The Wounded Guardian (20 page)

Cezar was beginning to feel confident once more. The inn at the border was an obvious place for Martil to stop, but was not an ideal place to kill him. Somewhere quiet, in the country, would be better—somewhere he could take his time. All he had to do was wait at the inn until Martil arrived, then follow him out. One man could not stay up all night, every night. Sooner or later he would sleep—and then Cezar could strike. And he was only a day’s ride from that inn.

Martil yawned as he rode. Sleep had not come easily to him the night before, even with the dolly that Karia had given him to look after. He had ridden into Thest half-expecting to fight for his life and now he was riding out with the Dragon Sword and an old bandit in tow. It was a strange exchange. Also, he could not shake the thought that the Sword was somehow watching him, somehow measuring him—and no doubt finding him wanting.

Thinking about Conal made him turn around in the saddle. Had the Sword’s magic worked on him? He looked at Conal, who was ferreting around industriously in his right nostril. Conal finally extracted his finger, inspected the contents with a sigh of satisfaction, and then flicked it away.

It would have to have
very
powerful magic
, Martil thought. Questions about the Sword were too big for him to answer. He just had to hold to a course of action and see where it took him.

First, get the Sword to the Queen, and worry about the rest later.

Karia was delighted to be going away from the village. No more being a bandit, no more hiding out in forests and caves. That thought had scared her. Now she was going to stay with Martil, who could be silly, but was willing to do anything for her. Not even Father Nott had been happy to provide voices for her dolls or spend so long playing catch. Now he would buy them a large farm; she would get a pony and chickens, and fluffy lambs to look after, as well as more dollies and lots of books. Father Nott could come and visit as well!

Conal was happy enough to follow. Even in this backwater, he had heard of Captain Martil, the Butcher of Bellic. Yet he had drawn the Dragon Sword. That said something about the power of redemption. He had to believe in it. Serving scum like Danir the Destroyer had been a source of shame, so much so that he had forced himself not to think about what he was doing, instead just focusing on surviving each day. But when you were woken up by a tankard of your own piss, he thought, the only way to go was up. Conal feared he had little to offer. Worse, seeing Karia had stirred memories he thought were long buried. His twin daughters would have looked like her and probably would have been just as cheeky, had they lived. Thinking about them was too painful. Far better to slip back into the character he had adopted over the past few years with the bandit band. He would stay like that for now. It was probably safer. And he was sick of riding in silence, lost in his thoughts. They were not to be enjoyed.

So he encouraged Noxie to greater speed, catching up with Tomon. He regaled them with tales of his exploits, of coaches robbed, of women taken for
ransom—who subsequently did not want to be returned to their husbands—and duels fought and won.

‘We’re not so different, you and I. Conal the Cowardly and the Butcher of Bellic,’ the old bandit summed himself up finally.

Martil watched him scratch enthusiastically around his crotch, before sitting up slightly in the old saddle he had belted around the donkey and letting out a thunderous belch.

‘What a wonderful thought,’ he sighed.

‘No, hear me out on this,’ Conal insisted. ‘Both of us have reputations that do us no justice. At one point I was a father and a husband, respected, a sergeant of the militia no less. But to Norstalines around here, I am something they would wipe off the soles of their boots…’ Conal trailed off, wondering why he had said that. He had not meant to let slip who he had once been. Luckily no-one seemed to notice.

Martil was struck by a thought. ‘You’re not a known bandit in Norstalos, are you? One who is to be arrested on sight, along with any companions?’

‘Maybe ten years ago, when I still had all my teeth and limbs,’ Conal shrugged, waving his stump around casually. ‘And perhaps when my face didn’t look as if a donkey had sat on it.’

Karia giggled at this but he proved to be correct. The militia gave them no more than a cursory search. Martil had been concerned what they might say when they looked in his bags and found the Dragon Sword, so he had hidden it in plain view by wearing it, the magnificent scabbard concealed by his old leather one, the hilt tucked up under his tunic. His spare sword sat in his bags, but they ignored what
was obviously an ordinary sword. Conal barely got a second glance, although perhaps that was because they did not want to be around his flatulent donkey any longer than necessary.

