The Wounded Guardian (44 page)

‘Hold fast! They won’t charge home! Hold fast and they’ll turn away!’ Martil roared, as he could feel the nervousness ripple through the ranks. He turned and waved at Barrett, who nodded, closed his eyes and thrust his hand forward.

Martil spun around to see what was going to happen, and watched as one of the leading horses suddenly swung right, despite the frantic urging of its rider. It crashed into a pair of others, the three of them falling into the stream, the horses screaming and the men shouting. Another horse came to a dramatic halt, kicking up dirt and dust; its rider
catapulted over its head to land in a clatter of armour and a spray of blood on the rocks to the side of the road.

Barrett had broken up the front ranks, ensuring only individual riders would first attack the shield wall. That was still frightening enough. The big horses had been ruthlessly schooled to be both steady in battle and a weapon in themselves. They would kick and bite if anyone got near; Martil had seen men lose half their face in one screaming moment of bloody horror. But they would not charge home onto glistening iron spearheads. They veered away, the troopers on the back slashing down at the spears, although one trooper raked his horse’s sides bloody with his spurs and forced it onto the spears, hoping to create a gap. Two spears snapped and man and horse went down screaming, the horse with a spear point deep in its lungs. The armoured trooper tried to get up and fight but Rocus stood and slammed his spear down into the man’s throat.

The two men in the front line whose spears had been broken were knocked off their feet by the impact, and the men to either side dodged the flailing hooves of the dying horse. For a moment the shield wall was vulnerable, while Martil, Rocus and the sergeants screamed for the men to close the line. Troopers tried to exploit the gap but could not get past the horse’s body. One who tried received three arrows in his back from Tarik and his men, another suddenly found his horse impossible to ride. It bucked and kicked and threw him down to where Rocus and his men forced spears into the gaps between his armour until he stopped screaming and died. But now the main body of the charge was about to hit home.

‘Barrett! We need more!’ Martil turned and yelled.

In answer, birds swooped down, not just the crows and ravens the wizard usually used for gathering information, but hawks and eagles, birds that would normally never fly together. A score of them, aiming at the eyes of the horses.

This was not something even warhorses had been trained for. Their natural instinct was to rear away as sharp talons reached for their eyes. Troopers tried to strike at the birds with swords, and one large eagle was even dashed to the ground by a lucky blow, but the following ranks dissolved into chaos as horses broke legs on rocks in the stream, crashed into the one next to them, or just reared over backwards.

But Barrett saw the death of one of the birds and opened his hand. Instantly the birds flew away. Martil, who had been enjoying the effect of the unusual attack, spun around angrily, but Barrett had his eyes shut and Martil could not spare the time to argue with him.

Tarik and his men were loosing arrows swiftly, picking off men all the time, but a dozen archers were not enough to stop this many cavalry and they crashed into the line.

Troopers swung their horses sideways into the attack, trying to open up holes for the men behind.

The front row bent under the impact, the second row staggered back, and bellowing troopers tried to cut off spearheads with their swords, or swung wildly at the men beneath them.

‘At them!’ Martil pushed the men in front forwards. ‘Aim at the horses’ legs!’

Men dropped spears and drew swords, hacked at hamstrings and bellies, and horses were brought down to provide an even more effective barrier. But
swords banged down on helmets and the second row was forced to hold their shields high to try and protect the men in front.

Martil knew this small battle was delicately poised. He drew the Dragon Sword and threw himself forwards. Standing firm was not enough now. The force of the charge had been absorbed, and the dead horses and dismounted troopers were helping block the rear ranks. But there were still plenty of cavalry eager to fight.

Martil squeezed past a pair of militiamen and reached a mounted trooper who was lashing out at anyone who came close. His horse kicked out, the hoof banging into a shield and knocking the holder backwards. Martil jumped into the gap and swung the Sword down, lopping off the horse’s lower leg the way a normal sword would cut a flower.

Screaming, spraying blood, the horse collapsed, crushing the trooper beneath it. Martil jumped onto its side and thrust down to end its pain, then dared any others to come close.

