The Wounded Guardian (45 page)

He sent his first squad to secure the house, the second to the stables, the third was ordered to the fields, the fourth to search the outhouses, and he led the fifth to the barn. This was his personal squad, the men whose ideas about peasants and the divine right of Norstalos most closely followed his own.

‘Take everything that’s edible or useful, then we’ll burn the rest,’ he ordered his sergeants casually. ‘Don’t let anyone stop you.’

He rode over to the barn, not particularly hurrying, because there was nowhere for these farmers to run. Behind him, he could see his men dismounting, joking and talking among themselves. This was the fourth farm they had sacked since joining Havrick’s force. Valuable training for the eventual invasions of Berellia and Tetril, his fellow officers had begun to say. But Lalbot did not need petty justification. His training at the academy had all been about how Norstalos had a divine right to rule. After all, had not the dragons favoured this country? Anyone who tried to prevent Norstalos’s march to glory was a traitor. As far as Lalbot was concerned, these peasants were scum, and he would stamp them out. Leaving his horse outside, he drew his sword and led his squad in from the sunlight to the gloom of the barn. Nobody was around.

‘Where are you?’ he called softly.

There was some rustling in one of the stalls up the back and he waved for his men to spread out.

‘Come on out, we won’t hurt you,’ he offered loudly. ‘Much,’ he added over his shoulder, for the benefit of his men.

‘Oh, I know you won’t,’ a deep voice said coldly and Lalbot was astonished to see a man in a mail shirt step out from behind a stall, holding a sword in each hand. Lalbot’s eyes were drawn to the weapons. One looked rather ordinary, the other seemed to catch what little light there was in the barn and make it glitter.

‘Wh—who are you?’ he blustered.

‘The man who’s going to kill you,’ the man replied,
advancing in a manner Lalbot found disturbingly implacable. He glanced over his shoulder and was reassured by the fact he had a squad of men behind him, and the stranger had none.

‘Get him!’ Lalbot ordered, taking a few steps back, just so he could better watch the battle.

His sergeant, eager to impress his officer, jumped forwards, swinging his sword furiously.

But his first blow was parried, then the bright sword ripped out, shearing through the sergeant’s sword, his arm, his armour and the chest beyond. With a terrible scream the sergeant fell, writhed on the barn floor for a few heartbeats, and then lay still.

Lalbot looked down in horror, his men in stunned silence.

‘Get them!’ the man roared, and men in armour appeared all around the barn.

That was enough for Lalbot. He turned to run, tripped over an old bucket and went sprawling on the straw. He could hear the sounds of fighting around him but his only interest was in getting away from the man with the two swords. He scrambled to his feet and found, to his horror, the man was in front of him now. With no way out, Lalbot lunged, only to have his sword knocked aside. The last thing his terrified eyes saw was that terrible, glittering blade, just before it took off his head.

Martil watched the officer fall then ran to help Sirron and his farm boys. His solo act had been designed to shake up the troopers, because he knew the farm boys were nowhere near ready to fight experienced soldiers fairly. Having the officer come in here was a stroke of luck, because his death, and the death of the sergeant, had left the troopers dispirited.

Still, they were professionals, and Sirron and his lads, after the success of their initial surprise, had been forced to lock shields to hold them off.

Martil’s arrival changed all that. Two troopers tried to fight him and both died, one’s head went flying, and the other had his chest ripped open by a terrible blow. The remaining four men promptly threw their swords down.

‘Sirron, you and your brothers tie them up, the rest of you, with me!’ Martil led the others outside, to where several small battles were raging.

He had put Tarik and his archers in the house, from where they were picking off troopers from vantage points on the top floor. The remnants of an entire squad either lay beside the house or cowered under the shelter of the walls. Wime and his militia were in the stables, and were battling a squad there, while Rocus and his men were scattered through the other outhouses, and were fighting two squads there.

The battle was delicately poised but Martil and his group of farm boys swiftly tipped the balance. One canny cavalry sergeant was threatening to act as a rallying point but the Dragon Sword tore through his mail shirt and heart. With that gruesome death, the fight seemed to go out of the troopers. Swords clattered to the ground as they surrendered.

Martil sheathed his swords, and tried to control his breathing. A sprint across a farmyard in full armour was exhausting. He clapped the nearest farm boys on the back. There were only a handful of them but they had followed him without fear or question when other, more experienced men might have held back. Then, his breath back, he knew it was time to impose some order on this battlefield.

It took some time to organise the prisoners, who
were made to sit in a circle, guarded by Wime’s men, while their wounded were laid beside the barn. The final tally was twelve dead, eighteen wounded, of whom at least half had wounds serious enough to kill them. Martil was saddened to see his men had also suffered losses. Two more of Rocus’s guardsmen had been killed, as had one of Wime’s militia, while another six men had been wounded, including two of the farm boys, one of whom had lost his left hand.

