The Wounded Guardian (39 page)

Merren considered that. Busy all right. Busy doing nothing useful and worrying that she was just some kind of figurehead. Her first instinct was to refuse—she had had nothing to do with children until now and her intention was to keep it that way—then she thought again. Something within her was saying this could be a good idea. That at least she would be doing something more interesting than analysing tally sheets and trying to avoid thinking about her dead friends.

She nodded. ‘Of course I shall watch over her. I shall begin to teach her how to be a lady, for when she is at court.’

Martil was surprised at her acceptance but it did solve a problem, so he smiled. ‘Thank you. I shall tell Karia you will watch her until I return.’

Merren watched him go, wondering if she had made a mistake. Still, it couldn’t be worse than reading tally sheets—could it?

Martil looked over the captured convoy with satisfaction. The convoy was impressively large, more than a score of heavily-laden wagons, which had had a corresponding number of light cavalry as escort. It had all gone to plan. The cavalry had been talking amongst themselves, looking around and generally behaving as if they were out for a gentle ride. After a handful of horses had been brought down by Barrett’s magical trick with the sticks, the rest of them were slaughtered by Tarik’s archers, and the militia and guardsmen went in to take care of the wagoners and clean up the troopers.

‘Quickly now! We must get as far away as possible today,’ Martil urged the men on.

There was much to do. Some of the draught horses were used to drag dead cavalry horses out of the way, Rocus moved the wounded troopers into shade and allowed the survivors to care for them, while Wime and Martil went through the wagons, deciding what they would keep, and what they would destroy.

The convoy had everything Martil had hoped for and more. There were thousands of arrows in sheaves, scores of shields and swords, as well as
barrels of spears and racks of axes. There were two wagons alone filled with thick, boiled leather jerkins, nowhere as good as mail hauberks but still solid enough to stop most sword strokes. There were all the supplies needed to keep five hundred horses in the field—spare saddles, new reins, barrels of horseshoes and a portable forge.

Then there was the food. Wagon upon wagon piled high with bags of grain for the horses, as well as twice-baked bread and dried meat for the men. Enough to keep a force for months.

‘We’ll take the five wagons filled with weapons. Tarik, you’ll stay behind with half your men. Give us until nightfall—or until you see someone—then burn what’s left and follow us as fast as you can,’ Martil decided.

It was hard work, but Martil guessed they were able to roll out of the ambush site only a couple of turns of the hourglass after the first arrows had flown. Thanks to Barrett’s magical abilities, where he made the trees shrink back to seed, they were able to take the wagons deep into the woods, until the trees grew too thick and Barrett too tired. There they unhitched the draught horses and loaded them up with as much as they could carry, then loaded every other horse they had brought along. The men took as much as they could, then the little that was left was spoiled or broken.

Even so, it was a slow walk back to the caves. Tarik and his men caught up with them after dark, sweating, smelling faintly of smoke and all wearing a jerkin of the leather armour and carrying sheaves of arrows.

‘Havrick’s trackers are going to get a shock,’ Tarik smiled.

Martil found the breath to laugh, although he was wearing two of the jerkins and carrying four spears over each shoulder. Barrett had let the trees regrow so Havrick’s men would find five wagons in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees, with no possible way in or out.

The men had left before dawn, which meant all the families had been up that early to wave them off. Karia had waved at Martil, bottom lip trembling, then had burst into tears as they walked out of sight.

Merren was not sure what to do with a crying child but thought she had better do something. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked stiffly.

‘I w—wanted to go w—with them,’ Karia sniffed.

‘I wanted to go with them as well,’ Merren admitted. ‘I don’t like waiting here.’

‘You don’t?’ Karia forgot about crying and looked up at the Queen. Perhaps she wasn’t so strange after all. She had been so sure Merren would refuse to look after her, she had not been able to think up a better plan in time.

‘I hate staying here. It’s boring me to tears,’ Merren shrugged. She did not know how to treat small children, so decided just to say what she thought.

‘Me too!’ Karia agreed. ‘I thought I could trick Martil into letting me come along, but then you said yes.’

Merren smiled at the brutal honesty. ‘Can you get Martil to do what you want most of the time?’

‘Oh yes, him and Barrett. They both do things for me all the time.’

