The Wounded Guardian (41 page)

‘We should find a good defensive spot and then smash them. Between the Dragon Sword and the wizard, they will not stand a chance against us,’ Rocus declared.

‘We’ll be slaughtered!’ Wime said succintly.

‘We could just cut and run. Let them find our hideout after we’ve gone,’ Tarik offered.

‘March around with all the weapons we’ve stolen? With women and kids?’ Conal groaned.

Merren cut through the talk. ‘Captain, what is your plan?’

‘We must lead them away from here. These tactics are unusual. Most commanders are not so eager to sacrifice their men like this. If we attack the group that is closest to us, then they will send all the other groups swarming around until they find us. Well, we shall attack the one furthest away, to draw them away from us. We do that a few times, and soon they’ll just be searching the woods miles from here.’

‘This will mean some hard marching,’ Rocus said mournfully, looking at the map.

Barrett shifted in his seat. ‘I think you’ll find that, thanks to me, we’ll be able to make it more of an easy walk,’ he told them smugly.

Martil felt a flicker of irritation that the wizard had jumped in without being asked, but he quelled it.

‘Get your men fed and rested.’

The three officers left, but Merren held the others back.

‘There was more news,’ she said quietly. ‘Sendric?’

‘It seems that Havrick’s retribution for the attack on his convoy was to let his men loose on the town. I’ll be travelling back there to check on what happened. If what we heard was correct, there were many evil deeds committed last night,’ Sendric declared.

Martil smiled. ‘We should look on it with gratitude. At this rate, Gello will be doing our work for us, by turning the country against himself.’

Merren nodded. ‘I had hoped men would be rallying to us by now. But we will take recruits however we can get them.’

Martil spent the rest of the day playing with Karia, who not only loved ball and card games but wanted him to walk through the woods with her, so she could show him what she had learnt. Despite himself, Martil had to admit she was becoming very good. Wolves were happy to come up and have their tummies rubbed, small wild strawberries were able to bloom and supply fruit when they should be dying back, and she could bring the birds down out of the trees to talk to her.

‘Can I come with you?’ she asked, predictably, as they walked back. ‘I could help. You’ve seen how good I’m getting.’

Martil froze at the thought.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ he sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose I can look after Merren for you. She needs my advice.’

‘She needs your advice? What have you been telling her?’ Martil asked cautiously.

‘Oh, just how I manage to get you and Barrett to do nice things for me,’ she said, waving at a small plant until it flowered, allowing her to pick three pink, sweet-smelling blooms.

Martil groaned inwardly. That was all he needed. A pack of Berellian axemen would probably be easier to handle than those two working together.

Martil led the men out the next morning. He had been a little nervous to see Karia and Merren wave him goodbye, standing hand in hand. Still, it was a good feeling as well. He could almost imagine he was just off for a day’s hunting. But his mood was swiftly spoiled by the men.

Rocus was complaining that his guards had been forced to leave their mail armour behind, and that they were each carrying a spare arrow sheaf for the archers. But Martil had been definite about both. The mail was too heavy for forced marches and the archers would be key to victory in any ambush. Making sure they had enough arrows was vital.

Tarik and his hunters were sulking.

‘The wizard takes all the skill out of things,’ Tarik had grumbled to Martil. ‘A man spends forty years learning how to move through woods unseen, how to track and how to tell direction, then along comes a wizard and makes it as easy as walking along a city street!’

As for Barrett, he wanted to play a bigger part in the ambush.

‘I think I showed you how valuable I could be in a fight. Few could possibly stand against me,’ he told
Martil. ‘Moving through the forest, talking to the birds, these are things that take but little energy.’

‘After all that magic use, can you still use that trick of yours to jump us from tree to tree, so we can disappear in one place and appear miles away?’

‘Probably,’ Barrett hedged. ‘Anyway, it is not a trick, it is an incredibly difficult piece of magic…’

‘This is why I can’t take the risk of you becoming tired. Any of us can kill Havrick’s soldiers. You are the only one who can do magic.’

Barrett accepted this, although he was clearly not happy. Martil could not wait for the fighting to start. At least then, everybody would forget about their complaints.

Jennar looked at the slaughtered remains of his men and swore softly. He did not know who to hate more: the men who had done this or the man really responsible, Havrick. The news one of his groups had been wiped out had reached him only slowly. Then it took him time to concentrate his groups around the site of the attack, out on his right flank.

‘They had archers up there, then a force of swordsmen took the remaining men in the flank,’ one of the scouts reported. ‘They didn’t stand a chance.’

‘Your orders, sir?’ one of his junior lieutenants asked.

‘Same as before. But we must create a new search pattern, based on this attack, as it must have been the group closest to their camp.’

‘What if that’s what they want us to think?’ an old sergeant asked.

Jennar smiled at the man, a tough veteran called Gillen.

