The Wounded Guardian (30 page)

The Queen, meanwhile, clapped her hands together in delight, spun on the spot, embraced Karia, patted Conal on the shoulder, kissed Barrett on the cheek and then paused in front of Martil.

‘We have much to talk about. But I do want to thank you now for your help, and reassure you that Norstalos will not forget you,’ she said solemnly.

Martil felt his cheeks flush a little and he struggled to focus on her eyes as he gazed at her. She was almost his height and as he looked at her, he could feel his stomach turning over slowly, a sensation he had not experienced since asking his first girl to dance at the annual Festival of Aroaril.

‘We must get away,’ Barrett’s rasping voice broke the long silence and they both turned.

Martil led the way, or rather led Barrett on his horse. The Queen followed, with Karia in front of her, on Tomon. Karia, still smarting from Martil’s dismissal, rode in silence, not even bothering to ask questions. Martil knew from her silence that she
was upset but he could not do anything while he had to watch the wizard. He glanced up at Barrett. The wizard did not seem as tired as when he had brought them to the capital. But still he swayed in the saddle, and Martil could not help but think he was putting it on in order to look more impressive for the Queen.

The lodge was about half a mile away, and was far larger than the one near the border. There were bedrooms for all, as well as a large kitchen, a dining room and a lounging area. It also had stables out the back. Conal looked after the horses, while Barrett went off for a rest. The kitchen was well stocked with supplies of dried fruit, salt, dried meat and oats. It had been kept clean and had a faint smell of lavender, imparted by dried bunches of the herb.

‘I wonder how much it costs to keep these places nice and neat, and ready for the one time in years when the magician turns up,’ Conal observed sourly after wandering around. ‘How many of these things are there and why were they built?’

‘They date from the days of King Riel, when the Royal Magician was the ruler’s eyes and ears around the country. I have no idea how many there are and I, for one, won’t be querying the cost next budget time,’ Merren said dryly.

Martil washed, changed his clothes, then started to cook a simple stew of oats and dried meat. He managed to get Karia involved in the cooking, in an attempt to appease her, but it was obvious she was still not happy with him. He sighed but he had other people to impress, as well.

‘Not much of a celebratory dinner,’ he warned the Queen. ‘I’m afraid we can’t give you something better for your first night of freedom.’

The Queen laughed. ‘Rest assured it will taste sweet indeed, knowing it will be eaten without Gello’s guards hovering around. Although I wish I could see Gello’s face!’

Duke Gello was not thinking about control of Norstalos. That job was almost complete. True, Chelten and the other hand-picked men of his guard, the ones he had trusted to get the Dragon Sword out of the country, had failed to send a message saying they were safe in Tetril but that was a minor matter. Chelten had never failed before. The main thing was the Dragon Sword was gone, the Queen was a prisoner and he was strengthening his hold on the country by the day. No, Norstalos was not his concern now. Instead he had maps of Tetril and Berellia out, and he was trying to decide where he should strike first.

Every so often he would walk across to the throne and sit on it, just to see how it felt. The throne room was a special place for him. It had been the scene of happy memories, as well as one terrible one. But that was why he was here now. To wipe out that memory and regain the feeling he had had when he was a boy. He could remember his mother bringing him here, telling him it would all be his, one day. Arching pillars, a soaring roof, the marble floor, massive murals depicting King Riel saving the dragon, towering windows that looked across the rich city,
space for hundreds of people to gather—they all spoke of the grandeur of Norstalos. As a boy he had dreamed so many times of sitting here—almost every time his mother spoke to him, she would begin by saying, ‘When you are King…’ As he grew, it was all he thought about. Then had come the devastating day—his twenty-first birthday, the day when he was acclaimed as a man. The day that should have been his triumph, when he should have drawn the Dragon Sword. His mother had told him it was his birthright, his destiny, as natural as breathing. But the Dragon Sword had refused him. The memory was still fresh, the pain still raw, although he had tried so hard to forget it, to bury it away. The throne room had been packed. Every noble, every army officer, every friend Gello had was there to witness it. It had been a massive celebration. Then had come the moment when he tried to draw the fabled Sword and failed. The cheers and chatter had died to horrified silence as all watched the young Gello tug futilely on the hilt. Watched the tears running down his face, heard the Duchess Ivene scream in disbelief and anger.

Gello had refused to stop, had kept trying to draw the Sword until his friend and bodyguard, Chelten, had rushed forward to stop his humiliation.

And, just before he had been taken out of the throne room, he had seen his cousin Merren’s face. Unlike most of the others, she had not turned away in either embarrassment or pity, but had kept watching. And he had seen the fierce triumph on her face, realised that this meant she would become Queen, would take the throne that should have been his.

