The Wounded Guardian (19 page)

‘Not much of a title,’ Martil observed.

‘I’m thinking of changing it,’ Conal admitted.

Several buckets of water did little to improve Conal’s general appearance, but they did seem to help the smell a little. He changed into fresh clothes—although they were only a marginal improvement over what he had been wearing. Then he drank deeply from a last bucket of water before going around the back to the stinking latrine pit and squatting for an age, accompanying himself with a chorus of grunts, groans and exhortations.

Martil moved Karia and Tomon further away, but it was impossible to block out the noise, despite his best efforts to talk over them at Karia.

‘Can you please keep it down!’ he finally roared, when Karia’s questions and giggles got too much for him.

‘Just letting you know I’m not trying to run away,’ Conal called back cheerfully.

Finally, the old bandit appeared around the side of the inn, pulling his trousers back up. ‘Any chance of some food?’ he called out.

‘I’m not hungry any more,’ Martil told him.

Martil had him drag the cleanest table and three chairs out into the fresher air, then handed over an oatcake and a strip of dried beef. Karia sat down and tucked into an apple, while Martil just sat and watched the man wolf down the food.

‘So, what happened here?’ Martil asked.

Conal swallowed his mouthful and belched loudly. Karia giggled and Martil ostentatiously laid his swords on the table.

‘It’s a funny tale,’ Conal began hastily, ‘started a few days ago. You obviously know this is Danir the Destroyer’s base. Three days ago he rides out with his men, as usual, planning to hit a farm on the other side of the border that we’d been scouting for a week.’

‘We?’

Conal waved the stump of his left hand around. ‘Can’t ride and swing a sword. I just run the inn for Danir.’

‘Go on,’ Martil said, his face expressionless.

‘But they weren’t back by dawn, as they usually would have been. We were starting to think about going to look for them, when three men rode in, looking like they had been dragged through a regiment of Berellians backwards. All had been cut, and one had a knife in the guts that killed him before the day was out. We all wanted to know what had happened, so they told us. On the way to the farm, one of the scouts had spotted six men riding at night, formed up around a seventh man, like they were guarding him. Well, including the scout, Danir had twenty-seven men with him. Six guards, they couldn’t stand up to that. And travelling at night, away from the road—it had to be something
valuable they were carrying. So Danir set an ambush and charged in.’

‘Only they weren’t ordinary guards,’ Martil said flatly.

Conal chuckled. ‘You’ve been around a bit, I see. No, they weren’t, because they fought like demons. Danir probably should have cut and run, but he was a prideful man who never liked to lose. And any man that rode with him was terrified of the bastard. You didn’t leave a fight until he told you, or you got your guts slowly ripped out later. At the end of it, there were just seven men left alive, including Danir, one of his sons—and the man the six had been protecting. So Danir tells him to hand over his valuables and he might live. And do you know what the man did then?’

‘Turned into a dragon?’ Karia asked.

Conal roared with laughter, showing plenty of yellowing teeth.

‘No, he’s holding two knives, just a pair of knives, although he’d already killed five men with them during the fight. He throws them, kills Danir and the man next to him. Danir’s son sees he’s unarmed, so he and the other three swarm in, only this man pulls out two more daggers, kills one more and leaves the last in the guts of Danir’s son before he gets cut down. So there’s two unwounded men, and another who’s as good as dead, out of twenty-seven. And do you know what they found when they searched the bodies?’

‘They were all elves?’ Karia guessed.

Conal laughed again. ‘You have a wonderful imagination, princess,’ he chuckled.

‘I’m not a princess, I’m Karia,’ she told him.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you. I thought someone as pretty as you had to be a princess,’ he smiled.

‘Just get on with it,’ Martil growled.

Conal took a gulp of water. ‘They were soldiers. Wearing black surcoats carrying the double sword badge of Duke Gello, with some sort of crown above it.’

‘Means they were part of his personal guard,’ Martil agreed.