‘I might be tempted to agree with you, but then that would mean we should search in the opposite direction. A man could go crazy doing that. Now let’s begin the search again, but try and stay close to your next group. And be prepared for an ambush at any moment.’ Jennar knew he was ensuring slow progress—and that would infuriate Havrick—but he could not force his men to march to their deaths.

Martil had sent four of the guardsmen back, laden with captured swords. He did not need them to ambush twenty men. The first attack had been almost too easy—the hardest thing had been keeping the trumpeter alive long enough to find out what calls they were using. He reckoned one more attack, again at the group at the very end of their line, which was far to the east of their camp, should be enough to ensure their search pattern would miss the caves by several miles. This second attack would be more difficult. The soldiers would be alert. But he had Barrett, who was able to provide him with an accurate picture of where the groups were. If he could just get him to concentrate on the task at hand.

‘I know you did not want me to fight, but I think you should try not to fight, either,’ the wizard said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ Martil bristled instantly.

‘The Dragon Sword is not winning men over to our side. It should be. Perhaps if you stop killing, then it might start working. We need you to be a good man.’

‘Well, you know what they say, a good man is made by a good woman,’ Martil told him, hoping that would make him shut up.

Barrett rounded on him angrily, although he kept his voice low.

‘Do not even joke about that!’

‘Feeling worried?’ Martil asked, amused and a little pleased he had got through to the arrogant wizard.

‘Aye—for our cause. Did you ever think what would happen if you make her reject you? Would you stay then? Would you fight for her if she told you that you could never be more than her Champion?’

‘Who says she’ll reject me?’ Martil challenged.

‘She has to,’ Barrett said coldly. ‘The welfare of her people must come before herself. Don’t you understand what is at stake here?’

Martil looked hard at the wizard. ‘Of course I do. I’m the one that’s going to die if we don’t win, right? But what about you? Won’t you just go off somewhere and earn a pile of gold with your magic?’

Barrett’s jaw tightened. ‘If I wanted to do that, do you think I would be sleeping in a cave, and running around after a bunch of sweaty, stupid soldiers, led by a sheep-shagging Ralloran with an over-inflated idea of his own ability?’

At another time, Martil would have exploded. But fighting Havrick’s men had drained him of anger. Besides, he was in a similar position to the wizard. ‘I tell you what. I promise to use every bit of your magic power that I can to make sure we win. Agreed?’

Barrett was suspicious of the friendlier Martil. The warrior was up to something. No matter, he was sure he could outsmart him. ‘Agreed.’

Once more Martil gathered the squad leaders around.

‘Tarik, I want you to take your best two archers with you, and strike this group here,’ Martil
indicated the group three in from the end of the line. ‘Pick off their scouts, then fade into the forest before they realise how many of you there are. They’ll react by blowing the warning horn. When we hear that, we’ll strike the end group here.’

‘How will we know when to attack?’ Tarik asked.

‘Barrett will send a bird as a messenger,’ Martil gestured towards the wizard.

‘Expect to see an owl arrive, and fly down onto your shoulder. As soon as that happens, you know to attack.’ Barrett gestured, and an owl flew down to join him. ‘This one.’

Tarik looked over to where the bird sat on Barrett’s shoulder, unblinking.

‘I’ve heard of using bird calls to signal an attack before, but this is ridiculous,’ he muttered.

The others laughed, and Martil had to join in as well. Men who could laugh before a fight were ready for battle. The trick was to ensure those easy victories continued.

‘Fools! Scum! Worms!’ Havrick raged at the impassive Jennar and his remaining sergeants and officers. ‘You outnumber them four to one and you let them kill nearly half a company! Two searching parties destroyed now! And we still don’t know where the camp is!’

‘We just followed your plan, sir,’ Jennar said stolidly. ‘We are acting as bait and trying to get closer to their camp. They have just been able to take bites out of us.’

‘Very amusing! Perhaps I should send you back to the Duke and you can entertain him with your comments?’ Havrick stepped close to Jennar, so he could smell the sweat and leaf mould on the man’s
clothes. ‘I know your game. You seek to discredit me with the Duke. You want my captaincy. You are jealous of me!’

Jennar looked at him blankly but Havrick was in full cry.

‘Tomorrow you search again, and to the right. Only this time we search in groups of fifty. No more will they be able to kill our men so easily. My light horse will help you.’

‘Sir, if we are in groups of fifty, we shall be able to cover only a small amount of ground,’ Jennar warned. ‘It will take us many more days.’

‘Then the heavy cavalry will forage for supplies. These hills are filled with farms.’