In that moment, with his cheeks burning with shame, tears running down his face, everything had
changed. His plans for making Norstalos great were forgotten. Instead he was filled with an anger so fierce, so hot, that he had almost cried out. He had sworn revenge, not just on her but on all of them. He would take the throne, no matter what. He would wipe out this dishonour. This would not be the deed he would be remembered for. He would not become Gello the Unworthy in the history books. He would show them all! He would be the greatest King the world had ever seen—better yet, he would be an Emperor! Emperor Gello! Ruling a massive continent and beyond!

That became the only thing he cared about. How he got there, what he had to do to make it possible, that meant nothing. He would not stop until he could wipe away every trace of his humiliation. Nothing and nobody else mattered.

And now he had taken the first major step.

But it was not enough. He could sit here in the throne room and still hear the laughter ringing in his ears, taste the shame thick in his throat.

To wash that away, he had to do more. In his mind’s eye, his armies marched in all directions, smashing his opponents to submission, bringing back mountains of treasure and lines of weeping women. His name would echo down through history every child in the world, even those who had never heard of Norstalos before, would know his name! Gello the Triumphant! Then, perhaps, he would be able to forget the past.

Part of him mourned the fact his mother was not there to see his triumph but mostly he felt relief. At first she had blamed him for his failure to draw the Dragon Sword, told him he had not listened to her enough. Her control of him, already strict, became
absolute over the next twelve years as they plotted to take what had been denied them. In the last couple of years, he had begun to chafe under her tight grip. He was going to be the ruler, not her! She had even begun to suggest she should take the throne as regent, that he only get the crown after her death. Well, that was not going to happen. He would not be denied again. They had fought and, at the end of it, he had found himself stumbling from her bedchamber, covered in blood. Chelten had cleaned him up and covered it up, the old Duchess buried in a sealed coffin a day later. He could not remember exactly what had happened, could only remember sobbing his way through the funeral service then waking up the next day feeling like a prisoner enjoying his first taste of freedom. For now the way was clear for him to take the throne. No, it had been a terrible mistake, but it had been for the best. After all, if she had still been around, she would be interfering even now. He could almost hear her voice in the back of his head, telling him to investigate why the men with the Dragon Sword had not sent him a message. Telling him to disband the regiments loyal to the Queen—and telling him to have her killed. Well, he was not going to listen to her any more. He was the one in charge now. He was the one about to become a legend.

He turned again to his maps, as he had done hundreds of times before. Of course, soon he would be invading for real, and this added extra spice. The Tetran army was a joke; he could smash it with two thousand infantry and his heavy cavalry regiment. But Tetril was a poor country. It had no gold or silver mines and would provide little for the invader. On the other hand, Berellia was a rich country, with gold and
silver mines aplenty. However, while its army had been shattered by years of war with Rallora and Aviland, it still had a core of several thousand veterans. It also had plenty of strong castles and natural fortifications that could tie up a campaign for years. And he knew the Berellian King was working hard to build up his army once more. It was a tough decision, but he relished having the chance to make it. He was thinking about a crushing victory in Tetril first; to blood the new recruits he intended to amass, and to begin his legend of invincibility, when a terrified officer burst into the throne room. Gello looked up in surprise. He had heard the church bells ring out, but had ignored them. His guard detachments on each gate had been told to signal by trumpet.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘Your grace—it’s the Queen.’ The young officer wore Gello’s red surcoat, the one he had insisted the entire army adopt now he was in power, and the lance badge over Gello’s double-sword insignia showed he was from the heavy cavalry. He also wore an expression of abject terror.

‘What now? Is she after permission to visit the dressmaker because she cannot find a gown that coordinates with her shoes?’ Gello smirked.

‘Your Grace—she’s escaped!’

‘What?’ he spat.

‘The Queen’s Magician, Barrett. He and a handful of others, including a warrior using the Dragon Sword, switched the Queen for a whore while she was in church, then must have used magic to escape,’ the officer gabbled away.

It took a moment for it to all sink in, then Gello’s brain threw up the one phrase that had leapt out. ‘The
Dragon Sword?’ Gello’s colossal anger was tempered with a flicker of fear. Having the Queen escape was bad enough, but with her was a Champion with the Dragon Sword? ‘Are you sure?’

‘Your grace, he cut apart a patrol. One stroke of his sword opened up steel breastplates like they were wet parchment. I would not have believed it possible unless I had seen it myself.’

Gello gulped. ‘Send word to every garrison commander. I want every town locked tighter than a priestess’s thighs in a cavalry barracks. If they hear of any meetings, protests or rallies, they are to use whatever force they deem necessary to stop them. Now get me my war captains.’

‘Yes, your grace.’ The officer bowed and backed swiftly out of the room, visibly relieved to have escaped with his head.

