The Wounded Guardian (26 page)

Queen Merren looked out of her window and watched Gello’s thugs chase away people from the square. Just over a week ago, there would have been stalls selling hot food, artefacts from several countries and cold drinks. Hundreds of people would have been wandering around, enjoying the fresh air, the flowers and the market. Only a few defiant, or perhaps bewildered, souls turned up regularly now. That the men who had done this were wearing Norstalos’s uniform was a source of constant anger to her.

She sighed. Even now she could barely believe it had come to this. Ever since that fateful moment,
when Gello had been unable to draw the Dragon Sword, they had been competing for the crown. But she never thought she might actually lose.

At least her Aunt Ivene was not here to gloat about Gello’s triumph.

She had been the one to start it all. From the moment he was born, Ivene had filled Gello’s head with ambition, telling him it was his destiny to take the crown and nothing else would suffice; that he would be the greatest ruler Norstalos had ever seen. Her every waking moment had been devoted to it. Gello’s father, Earl Hugh, had nothing to do with the boy’s upbringing. An elderly second cousin, he had been used to ensure the young Gello’s bloodline was impeccably Norstaline, then had died soon afterwards. Merren would not have put it past Ivene to have helped finish him off.

Merren smiled bitterly as she remembered their childhood. Gello was ten years older, and they had never really been friends. He had been too boastful for her liking, too full of his mother’s opinions—and too full of himself. And yet, he had possessed charm, when he wanted to use it, and he could be funny. He had even been kind to the young Merren, being raised for a life of public duty, and sick of being told she had to marry well and have as many sons as possible. Gello had assured her that, once he was King, she could marry for love, not political gain. But after the Dragon Sword refused him, all that had changed.

He was no longer the chosen one, the King-in-Waiting. Where once he had been the centre of court, the one everyone wanted to speak to, the one everyone wanted to be with—now all that attention was hers.

Gello, who had become viciously bitter, quick to anger and easy to offend, sulked in the shadows, attracting the outcasts of court, those who had fallen out of favour with King Croft.

Merren, on the other hand, was now the future Queen. While she frantically tried to learn all the duties of an heir, she found herself hugely popular at court. After all, for every unmarried male noble, she was the road to the crown. The Duchess Ivene even suggested she marry Gello, to unite the bloodline.

Thankfully her father refused—but the pair of them came up with that compromise deal. Gello would have the army and be the strong right arm of the crown. There was some justification. At that time, the Berellians looked likely to win the Ralloran Wars and it had been whispered around court—most likely at the behest of Ivene—the Berellians might invade Norstalos if there was only a Queen on the throne. Merren would take the crown but look for a Champion and wait until her son, or Gello’s son, could take up the Sword.

Merren had not liked the sound of the deal—even then, she knew that Gello would not settle for being second. But at least his ambition, temporarily thwarted by the Dragon Sword, had a new outlet. Blood and conquest. He had spent days with a giant map of the continent and model armies, planning how to smash every other country into bloody defeat. The first and only time she had tried to tell him that she would never give the order to invade another country, and that he would have to obey her, had ended with Gello trying to attack her, and being restrained by his bodyguard.

Their race had begun.

She had the early advantage—she had been named as heir, and he was in disgrace, judged unworthy by the Dragon Sword.

But while Merren had to play by the rules, Ivene and Gello were prepared to try anything to obtain the power they saw as rightfully theirs. An often sick King Croft seemed to completely miss what Gello and Ivene were doing. The young Duke was vigorously remaking the army, replacing older officers with ones loyal only to him. Meanwhile the old Duchess was undermining the Royal Council, splitting the nobles and making as many as possible loyal to her and her son. King Croft ignored Merren’s warnings and concerns. So, when her father died—and Merren could not help but wonder if Duchess Ivene’s hand had been in that also, as he had been comparatively young—she could not replace Gello. And the situation just grew steadily worse for her, until it had reached this point, when enough nobles had been subverted that they could call for Gello to take over, and enough of the army had been corrupted, so it would follow those orders.