Two were prepared to take up the challenge, spurring their horses towards him. The first one, Martil blocked his sword thrust and sheared off the top half of his sword. As the astonished man gazed down at the ruined sword he now held, the Dragon Sword slid into his chest and he toppled off his horse. The second one rode past, aiming a wild cut at Martil, who simply ducked. Rocus and two of his men jabbed spears at the horse and the trooper checked its progress, only for Martil to jump forwards and ram the Dragon Sword deep into the man’s back, easily piercing his mail shirt. Behind and beside him, Martil’s men followed his example, rushing into the attack.

Instantly the battle changed. The cavalry were not able to charge home; the press of bodies and fallen horses prevented that. Troopers hacked down at his men, trying to use their superior height, while their horses tried to create room for themselves by kicking out. The guardsmen and militia used spears and swords to bring down the horses, then butchered the men when they fell.

Martil could see two of his men were down, while others were calling out for help, yet once the troopers were down or isolated, they were proving easy prey. One man could not defeat three or four working together. The troopers could not stand for much more; their officer saw it too, and spurred his horse forwards to hack down at a pair of guardsmen.

‘Break them!’ the officer screamed, then seemed to choke as an arrow disappeared into his mouth. He toppled backwards and fell among the carnage of his squadron.

That was enough for the remaining troopers. They wheeled their horses and rode for safety, while three others tried to follow on foot and were picked off by Tarik’s men.

‘Let the rest go,’ Martil roared. ‘Lieutenant Rocus, half your men to help their wounded and put the horses down, the rest go with Lieutenant Tarik and fire those wagons. Lieutenant Wime, help our wounded. And drink water. That’s an order for all of you!’

Martil sheathed the Dragon Sword, feeling tired and sweaty. The ground in front of the shield wall was filled with bodies, of men and horses, while the road back down towards the wagons was also littered. Martil guessed that barely a score of the cavalry had escaped, and many of those would be wounded.

Two guardsmen were dead, while two of the farm boys had been injured—trying to prove themselves as good as the others, they had rushed into the fight without thought of self-preservation. In all, eight of his men were wounded, most of them guardsmen who had taken the brunt of the attack. It was their first losses but could have been so much higher. That was scant comfort for their comrades—and the families who waited for them back at the camp. He went around, praising as many men as he could.

He had other duties that were more difficult. ‘Thank you, Barrett. Your efforts were the difference,’ he told the wizard, who was helping the wounded.

‘I’m glad I could help,’ Barrett nodded, his eyes ringed with dark shadows.

‘Are you all right?’ Martil asked in concern. A healthy wizard was vital to their plans.

‘Some of the wounded were in bad shape. They’ll all be fine now, though,’ Barrett gasped and Martil realised the wizard had been attempting to heal them. Unlike priests, who received powers from Aroaril through prayer, wizards had to use their own energy to heal others. Barrett had obviously exhausted himself saving the badly injured. Martil half-carried, half-dragged him to the stream, where the wizard revived a little in the cold water and forced down plenty of dried fruit.

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get us back tonight. Might have to wait until tomorrow,’ he groaned.

‘That’s fine. You just take it easy,’ Martil instructed. He could not be angry that the wizard had put so much effort into helping the wounded, even though it made things difficult. If they could not escape the way
they had come, they needed to try something different. He thought swiftly, remembering tactics he had used back in Rallora, then went to find his officers.

Plenty of armour and swords had been collected, while six horses had been rounded up, five unhurt but shaken, the sixth with an arrow wound in its haunch that had bled copiously but did not seem to be causing a problem. Martil had the wounded troopers taken over to the stream, where they could at least get water, then the worst of his own wounded were put on the captured horses. Barrett had closed over their wounds, so they were able to move, but several had lost plenty of blood, and were rather weak. The two dead men were wrapped in blankets to be carried on the horses.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ Wime asked.

‘We shall retreat back to the farms behind us. There will be shelter and food, and in the morning, when Barrett has recovered, we shall leave,’ Martil said, trying to make it sound a natural decision.

‘And the enemy, sir?’ Tarik gestured behind him, to where the wagons were burning. ‘They’ll be drawn here by the smoke.’

Martil looked also. ‘Follow me.’

He led them over to where he could see at least two of the troopers were alert enough to watch and listen, and he told Wime, Rocus and Tarik loudly how their wizard was going to magic them away, so they would not be caught.

‘By this time tomorrow, we’ll be ambushing those fools in the woods,’ he declared loudly, then left the officers trying to keep a straight face, and went to see how Barrett was faring.