Darry’s inn was far quieter this time, the various merchants and their guards having moved on, so he was glad of the business. Martil flatly refused to pay for Conal, so the old bandit booked himself a place in the common sleeping room, where a score of beds lined the walls. Martil took the same room he and Karia had used earlier. He used the opportunity to switch swords again, so the Dragon Sword stayed safely hidden in their room while they went downstairs to eat—and to find out the latest gossip from Darry. After an initial coldness, the innkeeper could not help but warm up. After all, he wanted to know what had happened in Thest.

‘Danir won’t be doing anything again. He’s dead,’ Martil said flatly. ‘Killed in an ambush gone wrong and the remnants of his band scattered to the four winds. Thest is deserted now.’

‘What? That’s the best news I’ve heard in years! But how do you know for sure?’ Darry’s ecstatic face suddenly creased in worry, as if the news was too good to be true.

Martil hesitated for a moment. He had no wish to see Conal hanged, although no doubt the old bandit had earned it over the years.

‘When I arrived there, I found Danir’s son, dying from a wound to the belly. He told me what had happened,’ he said carefully.

Darry stared at him in surprise, then whooped with delight and slapped the bar with his hand.

‘That calls for a drink!’ he laughed. ‘With that bastard dead and his gang of scum gone, the
merchants will be back, with plenty of coin to spend! Tell me, did you have anything to do with their disappearance?’

Martil had no wish to add further verses to the sagas about him, although he had the nasty suspicion Darry would be telling tales of Captain Martil and his Ralloran mercenaries wiping out the evil Danir.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he assured him.

‘A stroke of luck for you—and the little girl—and for me. Why, it almost makes up for the bad news coming out of the capital!’

‘What’s that?’ Martil asked, as casually as he could.

‘Dragon Sword’s still missing, of course. Now nobody has seen the Queen for days and Duke Gello has declared the army is needed to restore order. He is ruling under martial law. Martial law in Norstalos! Can you believe it? If you ask me,’ and here Darry lowered his tone, ‘Duke Gello may be trying to take control.’

Martil tried to hide a cynical smile, but something must have shown in his face, because Darry sniffed and leaned back. ‘This sort of thing may be old to you, but this is Norstalos! We don’t do that! And it would never be happening if we still had the Dragon Sword.’

‘What of the Queen? Is she a prisoner?’ Martil asked urgently.

Darry snorted. ‘Do I look like a bard? I’ve told you all I know—and want to know! Now, will you be wanting dinner?’

Karia did not understand the talk about martial order. She had bigger things on her mind. And as soon as they sat down, she wanted to confront Martil.

‘So, where are we going to live?’ Karia wanted to know.

Martil shrugged. He was not thinking that far ahead.

‘Well, if the Queen gives us money, we’ll buy a place by the sea. Then we can keep a few animals, do some fishing, and you can go to school.’

‘I’d like that. Father Nott told me a farm could be fun, but I didn’t have any with Da and the boys.’

Martil shook his head at the resilience of the young. But, thinking about it, he had seen it often enough in the wars. A child, having lost one or perhaps both of its parents, managed to find a new home and learn to laugh and play again.

‘But this school. What will they do there?’ Karia asked sharply.

While Martil tried to explain, Darry bustled over with their dinner, which was a fine distraction. As usual, Karia devoured everything placed before her, as well as the dessert of an apple pie. He had a healthy appreciation of her abilities as an eater but tonight she seemed to be getting some serious competition from a man at the next table. He had staggered in and almost fallen into his seat before ordering food and drink. He appeared to be not much older than Martil, and was quite thin, with long black hair tied back from his face. He had bright blue eyes, a jutting chin and a slightly over-large nose. He did not appear to be particularly happy, not smiling or talking to anyone. But despite his leanness, or perhaps because of it, he managed to put away a huge amount of the stew and three helpings of the pie.

‘Who is that?’ Martil asked Darry, as the innkeeper cleared away their plates.

The man’s tunic and trousers were expensive, and of a deep purple colour that was unusual enough to
stand out. Martil at first thought he was some sort of minor noble—he had that look about him. But he travelled with no companions or sycophants, which in Martil’s experience was the usual entourage of such people.

