’t trust me? You are thinking that perhaps the country is better under my dear cousin?’

Cessor tried to shake his head, while Worick shuffled his chair across, to be a little further away from his fellow noble.

‘Then remember all those who obey me shall be richly rewarded. Those who oppose me…’ He stared into Cessor’s eyes, while the noble writhed with fear.

‘I have always been loyal! Of course I will do what you ask!’ Cessor gabbled.

‘I know you will. Because otherwise Chelten will pay a visit to your precious daughters. Understand?’