The Wounded Guardian (29 page)

‘The same,’ he sighed.

‘But how could the Sword accept him?’ she demanded of Barrett.

Barrett shrugged. ‘You saw it change for him. Obviously there is more to him than just his reputation. But this is neither the time nor the place to…wait!’

They all heard it then, shouted orders followed by hooves clattering on the cobbles as the escort formed up outside.

‘Luckily my cousin’s arrogance is unsurpassed. He does not think a woman can run a country, nor does he imagine that she could dare to escape,’ the Queen said coldly.

They sat in silence, imagining what was going on
outside. Had the ladies been able to get Rabbag into the carriage without anyone noticing? Would guards come flooding back in here? Martil contented himself with thinking that at least the Queen had not ordered him to show the Dragon Sword to the soldiers and try and win them over.

The only one who was not feeling the tension was Karia, who was trying to find the place in her book when a whip cracked and both horses and carriage rattled off down the street.

‘We did it!’ Conal laughed.

‘Gently. We should wait for a while before leaving. They need to get out of sight. The last thing we want is for someone to look over their shoulder,’ Barrett instructed.

‘But we also want to be long gone before they discover I have been replaced,’ the Queen corrected him. ‘Let us wait just inside the doors.’

They walked out; Father Prent let them get a safe distance ahead of him then called to the Queen.

‘Your majesty, I demand you reconsider! Stay here, praying to Aroaril for guidance until the whore is discovered and your guards return!’

‘What?’ the Queen’s voice crackled with anger and Prent flinched. ‘Father, you take too much on yourself. When I return, I shall be speaking to the Archbishop about your tenure here. Your tendency to interfere in secular matters is a great concern, almost as great as your seeming inability to grasp reality. The throne is mine by right, and I now have a Champion to wield the Dragon Sword. I shall rule this country, and one of my first acts on returning to the throne will see you sent to minister to the goblins.’

Martil could not help but smile at the horrified expression on Prent’s face. The goblins, the derogatory
term for the primitive men who lived in the mountains north of Norstalos, and worshipped spirits of the air and water. The Norstalines often sent missionaries to convert them to Aroaril, but these missionaries were counted outrageously successful if they returned with their lives.

‘We have waited long enough. It is time to go,’ the Queen declared.

Martil was not sure they had, but there was no stopping her. She stormed out, leaving a stunned Prent, so they hurried to catch her as she stepped cautiously out into the street. The cavalry had indeed gone, so Barrett led the way to the horses. Karia and the Queen climbed onto Tomon, Barrett and the bags of gems were loaded onto his horse, and Martil and Conal walked alongside, trying to look casual as they hurried as fast as they dared.

It felt as though everyone was watching them, but there were few people around and none shouted out or exclaimed at the sight of Queen Merren. Martil was just beginning to think they had pulled off the perfect escape, when the church bells began to ring, which everyone knew was a traditional way of sounding an alarm.

‘That bastard!’ Martil spat. ‘We should have cut his bloody head off!’

‘We must hurry!’ The Queen had paled slightly, but her jaw was set in determination.

They were almost at Barrett’s house when a shout warned them. A squad of troopers was galloping after them, lances levelled.

‘We won’t have enough time!’ Martil warned. ‘They’ll be onto us before Barrett can get us through that tree! Knock some off their horses and I’ll take care of the rest!’

‘No! I need my strength! My traps will take care of them,’ Barrett declared.

‘Do as Barrett says!’ the Queen ordered and Martil ground his teeth in frustration.

They hurried around the side of the house, Martil and Conal hanging onto the stirrups of the horses so they could keep up. But the troopers were closing fast. Martil glanced over his shoulder as the pounding of hooves on the driveway grew louder. But it wasn’t the horses he was worried about—it was the long lances the troopers held, with the large, diamond-shaped blades.

Then they were around the back of the house and Barrett waved his hand at the pile of sticks that had amused Conal when they had first arrived. These flew through the air, to scatter themselves over the ground.

‘That’ll save us!’ Barrett told the Queen smugly.

Martil looked at the flimsy sticks, then at the troopers in steel breastplates, mail shirts and polished helms, mounted on powerful warhorses, carrying swords and lances.