She had had plenty of time to think over the past three years, and to imagine what she might have done differently.

She could see he had outwitted her in the Royal Council. Or rather, her aunt had outwitted her. Ivene knew all the nobles well—knew their deepest desires and darkest secrets. She also knew how to play them off against each other. Gello would have one of his cronies bring up a ridiculous proposal that would benefit one noble’s land at the expense of another. Merren would have no choice but to block it, and thus upset the noble whose lands were to receive the benefit. Any new laws she tried to bring
in were so saddled with amendments and codicils that they either failed to achieve their intended desire, or managed to make things worse. In this way, he had slowly split up the nobles who might have supported Merren, either driving them away from her or winning them over to his camp.

Of late she had known time was running out. The nobles were staying away and Gello’s grip on the army had strengthened to the extent where even her most loyal regiments were under his control. Still she had hoped for a Champion to come forward. The Dragon Sword would change everything, tip the balance back in her favour. With a Champion at her side, the people would fully accept her. It would be a repeat of what history said had happened to King Riel. With the Dragon Sword, the people would rally to her and leave Gello and the nobles isolated. With the whole country against him, Gello would have no choice but to obey her. That was her dream. Part of her suspected it would not be that easy, that Gello would not go quietly. But she had to have some hope.

The Duchess Ivene’s death three months ago had briefly raised her spirits. Without his mother and mentor, Gello’s brilliant manipulation of the Royal Council was surely at an end.

But she should have guessed they had prepared for this eventuality. Of course, she never imagined their plan was to steal the Dragon Sword.

Now she was effectively a prisoner, escorted everywhere by Gello’s men. The populace had been told it was for her safety, while the presence of armed troops in every town and city was for their safety. A proclamation about martial law had gone out in her name, declaring Gello would be merely acting as
regent until these troubled times were over. In reality, Gello had installed himself in the throne room and his officers went there to gain their orders.

In a way it was almost a relief. After years of stress and plotting, of trying to out-think Gello and feeling as though she was fighting with one hand tied behind her back, it was strangely relaxing having only to worry what to wear and where to go on her one outing each day.

But mostly it was humiliating, galling and frightening—for both the country and herself. She suspected she would have some sort of accident before long, or catch some fatal ‘illness’. Once the country was at war, the people would not worry about who was in charge. They just wanted a strong hand in control.

That being the case, she was still disappointed that there had not been protests about Gello’s takeover. She had not ruled for long, but she would have liked a few priests and some common people to at least show they were upset by what had happened.

She had talked it over with Rana, who had come up with an interesting theory. According to her, the people were so used to living in peace, they simply could not comprehend what Gello had done. The kings of Norstalos had always ruled well, and had shown themselves willing to step aside for cousins or nephews if that was what the Dragon Sword had wanted. After so many centuries of self-sacrifice and nobility, the people could not imagine anyone in the palace usurping power. The lack of conflict had also lulled them into a false sense of security.

She was not sure about Rana’s theory but she had not come up with anything better. All she could do
was sit and wait, although she had her ladies-in-waiting—the last people loyal to her remaining in the palace—trying to find things out by talking to Gello’s officers. Or she could stare aimlessly out at the city, fruitlessly looking for a sign that people were upset and angry that she had been replaced. But there was nothing. Even the Poor Quarter was quiet. That had hurt. She knew her rule had been focused on a power struggle with Gello, rather than helping the people, but the lack of even a mild protest seemed to pass judgement on her rule.

Then came the message from the little girl. The message that Barrett and a warrior wanted to rescue her. Could Barrett have regained the Dragon Sword and found a loyal Champion? It may be a slim chance but she would take it. She summoned Rana. As the daughter of the Count of Sendric, she was Merren’s oldest, and closest, friend.

‘We need to prepare for tomorrow. This is what I want you to do,’ she instructed crisply.

Rana listened, then her jaw slowly dropped.

Martil was looking forward to finding their Queen impersonator. It had been, as his old friend Borin used to say, a long time between drinks. ‘Where is this place?’ he asked, after finally getting Karia to sleep.