Gello sat down heavily. He felt a pang at the loss of Chelten—he had been by his side for years and his loyalty was without question. The Queen would not have the Sword if Chelten was alive. But he pushed aside that regret and quickly reviewed his plans. He had forced as much of the army as he could to recite a pledge of honour to serve only him. His mother had spent months poring over writings about the Sword, trying to find weaknesses, and she believed it would not be able to force men to break an oath. His plan was more straightforward. As soon as the Queen and her Champion arrived at a town and tried to raise an army using the Sword, he would descend on them with a massive force and crush them. The Sword could only do so much. Peasants and city workers, even in their thousands, were no match for heavy cavalry and trained infantry.

Still, he worried. If he lost now, he would be haunted by not just one but two failures. He could never live that down. He must do whatever it took to win. A thought struck him. What if he forced the army to do things that the Sword would not like? Reputedly, it was only after good men. What if he turned his army loose on a few villages? Killing and raping a few peasants would not affect the country much—there were always plenty of peasants—but it might just prevent his army defecting. And it would be perfect training for when they invaded other countries.

He smiled to himself, drew a piece of parchment towards himself and began to write.

‘Your grace, another officer to see you,’ a servant announced.

Gello waved the man in, hoping it was to report the whereabouts of the Queen. Instead, a dishevelled officer he had never seen before rushed into the throne room. Gello recoiled a little. The man wore a blood- and travel-stained surcoat that bore the light cavalry crest of a galloping horse and he had blackened eyes and a swollen nose.

‘Your grace! I have vital news! The Queen’s Magician attacked us and, thanks to a Ralloran warrior, escaped. He and this man, who may have the Dragon Sword, are on their way to the capital to rescue the Queen.’

‘You’re a little late,’ Gello said sardonically. He was about to order the man dragged from his presence and whipped for not delivering the news sooner, when he remembered where he had sent the light cavalry to search for Barrett. ‘Have you ridden from the Tetran border?’

‘Yes, your grace. I killed four horses getting here.’

Gello was impressed. Such devotion to duty, such single-minded purpose, allied with a complete disregard for those beneath him. These were rare qualities, and ones he prized highly.

‘What is your name?’

‘Lieutenant Havrick of the Lights, sir.’

‘Do you know who this Ralloran is?’

‘He claims to be War Captain Martil, one of the Butchers of Bellic. I shall never forget his face. Twice he has defied me, the second time he did this,’ Havrick gestured towards his broken nose.

Gello stood and began to pace. He knew Captain Martil. He had followed his exploits—and his victories—with interest. The man had the sort of reputation he wanted. He had felt the two of them would have much in common, would be able to share warriors’ tales over a drink. Of course, he was a Ralloran, and not nobly-born, but you couldn’t have everything. If the Ralloran was helping Merren, that was a concern—and an opportunity. Beating such a celebrated war captain would only help Gello’s legend grow. He thought quickly. This Martil must have been able to draw the Sword, judging by what he did to those troopers. But being a Ralloran, he would not realise the Sword did not like being used for killing. Too much fighting and he would be unable to use its power to rally men. He could use this to his advantage, and test out his theory about his men being able to withstand the Sword’s power at the same time.

‘Lieutenant, are you ready for command?’ Gello spun on his heel to face the officer.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Excellent. I’m going to give you two companies of heavy cavalry and three of your own lights. As soon
as we discover where this man is hiding, you will take these men, along with the authority to command any local garrisons and press into service local militia. Form an army and use them to crush whatever pitiful force he has raised. You will use whatever means are necessary and will let nothing stand in your way. If anyone, be they farmers, townsfolk or nobles, tries to hinder you, be utterly ruthless with them. Are you capable of taking on this duty?’

Havrick’s face was shining now. ‘I am, your grace!’

‘Then bathe, get changed, and report back to me, War Captain Havrick.’

Gello watched Havrick hurry off and permitted himself a smile. This would be a fast-moving, potent force that should be able to take on five times its number in untrained peasants. If he could only find out where the Queen was going…He sent for the young officer who had reported the Queen’s escape, and tried to find out more. How had she escaped? Who was with her?

‘She exchanged clothes with a local whore, who was smuggled out by the ladies-in-waiting. The whore looked like the Queen, so we did not think twice about it, until we heard the church bells ringing. Then, when I questioned the Queen, it became obvious she was not royal.’

‘Lahra! It must have been her! Very clever,’ Gello spat. ‘What have you done with them?’

‘The whore’s in a cell. Do you want her killed, sir?’

Gello was shocked. ‘Are you insane, boy? Lahra’s booked to appear at my birthday party in three days’ time! Where am I going to find a replacement? No, give her a few silvers and send her on her way.’

‘And the ladies-in-waiting?’

‘Question them. If they refuse to answer, let them watch as some of your men rape one of them, then slit her throat, and see if the next one talks. Understand?’