Just as he opened his mouth to demand Barrett do something a little more spectacular, the horses galloped over the sticks. Instantly these came to life, tying horses’ legs together or even tying themselves to the legs of two different horses. A proud, confident charge became a shambles in an instant, with horses rearing and falling, men going in all directions, horses screaming, men bellowing, the sound of armour striking stone, the sound of men and horses breaking.

Martil actually let go of Tomon’s stirrup in surprise as Barrett let out a howl of triumph.

‘See? All you need is magic!’ the wizard laughed.

For a heartbeat, it seemed he was right. But from the shambles of the charge, four troopers had managed to survive unhurt—and these four slowly got to their feet, drew swords and began to advance.

‘Barrett! What now?’ the Queen demanded.

But Barrett hesitated. Stopping these four men would rob him of valuable energy. Martil saw his chance to show the Queen who was more valuable to her.

‘Leave them to me. I’ll get rid of them and then we can escape safely,’ he declared.

The Queen looked doubtful. ‘They’re all wearing armour! How can you fight them alone?’

‘It’s what I’ve been doing most of my life,’ Martil told her confidently. After all, they had to be shaken up after that fall.

‘You there, help him!’

In response to her order, Conal joined Martil between two long herb beds, while Barrett, Karia and the Queen backed further away down the garden.

‘Go! I can handle them myself,’ Martil told Conal.

‘Bugger that. I can’t run any further, and I want to earn my share of the reward,’ Conal puffed.

‘Give me room,’ Martil instructed. ‘They’ll get in each others’ way in here. Just hold back any that try to get past me.’

He drew both his swords and loosened his shoulders and wrists with a series of swings. The Dragon Sword still looked like an old shortsword but it felt light and incredibly well balanced. The nerves he had had this morning were gone, as he had known they would be. He had learned over the years to relax and let his body fight for him. Thinking too much slowed him down. Far better to let his instincts
take over and let his muscles react as they were trained to do. Those who thought about what they were doing before they actually did it were that fraction slower, and eventually ended up dead.

Two of the troopers picked up broken-off lances, now little more than short spears, and raced at him. He saw instantly they would try to keep him at a distance with those, and herd him into a corner where he could be finished off.

No sooner had he thought that, than he sprang to meet them, the Dragon Sword cutting off the tip of the makeshift spear carried by the man on his right, his old shortsword opening the other soldier’s throat a heartbeat later. The other two were yelling war cries and trying to get around the raised garden bed, so Martil decided to give himself some room. The second man, who still held the splintered lance, was wearing a breastplate, so Martil just jabbed the Dragon Sword at the centre of his chest, bracing his wrist for the force of the impact. He expected it to check the man, force him to back away and create some space. But instead of the shock of metal ramming against metal, the Dragon Sword slid through the steel breastplate, the point slicing through the armour at the back as well, emerging in a spray of blood.

Martil stopped in shock, his eyes unable to believe what had happened. Swords could not cut through armour as if it were butter. Without thinking, he twisted his wrist and pulled the Sword out. It no longer resembled an old sword but had taken its true form. He stared at it. Not a drop of blood marred the surface. The man he had stabbed was also in shock. He stared down at the hole in the front of his armour, touched it as if he could not believe such a
thing were possible, then a gout of blood spurted out from the rent and he fell backwards.

The other soldiers had not seen what had happened, and they charged in regardless. Martil was still distracted by what the Dragon Sword had done and would have been unable to defend himself except Conal raced in, screaming at the top of his voice, swinging Martil’s spare sword with plenty of venom but hardly any effect. It was just enough, because the sheer ferocity of his attack made one of the soldiers hesitate, and alerted Martil. He spun around and used his left-hand sword to block the blow that would have killed him. He stepped back and decided to test the Sword. He feinted towards one man, then brought the Sword back around in a vicious arc that sliced through lance, breastplate, mail, bone and flesh. The soldier screamed in agony and disbelief as his steel breastplate and mail shirt, which should have stopped all but the heaviest of axe blows, offered him no more protection than cloth. Martil was filled with exultation at the power of the Sword. No wonder men would rally to it! You could not be stopped while holding such a weapon. He felt as if he could take on an entire regiment of Berellian axemen alone, if he had this in his hands. He was not prepared to let the last soldier get away, so he lunged at him.