‘But the best bit was, the last man to die, the one that used those daggers to such effect, he had a sword in his bag. Imagine that! Fighting for your life but you don’t draw your sword, you just use a dagger! Why didn’t he use his sword?’

‘I don’t know. It was blunt?’ Karia guessed.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Conal said, then gulped when he saw Martil’s face. ‘First, I have to tell you what happened to the village,’ he added hurriedly. After a long moment, Martil nodded at him, so Conal continued. ‘So the two men took the valuables, which wasn’t much, and rode back here with Danir’s dying son, Ferg. Took them a bit longer, because wounded men don’t travel too easily. When they got back here and told everyone that Danir was dead and his band destroyed, there was a fair bit of panic. Folks in these parts, and especially across the Norstaline border, aren’t real fond of the Destroyer. So, with no Danir, and more importantly, no fighting men to keep the area terrified of us, we could see an angry mob come calling. So the villagers took what they could and left that day.’

‘And what of Danir’s family? Where did they go?’ Martil asked sharply, wanting to know one way or the other if the option of giving Karia back to some of her family was still there.

‘His wife ran away years ago. When he wanted one of the women in the village, he just took them.
You didn’t argue with him. As to his sons—one was killed on the raid, the other came back with a dagger in his guts and is buried out the back of this place.’ Conal shrugged.

Martil realised he would be looking after Karia and wondered, again, what the old priest had seen. Then he put aside that thought to return to the mystery here.

‘The two men who had returned with the prize? The last of Danir’s gang? What of them?’

Conal sighed. ‘They fought over it and killed each other. Or rather, the victor died of his wounds the next day. I had to bury them.’

‘So why did you stay?’ Martil felt there was something missing about the story. ‘I thought you were a coward?’

‘Never said that. That’s what they called me, because I wouldn’t ride on raids,’ Conal protested. ‘I stayed because I couldn’t decide what to do with it.’

‘With what? Tell me now,’ Martil snarled. His patience was just about worn out.

‘I have to show it to you. Trust me, you wouldn’t believe it otherwise. And I’d go and get it, only you might get the wrong idea. You’d better follow me.’

‘If this is a trap…’ Martil warned.

‘Then I’m even more stupid than I look. Come on.’

Conal led the way back into the inn; Karia stayed in the doorway, holding her hand over her nose.

Moving with almost exaggerated care, Conal dumped his straw mattress onto the bar, to reveal a long, cloth-wrapped bundle underneath.

Martil sheathed his swords. ‘Back away and put your hands—sorry, your hand—on your head.’

He waited until Conal had done so, then bent down and picked up the bundle. Almost as soon as
he picked it up, he knew it was a sword, although it felt the wrong weight for one so large.

‘See what I mean?’ Conal said miserably. ‘I stayed because I had no idea what to do with it.’

Martil shook away the cloth, which seemed to be a soldier’s cloak, and then everything became clear to him. It was indeed a sword, in a beautiful jewelled scabbard. When he stripped off the last of the cloth it seemed to light up the entire room, turning the squalid inn into something bright and warm, and even seemed to take the edge off the smell.

He was holding the Dragon Sword of Norstalos.

Cezar was heartily sick of Norstaline inns by now. After his early successes, and feeling as if he would catch up with Captain Martil at any time, he had experienced his first taste of frustration. For some reason, the inns on the main roads had not seen a Ralloran warrior and a little girl—surely the easiest of things to remember. But why should they leave the main road? It was a mystery. Cezar wanted to kill this Martil, sacrifice the girl to Zorva and get back to Berellia. The messages from Onzalez were getting alarming. Make the kill and get out. Time is against you. He had to backtrack, and go a different route before he could find those who remembered them. Still, his chase was drawing to a close. He was two days from the border now and was looking forward to getting his hands on the girl almost as much as he was anticipating the enjoyment of cutting out Martil’s heart.