This time Merren laughed out loud. She felt a sudden surge of mischief. The past was dead and her first rule as Queen of Norstalos was over. She really could do anything she wanted for her second. ‘Shall we get some breakfast? Then you can tell me how you get Martil and Barrett to do things for you,’ she suggested.

Martil was pleased to see Karia waving to him, and also to see the admiring look Merren was giving him. He would have liked nothing better than to go over and greet them both but there was too much to do.

A place had to be found for the horses, and the tired Barrett had to make the woods retreat so the horse paddock did not take up the training ground. Then the arms and armour had to be stored away in the caves. Finally, the small barrel of wine that—surprise, surprise!—Conal had discovered was broached and the men ate and drank.

‘My thanks to you all. You have struck the first blow in what will become an amazing tale, one to rival the stories of King Riel and the dragons,’ Merren told the men and their families, Karia by her side.

They cheered her and each other until they were hoarse, and, watching their faces, Martil felt now they actually believed in Merren’s cause. It was an important step.

Then, even though they were exhausted, the Queen insisted they hold their nightly council. The tally of men killed and weapons taken did not take long, but Sendric looked displeased by the time they had finished.

‘I’m concerned you left men alive behind you. They could give Havrick information about our lack
of numbers. Far better you had killed them all. We are talking about making Gello pay. His men are all animals and need to be put down like a pack of rabid dogs,’ Sendric announced coldly.

‘Count Sendric!’ Merren’s voice whiplashed across the table. ‘What would the Dragon Sword have thought of killing unarmed men? The danger posed by a few men is far smaller than the real possibility that the Dragon Sword may continue to reject Captain Martil if he butchers unarmed men.’

Martil winced at that. Once again he had shown the Dragon Sword’s hilt, and once again there was a distinct lack of anything from the dragon engraving.

Then Merren took a breath. Time to try a different approach, she decided. ‘I know you grieve for your daughter, as do I. But, as the Tetrans say, revenge is a dish best served cold. Fighting among ourselves and blaming each other will not help anyone.’

There was a long silence, then the Count slowly nodded.

‘You are right, my Queen. This was a perfect way to start our campaign. And you were right, Captain, to leave the men. The tale of our prowess will upset Gello far more than the deaths of a few men.’

Martil bowed to the Count, then Merren produced a map and changed the subject.

‘So, where do we strike next?’ she asked.

Martil glanced at the other faces around the table, whose shocked expressions mirrored how he felt, although he kept his face impassive.

‘My Queen, the next move is Havrick’s. He will either come looking for us, or will seek to entice us out and trap us. Either way, there are several courses of action open to us. But we must wait for him to
react, then we can change the game plan again.’ He cringed inwardly, expecting that to set her off.

Merren looked at him, then at the map. ‘You are the War Captain, and I will listen to what you say,’ she said finally. ‘We shall leave this council here, with a toast. To victory!’

‘I’m going to get drunk!’ Conal announced as they drained their cups. He had taken on the role of trying to lighten the mood of the meetings. Merren, perhaps because she knew of his history, seemed to find him amusing, and a jest from Conal could usually stop one of her black moods.

‘This is the last of the wine. The men have the rest,’ Martil reminded him.

‘By Zorva’s filthy bunghole, if I’d known that, I’d have given my left hand for another cask,’ Conal exclaimed, then held up the stump of his arm and feigned surprise. ‘Too late!’

The room erupted into laughter.

‘Was that an audition for court jester?’ Merren chuckled.

‘My Queen, I could ask no more than to sit at your feet.’ Conal bowed. ‘But now I must find some wine. Who’s with me?’

Among the laughter, Martil felt a tug on his sleeve.

‘Can you read to me now?’ Karia asked.

Martil smiled. After every battle he had been in, he had gotten drunk with his fellow soldiers. At first it had been as they had remembered and boasted of their part in the fight. Then it became to honour lost friends. Then to forget all the other battles. Perhaps it was time to change.

The others were walking down to where food was roasting on fires and songs were being sung. But at the back of the caves, it was quieter, the blanket walls
muffling the noise. He read her a saga about a young man whose amazing cat helped him outwit a goblin king and marry a princess, then sang her a song until she was almost asleep.

‘Did you have to kill anyone today?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t,’ Martil said, although he was conscious it was his orders that saw a dozen troopers slain by arrows, while at least another three had wounds that would kill them within days.