‘I feel better. Healing magic is best left to the priests,’ he shrugged.

Martil explained what they would be doing and the wizard immediately started arguing.

‘But what if they send more men to the farm tomorrow?’

‘Then we’ll give them another surprise.’

‘I hope you are right,’ Barrett warned.

‘If we’re not, you can laugh at my dead body,’ Martil assured him.

Perhaps predictably, the farmers started running as soon as the armed men marched into their fields. It took some fast talking from Martil—and Sirron—to persuade the farmers that this group of soldiers was there to help, not destroy. Then it took nearly as much effort to persuade them not to have a feast in their honour.

‘You have saved our farms!’ exclaimed the first farmer, a plump, white-bearded giant who introduced himself as Petar.

‘You will have our lasting gratitude,’ declared his neighbour Kell, who was a tall, lean man with an enormous nose.

Martil decided not to mention it was only until tomorrow.

‘It must appear as if we are not here,’ Martil told them.

So they were given space in Petar’s barn, with plenty of food and water.

Barrett ate his way through a huge chunk of ham and an even bigger hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread. Once sated, he made sure the wounded were comfortable, then found himself a quiet, hay-filled stall, away from the talking men. He had no wish to
sit with them; he had never been comfortable in the company of warriors. Always boasting about what they could do, impressed more with a strong right arm than a clever mind. And always ready to mock him. He felt tired but he knew his body’s limitations; rest, more food and a good night’s sleep and he would be ready to do anything tomorrow.
As long as the warriors did not start drinking and singing
, Barrett thought sourly.

He was just relaxing when a motley group of men walked over. A couple of lightly-wounded guardsmen, militia, a few hunters and several of the farm boys.

‘What is it?’ Barrett growled, hoping they would leave him alone.

A hulking guardsman, with a previously broken nose and a thatch of black hair, cleared his throat nervously. ‘We’re just here to thank you, sir, after what you did.’

‘It was amazing, the way you made those horses go crazy! How did you do it, sir?’ a farm boy exclaimed.

Barrett stared up at them. They were all eagerly awaiting his answer, and he could see not a trace of mockery on their faces.

‘Do you really want to know?’ he asked.

‘Of course, sir! You’re a famous magician! We didn’t know exactly what you could do, but now we’ve seen you in action…I mean, it’ll be something to tell the grandkids, that one day I fought beside Barrett the Wizard,’ the farm boy called Sirron exclaimed.

‘Well don’t just stand there. Sit down,’ Barrett told them. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’
Perhaps these warriors are not so bad after all
, he thought.

Martil saw the group of men sitting around Barrett, listening to his every word, and smiled. The
wizard was just learning how intoxicating the camaraderie of war could be. If you risked your life for a man, you created a bond that could not be broken. It was a powerful force indeed. But he did not have time to enjoy it—he was worried about Havrick’s reaction.

Thanks to Barrett, and his birds, they soon found out. A full company of heavy cavalry had arrived at the scene and was collecting the wounded. Martil made sure he kept his face impassive, although inside he could feel the tension rising. He had left a trail leading to the woods, then used Barrett’s failing strength to hide their real trail to the farm. Would it be enough?

It was a nervous wait back at the camp. Karia was able to use the birds to find out what had happened: the ambush had been successful but there were wounded and they were not coming back that night.

Merren reluctantly came to the conclusion that the families should be told—she did not want them asking her constantly when their men might come home. She also felt it was the right thing to do. But she was not sure how to go about it. Her father had spent plenty of gold on tutors who were happy to take the young princess through history, geography, law and economics. He had never spent any money, or any time, telling her how to speak to ordinary people. The closest he had come himself was the occasional proclamation.

‘That’s what the nobles are for,’ he had told her, on one of the rare occasions when they had spoken. Even when he had talked to her, all he had wanted to do was impart advice about the crown, she remembered bitterly.

‘The peasants complain to the town and village councils. The councils take what they think is important and send those complaints to the nobles, then they take what they think is important and bring those to my attention at the Royal Council. That’s the way it works best. You don’t want some smelly peasant in here, telling you about his missing cow! That’s not what ruling is all about!’

‘But how do you know what the people are thinking?’ she had asked.

The King had roared with laughter. ‘Why would you want to know what peasants are thinking? If it can’t be eaten or sold, they don’t want to know about it. Look, it’s not as if you need them. Keep the nobles happy and the peasants take care of themselves.’