Martil was oblivious to Conal as he stared at the sword. The golden hilt was shaped like a dragon, the wings flared to form the cross-guard, the body was the handle, the head, with two rubies for eyes, twisted its long neck around to embrace the blade, while its tail formed the pommel. The black scabbard was encrusted with jewels, and strange runes written in silver rolled up the side. The village, the inn, the smelly bandit, even Karia all seemed to fade into the background. At that moment he could not say where he was or even who he was. Everything seemed to be about this Sword, as if it had expanded to fill the whole world. All that mattered, all that existed, was the Sword and himself. The eyes on the hilt seemed to sparkle at him and the hilt grew warm in his hand. Without thinking, without any effort, as if he was responding to some compulsion, he drew the blade from the scabbard. It was the most natural thing in the world to do, as if it were the logical, the only possible course of action after picking it up. In fact it would have been wrong not to draw it. The blade came free with a strange hissing noise. It was even more beautiful than the scabbard, a perfect piece of shining steel, which seemed to make even the tawdry
inn taproom sparkle. The balance was amazing. His eyes told him he was holding a large sword, but his muscles were telling him it weighed no more than a small knife. He gazed at it, entranced, although the spell was broken by Conal’s babbling.

‘You drew the Sword?’ he gasped, amazed.

‘You drew the Sword!’ he cried in shock.

‘You drew the Sword,’ he moaned in horror.

‘What are you going on about? Of course I’ve drawn the bloody sword,’ Martil dismissed him.

‘Don’t you understand?’ Conal gasped. ‘Don’t you know what you have done?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll put it back,’ Martil shrugged.

‘You can’t put it back! You’re its wielder now! All of Norstalos has been waiting for one to come along, and now it’s you!’

Something of the pure horror in Conal’s voice started to penetrate Martil’s head.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you never listen to the sagas, the legends about this Sword? What are you, some sort of sheep-shagging Ralloran?’

Martil pointed the Sword towards him. ‘Yes, except for the sheep. But you would be wise not to insult me while I am holding a sword.’ Then he relented a little and remembered the little merchant, Berne. ‘No, I haven’t heard the legends about this sword. As I keep telling you Norstalines, I spent my life fighting the Ralloran Wars and trying to stay alive. Strangely, we never sat around and discussed Norstaline myths and legends. So why don’t you tell me instead of babbling like an idiot?’

‘The blade doesn’t let just anyone draw it. If it thinks you are unworthy, then not even the strongest man in the world could pull it out of the scabbard.
But if it thinks you are worthy, then you become its wielder, with all that entails. Although, if you do not live up to its purpose, you will die horribly.’

‘You’re talking as if it were alive. It’s a sword,’ Martil grunted.

‘A sword created by the dragons, forged in secret, using great magics. It can never be used for evil. If a good man draws it and then turns to evil, its magic will destroy him.’

‘How does it define evil? It’s a sword. Swords do what their wielders make them do. How can it tell if you are killing someone who is bad or good?’ Martil argued.

Conal smiled. ‘These are questions that have consumed great thinkers and wizards for centuries. I can only tell you what I know, what every Norstaline child is taught. The Sword
knows
, because it was made that way. It knows what is in your heart, and can feel it. Once you have drawn it, you are linked with it for the rest of your life. This will be a long one, if you are a good man. Otherwise it will be a short, unpleasant one. In battle it will make you invincible but its true power is how it inspires other good men to stand with you.’

This sounded too much like a saga for Martil’s liking. Saga heroes always triumphed against impossible odds but if half a lifetime of war had taught him anything, it was that notions of good or evil never guaranteed victory. He had heard too many inspirational speeches to believe them now. It was all too much to take in, so he did what he always used to do when things were too grim; tried to find some humour in the situation.

‘So, have I inspired you to follow me?’ he asked Conal.

‘No,’ the old bandit admitted. ‘Now it’s your responsibility, I’d like to run away.’ He considered this for a second. ‘But, to be fair, I’m not a good man.’

A good man. Martil suddenly thought of the dead children of Bellic. Dead at his orders. How could he be considered a good man? He looked around at Karia. She was in his care because of the way he had slaughtered her family. Another black deed. How had the Sword allowed him to draw it? It made no sense—unless there was no magic in the Sword, and it was all a trick to fool the young and the gullible. This was ridiculous. A man could go mad thinking about this.