‘He’s a wizard,’ Darry whispered. ‘Been popping in and out of here almost all day.’

Martil looked and sure enough, there was a long wizard’s staff, propped up against the table.

Intrigued, Martil looked again at the man. His hands were delicate and long-fingered but his face, while relatively young, showed stress and worry in every line. He was also quite pale, as if he had spent a great deal of time indoors.

‘A wizard!’ Karia squealed. ‘Can we go and talk to him about magic? You said we could find a wizard and ask him!’

Martil reflected there was nothing wrong with her memory. Plenty had happened since that lunch with the merchant Berne, but to her it might as well have been earlier that day.

‘He hasn’t finished eating,’ he temporised. But he knew it was going to be futile to try to stop her. Perhaps if he offered to buy the wizard a few drinks, he would consent to talk.

‘Why has he eaten so much?’ Karia asked.

‘Probably because he has cast magic recently—it takes a great deal of energy,’ Martil guessed.

She nodded and almost bounced up and down in her seat. ‘He’s finished!’

She grabbed his hand and almost dragged him over to the wizard’s table, then was struck by her usual bout of shyness and hid behind Martil’s leg.

‘Excuse me. I am Martil and this is Karia. She would love to learn more about magic and—once
she gets over her shyness—she’d have a thousand questions for you. May I buy you a drink and talk with you?’

The wizard looked up and Martil kept a warm, friendly expression on his face. The wizard glanced at them.

‘No. Go away,’ he said coldly.

Martil’s smile dropped away instantly and he had to make an effort to control his anger.

‘I asked you politely. And I thought you wizards had a duty to spread the knowledge of magic,’ he snapped.

At this the wizard’s face darkened with anger.

‘Do not speak to me of duty! I am on a mission of the highest importance! Now leave me be, peasant, or I might decide to give you an extra nose—right above your arse!’

Martil struggled to resist the temptation to punch the wizard and then shove his staff up, as the Ralloran expression went, where the sun never shone. He heard the inn door open and people walking in but his back was to the door and his attention was focused on the wizard.

‘Before you reached your staff, I’d have your hands lying on the floor. And how would you cast your magics then, eh?’ Martil growled, but became aware the threat was being spoiled because the wizard’s eyes were focused on a point behind him.

He was tempted to turn around but had seen men fall for that old trick before and finish up with their guts ripped out.

‘Move out of the way, peasant! We shall take care of this errant wizard for you. Stand aside, for soldiers of Norstalos,’ a strangely familiar voice said behind him.

‘What business have you with the Queen’s Magician?’ the wizard asked coldly, again looking past Martil.

‘There is a warrant for your arrest, signed by the new regent, Duke Gello himself,’ the voice announced proudly.

‘I do not acknowledge the authority of Gello. And how could you know it was an arrest warrant? Gello’s dogs usually can’t read and write,’ the wizard sniffed contemptuously.

‘You’re going back to Norstalos City trussed like a chicken!’ the voice threatened, then roared at Martil. ‘Move out of the way, peasant!’

Martil had stood still, firstly shocked he had been about to pick a fight with the Queen’s Magician, the most powerful wizard in the country, and secondly because he was trying to think where he had heard that voice before. He sensed, rather than saw, a hand moving to shove him aside, so he stepped back and around, keeping himself between the speaker and Karia—and looked into the flushed and angry face of Lieutenant Havrick of the Norstaline Light Cavalry.

‘You!’ Havrick screeched, staggering backwards. He stared from Martil to the wizard and back again, then his face twisted into a wild smile. ‘It all becomes clear now! Plotting treason with the Queen’s Magician, were you! Well, you’ll hang beside the other traitors!’

Martil was horribly aware that Havrick was unlikely to listen to reason at this point. Still, he had to try.

‘Look, this is all a mistake. I was just passing through and merely tried to ask a question of the wizard. We have nothing in common and had you
not arrived, we might have come to blows,’ Martil said reasonably.

‘A likely story!’ Havrick sneered. ‘Do you expect me to believe it is mere coincidence that you, a man who is prepared to draw a sword on an officer of the crown, just happened to meet up with the Queen’s Magician, Barrett, a wanted man? That you were not plotting treason? You probably have the Dragon Sword up in your room!’