Now she could see the unwitting irony in his words. The very thing she needed was the peasants, because the nobles had turned against her. But while she knew all about the nobles, she had no idea how to reach the peasants.

No, not peasants, they are people, she admonished herself. People with hopes and dreams. Karia had been born in a tiny village, Martil also; Barrett’s parents were wealthy merchants, but hardly noble. Yet these people, who her father, Ivene and Gello automatically despised, were the ones she trusted and relied on. If she was to win back her throne, she had to reach the ordinary people. Perhaps here was the place to start.

After all, she had learned to play with Karia—the pair of them had spent an enjoyable morning together—and she had discovered an aptitude for teaching. Karia was advancing incredibly fast as a reader and her writing was also taking shape. This
was partly due to the sharpness of her mind but Merren modestly felt the quality of the teaching also had to have something to do with the child’s rapid progress.

If she could face a morning playing with Karia’s dolls, surely she could face a few women and children and explain to them what was happening.

Still, she felt her heart pounding and her stomach churning as she walked down to where the women and older children washed clothes or tended the livestock and fields, and watched over the young children as they played. She was tempted to turn back, wait for Sendric or someone to return, but then she felt Karia’s small hand in hers and, inexplicably, felt better.

‘Gather round please! Gather round!’ she called out, surprising herself a little at how strong her voice was.

Women and children dropped what they were doing and rushed over. Children protested at being made to leave their play, and there was plenty of confusion and noise before Merren had an expectant semi-circle around her.

‘The ambush has been successful,’ she began, and was interrupted by a series of exclamations of relief and cries of ‘Praise Aroaril!’.

‘However,’ she continued, and the excitement dropped away immediately, ‘there have been several wounded, some badly. They won’t be back until tomorrow.’

‘How many are wounded? How bad are they? Who are they?’ a woman called, and this was taken up by several others. A handful of younger children, not understanding what was going on, began to wail.

‘Please!’ Merren held up her hands. ‘These are
questions I cannot answer. Obviously Captain Martil believes they can both stay hidden and spring another surprise on our enemies. We must trust him.’ She opened her mouth to say she was as worried as they were but one look at their faces told her that was not a sentiment that would go down well. Some of the women looked as though they were about to be sick.

‘Your loved ones are fighting and paying a price in blood to help me,’ she said, and felt a wave of emotion. These were not just numbers on a piece of parchment, or a symbol to be positioned on a map. In an instant, she had a vision that was as clear as it was unexpected. It felt as though a veil had been lifted from her eyes. These were real people, prepared to give their lives to put her back on the throne, when she had barely shown she was worth the effort. She bit back tears that welled up suddenly. ‘I swear to Aroaril that what you are doing will not be forgotten. Your men are fighting for me, and without their help my quest would be nothing. I fear for them, as I fear for my cause. But I can only guess how much fear you are feeling. I wish I could tell you more, give you a promise they will all come back safely, but I cannot lie to you. I can only promise you that I share your pain and distress and wish with all my heart it had never come to this. And if I get the chance to again sit on the throne, I will not let your sacrifices be in vain. I won’t govern the country for the benefit of the nobles. I’ll create a country where noble birth is no longer as important as what you can do. A country where even the poorest person can feel their Queen cares about them. But above all, where you will not be forgotten. I swear it!’

She stopped, suddenly feeling exhausted. The words had come pouring out her, as if a dam inside had been broken. She did not know if she would get the chance to put them into practice but she was determined not to forget them. More than anything, she wanted them to come true.

‘Merren,’ Karia said softly, holding out her hands, and she picked the little girl up and hugged her tight.

‘I’m sorry,’ Merren said aloud. She did not want to let out her feelings; her father had impressed upon her the need to stay remote but it was impossible to hold back. All the things she had repressed, the things she had been taught to keep hidden, had to come out. ‘I’m sorry I have to ask you to do this for me. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish they could all be back safe.’

And then she was sobbing, holding tight onto Karia. Karia was holding her tightly back, and patting her shoulder with a small hand.

‘It’s all right,’ she was saying, in a voice far older than her years.

Merren only became aware of the families clustered around her when she wiped her eyes and opened them again.