‘I’ll be heading off then,’ Conal said cautiously, indicating the door. ‘If that’s all right?’

‘What?’

‘Well, you’ve got the Sword, Danir’s dead and I need to go somewhere that’s better for my health. Like southern Aviland. Staying here is likely to prove fatal. If an angry mob doesn’t get you, then Duke Gello will.’

‘Duke Gello?’

‘They were his men carrying the Dragon Sword. And even a half-blind tracker could follow the trail back to here. Think about it. If he went to all the trouble to steal the Sword and spirit it away, he’s not going to baulk at wiping out a few bandits.’

‘What were you thinking of doing with the Sword?’ Martil asked. He was all too aware the time for making decisions was here but he wanted to put it off for as long as possible. He had thought to find answers but now he just had more questions. And a magical sword that the entire bloody country was going crazy about. He could not help but think of Father Nott. Had the old priest seen
this
?

Conal scratched his chin, making a rasping noise. ‘Well, I hadn’t decided but I know Ferg wanted it sold. He reckoned this Gello would pay almost anything to get the Sword back. I reckon he’d just feed you your balls until you begged for the chance to give him the Sword. No, if you ask me, the only person who would really pay for it is the Queen. But you’d have to be pretty smart to see her without Gello knowing.’

Martil thought carefully. His oath was fulfilled, his future path free to choose. But what about Karia? He doubted she would want to stay with him, although where would she go? He smiled to himself. The queen would pay him probably ten thousand in gold for this sword. For that he could hire several families and let Karia choose the one she liked best. She deserved some happiness. But what of him? He had a vision of a mansion by the northern sea, the one he had dreamed of. He was walking through its large rooms, alone, with only the cries of the murdered children of Bellic to fill its emptiness. He shook himself, trying to blank that out, but the empty feeling inside him remained.

‘What’s happening? I’m bored,’ Karia announced, walking over to him.

‘We’ll be going soon,’ Martil promised automatically. Then he thought about his answer. ‘We might take a trip to Norstalos City. Would you like that?’

‘Isn’t that where Father Nott went?’

‘Yes, it is. We’ve got to get rid of the Sword but after that, you might even be able to visit him.’
And I’ll be having some words with him
, he added silently.

‘Great! I need to tell him that I’ll be all right, that you’ll be taking care of me.’

Martil looked into those big brown eyes and saw nothing but honesty staring back at him. A few days ago that prospect would have filled him with horror but now, strangely, it sounded good.

‘Do you mean that?’ he asked.

‘Of course I do. I’ve been thinking. Now Uncle Danir is gone, I’ll be staying with you. You can buy me more dresses, and new dolls, maybe a horse of my own, some chickens to look after, and we can play games, especially catch, I like playing catch, and you can brush my hair, read me stories, maybe show me how I can read too, and sing me to sleep.’

‘Is that all?’ Martil could not help but ask.

‘You can look after me.’

Martil felt an unexpected surge of affection and happiness. As a war captain he had walked down streets as flower petals were strewn at his feet. He’d had women hurling themselves at him, or more accurately, under him. Men had wanted to shake his hand and bow to him.

But he had never expected a little girl to say she wanted him to look after her. It was a compliment he had never had, never sought and never expected to get. He was surprised to find how much it meant to him.

Feeling happier than he had in years, he went to kneel down, so grasped the hilt of the Sword to move it out of his way—and when he looked down at the Sword, he could have sworn the dragon on the hilt was looking at him. The eyes were definitely sparkling. Or had they just caught the light from the doorway? He put it from his mind, it was irrelevant. What was he to do? When he had left Rallora, he had sworn never to get involved in wars or fighting. Being named the wielder of the mythical Dragon
Sword was not likely to lead to the quiet life he had imagined. But he could hardly throw it away if that would mean his death. That was exactly the sort of thing the do-gooding dragons might do. Bloody flying magical pests. How could he have been so stupid as to draw it? He could not think what to do next, which was ironic, because he had made his reputation as a man always prepared to make tough decisions. He slumped into a seat.