Merren’s childhood had been one of study and work. Her father had refused to have much to do with her, beyond pushing for her to learn her lessons well. One of her nurses told her it was because she looked too much like his beloved dead wife, her mother. The result of this was the lack of anything resembling a normal childhood. Every moment of her day was carefully timetabled, so nothing was wasted. She could listen to music, or learn to dance—but only so far as these activities related to her duties. Spare time was something that did not exist. She worked, she ate and she slept. And then, as the Queen-in-waiting, it got even worse. The throne was too great a responsibility to be diverted by anything frivolous. Looking back now, she could see the irony that many of her male predecessors had deemed such activities as drinking, whoring and hunting as vital to the crown, and devoted much of their time to mastering these.

So when Karia announced she wanted to play dolls, she was unsure what to do. Her first
inclination had been to make some excuse. But her only alternative was to go through tally scrolls or look at maps, or worry about what was happening out in the woods or back in Norstalos City. So, she reasoned, how hard could it be?

A few minutes later, she was regretting that attitude. Karia wanted her to be the voices of at least three dolls, and was quick to criticise when Merren forgot which one was which, or used the wrong accent. It was also a game that made her feel wistful. She was supposed to be the handsome prince and the princess, as well as a maid, while Karia’s doll was the queen.

‘The beautiful princess always marries a handsome prince, and they live happily ever after,’ Karia explained the basic saga storyline. ‘Of course she can be a princess in disguise, and he can be a prince in disguise, but even if they think they are only servants, they’re secretly royalty. And even if they’ve been promised to someone else, they end up with each other, because they’re the handsomest and beautifullest people in the land.’

Merren had to struggle not to say something. In her experience of history, the princess often ended up with whoever the king decreed was the best prospect, or had to marry a fool who was more in love with his own mirror. So she began to change the game, making the prince act like an idiot and have the princess rule by herself.

‘That’s funny,’ Karia giggled, as Merren made the prince doll put on a dress and pretend he was beautiful. ‘That prince is silly. We won’t make him the hero. The princess can marry her champion, instead.’

Merren looked carefully at Karia. True, this was a standard saga plot but it was a little close for comfort.

All her life she had been considered a prize by men. From the first time she had been officially welcomed to court she had been seen as a ticket to riches. Men had tried to impress her, to catch her eye and, after Gello’s disgrace, tell her why they should be King. Telling endlessly boring stories about themselves. She was heartily sick of it. To them, she was either a crown, or a breeding device. Or both. Then there was the whole issue with Lahra. Knowing there was a woman who looked like her being so foully treated by many of her nobles made her skin crawl. Just talking to some of them was difficult enough. She could not help but wonder what was going on inside their minds, what filth they were imagining while they spoke to her.

Martil was different. For a start he was not trying to impress her with his stories. Most importantly, she felt he was attracted to her, rather than the crown she wore. The sort of man who could look after a small girl was rare—and the warrior who would look after a child was rarer still. She found it hard to reconcile this side of him with the stories of Bellic; men, women and children all killed. Although it did make him more interesting. The combination of danger and shelter. She was confident she could encourage his softer side, but it would have to be played carefully. After all, there was still the problem of the succession. She had to marry a noble. Perhaps she could use Karia’s techniques on them. They all wanted a chance at Prince Consort. It was just a matter of playing them off against each other. In the meantime, she could relax and enjoy playing with Karia. In some ways, she could see why it had helped Martil. It gave her a chance to just be herself and not have to worry about
being a ruler—or imagine what might be happening out in the woods.

Martil had to admit that, while wizards had proved mostly useless in the southern wars, Barrett was proving invaluable in this campaign. He had been up with the birds, literally, and had soon been able to report that Havrick had changed his plans: large parties of armed men were now scouring the woods in the wrong direction, while much smaller parties of cavalry were heading out with wagons towards the many farms in the district. Barrett’s magical technique for travelling vast distances was also of use. They could not travel far, because keeping the gateway open long enough to allow so many to get through was a massive task. But he was still able to help them step into a tree on one side of the searchers, and emerge a few miles away, in a stand of trees near a small valley that was about to be visited by Havrick’s men.

Martil and the others had arrived in time to lure the cavalry into a reckless charge that Tarik’s archers had shattered—but not in time to stop the troopers killing several farmers.

A dozen of the troopers were still alive, although all were wounded, either by arrows or in falls from their horses. Rocus had his men drag them clear of the horses and then dragged the armour and helms off the men, even the wounded. They might have been tempted to let the wounded keep their armour, for ripping a mail hauberk off a man with a broken arm or shoulder was not an easy thing to do. But the sight of the murdered farmers removed their sympathy.

‘They should never have tried to charge us,’ Rocus said.

‘No. But then cavalry are not very bright. The horses have all the brains,’ Martil grinned. ‘Good to see you are learning, Lieutenant.’

He was distracted from the tally by Wime, who returned with the remaining farmers and their families. ‘Captain, I think you need to talk to them,’ the militiaman said.

‘The wagons?’ Martil ignored the suggestion for the moment.

‘My men are just moving them closer together so they’ll burn better. The wagoners have all fled,’ Wime reported. ‘Those bastards had the women and girls in the wagons already.’