Terrified of this weapon that cut through the finest armour, the soldier flailed wildly as he backed away. Martil blocked one blow with ease, then brought the Dragon Sword down in a brutal blow that split apart the man’s helmet and head, spraying blood and brains all over Barrett’s carefully-tended plants.

‘I’ll say one thing, I’m glad I’m fighting with you, and not against you,’ Conal commented.

Martil looked down at the wreckage of what had been four men picked by Gello for their skills. He was splattered with blood, but the Dragon Sword was spotlessly clean. He sheathed it.

‘Now I see why men want this so badly—to carry it in battle is to feel like a god,’ he breathed. He felt like laughing. Normally combat drained him emotionally, physically and mentally. But the way the Sword had cut apart those men left him feeling as though he could do anything.

‘A very messy god,’ Conal stepped around a particularly large pool of blood. ‘Time to go, before any more turn up.’

Martil shook himself. ‘You’re right. And thank you. You saved me back there—I’ll not forget it.’

‘Me either—I intend to make it work for me,’ Conal grinned.

‘Well, that’s the end to Conal the Cowardly. No coward I know would attack a pair of heavy cavalrymen with a shortsword.’ Martil clapped him on the shoulder and they hurried to join the others.

Barrett had already opened a path to the oak tree, and was sitting on the grass before it, eating almond-honey sweets and drinking water.

‘Are you hurt?’ the Queen demanded as they ran up.

‘Not my blood,’ Martil smiled. ‘That Sword is unbelievable! It just cut right through the armour those troopers were wearing! No wonder they all want it!’

‘Are you all right?’ Karia asked nervously. She had not wanted to see the fighting. Now the sight of Martil covered in blood was scary enough, but there was a look in his eyes that was worse. He looked like her da had before he used to attack travellers. She
found herself trembling and turned away, unable to look at the blood on his face and clothes.

‘I’m fine,’ Martil said, looking down at Barrett, wanting to impress him and the Queen with what he had done. ‘Is this the right time for a picnic, wizard? Although the way that Sword works, I could take care of the entire company of Gello’s lapdogs.’

‘I’m just gathering my energy,’ Barrett said stiffly. ‘And how would you fare if they turned up with a squad of archers? Magic is what will save us here.’

Martil snorted. He was sure the Queen would know he was a worthy Champion. He squatted down on the ground and ripped up handfuls of grass to try and scrub his hands and face clean.

‘Does that hurt?’ Karia kneeled down beside him. She liked assisting people who were hurt, she had enjoyed going out with Father Nott when he had helped the sick.

‘No! It’s not mine—those troopers were nowhere near good enough to hurt me,’ he snapped.

Karia’s face crumpled. Why wasn’t he being nice? Was it something she had done?

Martil saw her eyes brim with tears and thought he should say something to her but the aftermath of the fighting, as well as his anger towards Barrett, ruled that out. Then horns sounded in the distance and they all turned to Barrett. He gestured at the seedlings between them and the house and these became trees again, sealing off the oak from view. Then he placed his hand upon it and closed his eyes. Sweat stood out on his face, and his breathing came harder, before he thrust his staff into, and through, the tree.

Martil wrapped Tomon’s reins around his wrist, then, holding the staff in one hand and Karia’s hand in the other, he stepped into and through the tree,
emerging in an unfamiliar area. This clearing had no grass, instead leaf litter and a few stunted bushes. It looked as if it were in a real forest. Immediately afterwards came the Queen leading Barrett’s horse, Conal and his heavily-laden donkey, and then the wizard himself, who pulled his staff back through with a dramatic flourish.

‘Is it sealed behind us?’ the Queen asked.

For answer, Barrett merely rapped on the trunk with his staff, proving it was solid.

‘We are a few miles out of Sendric, near another royal magician’s lodge,’ he sighed. ‘We should rest there before going further.’ Then he almost slid down his staff to sit on the ground, puffing and panting, trying to get his breath back.