‘Martil, I think we should take the Sword back to its real owner,’ Karia said softly.

‘What? Why do you say that?’ Martil felt he needed direction. And after what Karia had said to him, he was certainly willing to listen to her.

‘It’s what Father Nott would do. He’d say this was stolen, so it should be returned.’

‘Father Nott, eh?’ Martil was a bit reluctant to do anything the priest suggested, given the way things had turned out so far.

At another time Martil would have dismissed her suggestion out of hand. But he just felt lost. Karia was at least suggesting a way forward. Besides, when she had said she wanted to stay with him, it had made him feel happier than he had in years. Now he wanted to make her happy. Not exactly the best reason in the world to make a potentially life-changing and life-threatening decision, but the way he felt now, it was good enough.

Thinking aloud, he said, ‘We should return the Sword to the Queen. If she is the rightful owner, then she should get the Sword back. And she will know how it really works and know if I am truly the wielder, or if that is just a legend.’

That was the heart of the matter. He could not just walk away, worrying that some magical sword was
going to suck the life out of him. He should have known that running away never solved anything. He had run away from Rallora and look where it had landed him now.

‘And, yes,’ he added, ‘if it was stolen, it should be returned.’

‘Not exactly a motto I have lived my life by,’ Conal admitted, ‘but anything’s worth trying once.’

‘Glad to hear you say that,’ Martil observed wryly. ‘We’ll stay here the night, then ride on to Norstalos City. How about you?’

The old bandit scratched his chin. These past couple of days had given him plenty of time to think. Survival over the past few years in this village had been about not thinking too much, so it had been a struggle. He could see nothing but trouble attached to the Dragon Sword but equally, he wanted to know more about it. Besides, what did he have to lose? His true life had ended years ago. This was just a shadow existence. But he could not talk about that as yet.

‘I might come with you. There’s nothing for me here. Besides, having slept on it for a few nights, I’d like to see what it does,’ he said, deliberately casually.

Having agreed to come along, Conal insisted on sleeping in the inn for the night. Martil had no intention of spending any more time with that smell, so he made Conal help him clean out one of the huts.

‘What happened to Danir’s hoard? Did the villagers take away piles of gold?’ Martil asked, as they sat down to a stew he had made from oats, dried meat, salt and water.

‘Who was he stealing from? Farmers and merchants too poor to hire enough guards to scare us off. We had food enough, but gold? Any we took was spent by Danir and his sons. The bandit life is
hardly what they sing about in the sagas. I mean, do you think we’d live in a shithole like this if we were all rich?’

Martil could not help but agree. Even so, he noticed Conal had dug up a small bag, which he now kept fastened to his belt.

‘Just a few silvers I saved, over the years,’ he shrugged in reply to Martil’s unspoken question. ‘A man needs something to live on in his dotage, to avoid the chill of winter and the pangs of hunger. Speaking of which, another bowlful, thanks.’

‘You do realise I’ll be charging you for this,’ Martil told him, as Conal helped himself to a second serving of stew.

Conal stared at him in mock horror. ‘After I gave you the Dragon Sword?’

Martil ignored him.

The village also yielded one final surprise. Conal disappeared into a shed and came back with a rancid-looking donkey, which smelt even worse than he did.

‘Her name’s Noxie. She’s a loyal friend, even if she is a bit loud sometimes,’ Conal explained.

Martil waved away his explanation and hoped some fresh air might improve the animal’s fragrance. The only good thing about it was it meant they could go faster than Conal’s walking pace.

Karia had been excited about camping out in the hut, and to celebrate the honour of her letting Martil look after her, she had wanted to play with the ball, the top and the dice, then made him tell her stories and sing her his silly song, then tell her how he would take care of her and where they would live before she would even think about going to sleep. After the stress of the day, Martil enjoyed immersing himself in
it. Conal watched them silently for a while, then walked slowly back to the inn and shut the door.