‘That’s good.’ She yawned.

‘How about your day? How did it go with Merren?’

‘She’s nice. She wanted to hear all about how you look after me and how you do things for me and are kind to me. And she even played dolls!’

‘You were lucky,’ Martil told her softly, then saw she had fallen asleep. Martil gazed down at her for a long moment. She looked so beautiful. Just listening to her soft breathing made him relax. He leaned down and kissed her forehead before backing slowly out of the sleeping alcove he had made for her, letting fall the thick blanket that gave her some privacy.

Then he turned around and almost bumped into Merren, who was standing behind him.

‘Your majesty!’ he blurted.

‘Quiet! You’ll wake her. I just wanted to give her a kiss goodnight.’ Merren lifted the curtain and blew a kiss down at Karia. ‘Anyway, I thought we decided, while we were alone, you should be calling me Merren. I’m hardly the Queen of much out here, and don’t particularly enjoy being “your majesty-ed” all day.’

‘But should we be alone?’ Martil asked, feeling very conscious of both how near she was, and how he had been having daydreams—and night dreams for that matter—about her.

‘Are you scared for my safety? Here, with the Dragon Sword wielder?’

‘Not so much your safety, but more the propriety,’ he said stiffly.

Merren had to cover her mouth with her hand to stop her peal of laughter. ‘We’re in a cave system, with the few comforts we could scavenge from a lodge and from Sendric’s country home, rebelling against Duke Gello after he seized control of my country, and I’m to be worried about propriety?’

Martil was pleased she was showing no intention of moving away from him. ‘We should make sure we don’t wake her, at least,’ he said.

They walked slowly away from the sleeping areas. Merren’s mind was racing. Talking with Karia had made her think. That little girl had everyone running around after her. Martil, Barrett, Conal; even Sendric was not immune to her charms. She was able to persuade them to do whatever she wanted—and what they would normally have refused out of hand with a combination of charm and the threat of a tantrum. Tantrums would hardly work for a Queen but she had other weapons. In some ways, this thinking had been a revelation to her. All this time she had been trying to be tougher than a king would be. But she was the first Queen. She could use whatever was at her disposal to save the throne and her country. And maybe that would bring better results. She had already seen it at work in the council meeting. Now she decided to try it out on Martil.

‘She was worried about you today. Afraid something might happen to you.’

Martil shrugged. He had long since stopped worrying about himself in battle. ‘I drew the Dragon Sword. I cannot escape the responsibility,’ he sighed.

‘You are worrying too much. The Sword sees not just the man you are, but the man you could be. And that little girl would not be so concerned about you if you were not good.’

‘If only it were that simple!’ Martil felt his throat constrict, as he remembered the last years of the war. ‘We were the good ones. The Berellians had invaded us, slaughtered men, women and children. My family was killed, my village was sacked and put to the torch. My friends…my friends died alongside me, fighting to free Rallora. And somewhere in there we turned from fighting to free our country to fighting to punish the Berellians. They wiped out seven towns, scores of villages. Yet what does everyone remember? Bellic. In that one act we went from being the heroes to being the Butchers of Bellic.’

Merren laid her hand on his upper arm; the contact made his heart suddenly jump and start pounding.

‘It is a lesson to remember. It is easy to do evil things, when you believe your cause is just. That is the inherent danger in the Dragon Sword—and why its power will kill those who do not live up to it. You have already made your mistakes. You are obviously haunted by them. That means there will not be another Bellic here.’

‘No,’ Martil agreed.

‘Then we shall triumph, my Champion.’

‘We should be careful. There are all those sagas about queens and their champions,’ Martil joked, conscious of her hand on his arm and cautious in case someone walked in.

‘Really? I never read the sagas,’ she shrugged. Inwardly she was smiling. Men were so stupid sometimes! She had mentioned this before, but flutter
your eyelashes at him and he forgets all about it. She felt she may have discovered a key to her reign.

‘It’s quite famous,’ Martil assured her, wondering whether the small joke was about to backfire on him. Should he be going down this path of conversation? He had a nagging feeling she had spoken about it before. So what was she doing now?

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a…’ she paused for an instant, ‘Champion before. Although,’ she paused again, ‘my ladies did say they looked forward to a man,’ she looked up at Martil, ‘championing them.’