‘We’ll stand with you, my Queen,’ said one woman. Merren recognised her as Wime’s wife, Louise, who she had yelled at only a few days ago. Then, the woman’s eyes had glowed with anger and frustration. She expected them to be filled with contempt now. Instead, the woman was looking at her with a mixture of sympathy and admiration. ‘We will all stand with you. Together we can be strong. We don’t have to face this alone.’

Merren wiped her face and forced a smile.

‘I am sorry, I don’t know what you must think of me,’ she said automatically.

‘You don’t have to apologise, my Queen. We think more of you now than ever before. We’ve never had a ruler who cared about us,’ Louise said stoutly, and many of the other women around her nodded vigorously. ‘We never expected to see one, either.’ Louise hesitated, as though debating with herself, then smiled. ‘Would you care to join us for a cup of tea?’

Merren reflected that her father—and, indeed, most of the nobles—would have rather drunk their own vomit than take tea with ordinary people.

‘I think that I would,’ she smiled.

‘As long as there’s some biscuits,’ Karia added.

At the farm, Martil swung between hope and despair, thinking his plan had worked and then fearing he had led these men to disaster. When a bird finally arrived, he had to steel himself to wait for Barrett to report the news.

‘It worked! They believed us! They searched the woods and now they’re riding away with their dead and wounded!’ Barrett shouted and the barn exploded into cheers.

‘They wouldn’t want to stay too long, they’d want to get the wounded back to the surgeons,’ Martil said confidently, as if he had known that would happen all along. ‘Now we’ll see if they come back tomorrow. If they do, we’ll give them a surprise.’

‘Sir, we need to talk to Petar and Kell about tomorrow,’ Sirron said quietly.

Martil agreed. He had not expected them to be happy about the news, but he felt they bore it reasonably well, considering.

‘So you’ve just saved us for today?’ Kell had asked in horror.

‘Don’t be a fool, man. We’ll have to leave but you can always rebuild a farm. Can’t put people back together again,’ Petar snorted.

‘You can come and join us. We have a safe camp,’ Martil offered.

‘And then you’ll be wanting our sons to join your warriors, no doubt,’ Kell muttered.

‘That’s what boys are for, to go off and be brave, then come back and realise that farming is better than fighting. Isn’t that right, lad?’ Petar slapped Sirron on the shoulder. ‘My three lads will be happy to help you. Won’t get our farms back until you win, so might as well start fighting for them now.’

Martil explained that they were going to spring a trap on the squadron of cavalry, if it arrived the next morning.

‘But we hope they don’t send anyone, so we can leave quietly in the morning. Either way, you need to be prepared to go, taking only what you can carry.’

‘Oh, I can carry a great deal,’ Petar declared.

Lieutenant Lalbot relaxed as soon as he saw the first farm. After what had happened to the second squadron in his company yesterday, he had sent a dozen scouts out on the way in. Of course nothing had happened, and he could now concentrate on making sure he filled his wagons with as much food as the farms could provide. He had been a little apprehensive about returning here, but there were few farms left within a day’s ride of the camp, and the need for food was becoming pressing. As a sign of the desperation, the other company of heavy cavalry had been sent back to Sendric, with orders to bring back as much food as they could carry. Meanwhile, all the wagons they had lost meant only
a pair of foraging parties could go out each day. But, as Captain Havrick had explained that morning, this trip should be safe enough.

‘The scum don’t stay around for long,’ he declared. ‘They strike and then run, as they are obviously afraid of us. They use the foul magic of the traitor wizard to slip past us, then slink away. After what happened yesterday, they won’t attack a foraging party for a day or two. I guarantee it. But make sure you have plenty of scouts out, just in case.’

Lalbot had almost crept past every ambush place, sending a full squad in ahead to search thoroughly each time. But now the farms were in sight, there was nowhere men could hide. Just a few frightened farmers running from the nearest farmhouse into the barn. He looked at the house sourly. His own place back in Port Cessor was a hovel compared to this two-storey wood and stone home. He would have it searched, then burned. That would teach the peasant scum. His mood was improved by the sight of several young women running into the barn. A few ripe young farmers’ daughters would be welcome but what he was really hoping for was a young mother. They would do absolutely anything to save their children. Lalbot allowed his mind to drift a little. He had found just the right one back at Sendric, the night before they left. Of course she was no good to anyone now, after he had finished with her. But there were always more peasants.