‘You must ask for Lahra, at the Golden Gate House, which is three doors down from the church we were at this afternoon,’ Barrett instructed. He saw Martil’s expression and smiled. ‘I know, but my neighbours believe in having all their amenities in the one place. It is a private club, with entry carefully guarded. Only those who can pay the price get in. It will be expensive. At least a gold piece a visit.’

Conal spat out the mouthful of wine he had been about to swig. ‘By Zorva’s sweaty testicles, for that sort of money I’ll be staying home with Dame Palm and her five daughters!’ he declared.

‘Remind me why he came along, would you?’ Barrett sighed.

Apparently the city was under curfew, but that did not apply in the richer areas. Or at least, Martil could not see it being enforced in the richer areas. Barrett reckoned Gello had only retained about a thousand men in the city, which was not a large number to keep an entire city under control by the time its gates and the palace were under guard.
Of course it helped that the Norstalines were a peaceable folk
, he thought sourly.

He was worried he may not have been able to find the right place. During daylight hours all the large homes in the area looked the same. But when he walked past the church, he almost laughed. At night the place was immediately obvious. Giant gilded gates stood open, lit by a score of lanterns, while a pair of large men, carrying metal-tipped staffs, looked ferocious as they stood guard; an effect only slightly spoiled by the pink surcoats they wore over leather jackets.

Martil had a handful of gold ready to show them but the first guard stepped aside and grinned as Martil walked into the bright light.

‘Captain Martil! Remember me, sir?’

Martil racked his brain but was about to admit defeat when a name popped into his mind. ‘Corporal Kesbury! I promoted you at Mount Shadar!’ He remembered the man now; in his memory Kesbury was covered in blood—some of it his own—and holding what was left of his squad together by sheer
force of will. He had been a strong fighter, a skilled man with the spear. He had liked the drink though, which was why he never made sergeant.

‘That’s right, sir. All the way to Bellic. Me mate Dunner here weren’t so lucky. He started with Snithe, got drafted to Macord and stayed there until Bellic.’

‘What are the two of you doing here?’

Kesbury’s smiled faltered. ‘Rallora wasn’t the same after Bellic, sir. People didn’t want us around. So we found somewhere they don’t ask questions, they just want you to be tough. There’s a lot of us up here now. Word spread around. These Norstalines think it’s a mark of success to have Rallorans guarding them. And the pay’s good.’

‘And a few extra benefits?’ Martil could not help but suggest.

‘Aye, well, they’re better looking than the horses and mules a bloke has to look after as a caravan guard, I’ll admit,’ Kesbury grinned. ‘Just go on in, sir. You’ll find two more of us on the front door. They’re good lads, even if they only served with Captain Rowran.’

They insisted on shaking Martil’s hand, then he was free to follow a pathway up to the main house, his boots crunching on the small gravel stones that made up the carriage drive. It was an imposing place, two storeys high, lit up by lanterns and decorated by fine stonework. It made Barrett’s home look shabby. But then again, at a gold piece a visit, it was no surprise they had plenty of money to spend on such things.

The front door was massive, oak reinforced with iron bands, while another two large, pink surcoat-wearing Rallorans stood guard here.

‘What do you want?’ one gruffed.

Martil opened his mouth to explain, while opening his hand to show gold, but neither was needed.

The second guard nudged the first one.

‘I know him! It’s Captain Martil, isn’t it?’

Martil was forced to admit that it was, and then had to chat to them, discover a similar story to the one Kesbury had told and shake their hands before they swung the door open for him. Martil found himself in a plushly furnished reception room. Divans in plum, pink and purple fabric were scattered around, while thick rugs lay across the wooden floor. Paintings of naked women were lit by lanterns on every panelled wall.

‘I am Sillat. How can I be of assistance?’

Martil turned to see an older woman smiling at him from behind a long counter. She was wearing a dark pink silk dress, while her hands were covered in gold rings and her lips stained an unusual shade of red.