The captured horses were laden with food, armour and weapons, as well as the farmers’ possessions. Barrett, after helping the worst of the wounded, was made to rest and eat, ready to open a gateway for them in the afternoon. There was no question of staying out longer. They had barely thirty men able to fight. Another battle against a squadron of heavy cavalry would kill most of them. Then there were the captured soldiers.

‘What do we do with them, sir?’ Wime wanted to know.

Martil hesitated. He did not want to see them on the field of battle again; another twenty heavy cavalry could well prove the difference between victory and defeat, especially when his force was still so small. Yet he could not kill them. And he shrank away from a tactic the Berellians had tried, cutting off the right hand of captured men, so they would not fight again. His hand crept to the Dragon Sword. He sneaked a look at the hilt. There was nothing but perhaps it was still the answer. He would impress Barrett and Merren if he could win these men over.

He walked into the circle of captured troopers and saw them staring at him resentfully.

‘You came here to burn, rape, steal and kill. But you can redeem yourselves. You all swore oaths to
protect and serve the people of Norstalos. So follow this,’ and here he drew the Dragon Sword, ‘and the rightful Queen of Norstalos. Protect the people and regain your honour.’

‘You killed our mates. We will never follow you,’ one hard-faced man, part of the group that had been captured in the barn, spat. ‘Any man who does so is a traitor!’

Martil cursed himself as he looked around again. The faces had changed, but not by much. One or two looked as though they would like to stand up, but would not do so in front of their comrades. They didn’t want to break ranks. He should have spoken to them individually, he realised; perhaps then he could have won some over.

‘We shall destroy you and that bitch you serve, then Norstalos will take its place as the ruler of the world, as the dragons and Aroaril wanted…’ the man continued to speak, but his voice stopped suddenly as the Dragon Sword appeared an inch from his eyes.

‘It is you who will be destroyed,’ Martil said softly, but the man’s comments disturbed him. If even the common troopers had come to believe Gello’s drivel about Norstalos being divinely chosen to rule, then Merren’s hopes that the Dragon Sword would make the army come over to her side were going to be in vain.

Martil walked back out of the circle and over to Wime.

‘Strip them naked and tie them together. Blindfold them, all but the first one, and he will have to lead them back to their camp,’ he ordered.

The militiaman struggled to keep a straight face. ‘Yes, sir!’ he grinned.

It was a weary and heavily-laden band of men and farmers that walked two miles to a large oak tree. Every man carried something, while all the captured horses were heavily loaded with weapons, armour and food. Barrett’s eyes were tired but he nodded at Martil as he prepared to jump them a few miles ahead, from where they could walk back to the camp in safety. The small band of naked prisoners was struggling away in the opposite direction, legs hobbled, hands securely tied. The wounded troopers had been left in the barn, with one man to look after them, although Martil knew several would die before help could arrive. Martil guessed it would take the blindfolded men most of the night to walk back to their camp, and when they arrived they would have no armour, no weapons and no horses. After those two small battles, one full company of heavy cavalry had been effectively erased from Havrick’s force, for the loss of five men. It was a stunning result in cold, hard military terms but Martil knew he would still have to go back and face the wives and children of the dead men.

His spirits lifted as he saw Merren and Karia among the families coming to greet the men as they slogged wearily back into the camp.

Karia came rushing up to him and leapt into his arms.

‘You’re safe! I was so worried!’

Then she recoiled a little. ‘You smell! And your face is all scratchy! I love you but you don’t get a kiss until you have a shave and a wash!’ Karia told him. ‘Isn’t that right, Merren?’

Martil saw the angry glare Barrett gave him from the corner of his eye, but ignored it. He wanted to say that he loved Karia, that he had missed her too.
But the words wouldn’t come. He just hugged her instead.

‘What happened?’ Merren asked finally.

Martil sighed. ‘We lost five men dead, Barrett saved a dozen wounded and we destroyed a full company of heavy cavalry in two ambushes.’

Merren looked over at the families and Martil could see what she was thinking.

‘I’ll tell them. I was the one who led them out there,’ he said.

She looked straight at him. ‘And I was the one who ordered you to go. We shall tell them together.’

Martil would have felt better had they yelled at him. Of course there were tears, but other wives were there to support them. He was shocked to see Merren even comforting one of the younger children, who was sobbing, while her mother was bawling. He felt completely exhausted by the time they had finished.

‘I never knew that it would be so hard,’ Merren said softly.

‘That’s good,’ Martil sighed. ‘When it becomes easy to send men to their deaths, then we have a problem. I never get used to it.’

Merren nodded. ‘I never want to get used to it, either.’

Martil looked at her carefully. It was as if she had changed while he was away. There was a new strength about her, a new determination.

‘What is it?’

‘These people are the reason why we are fighting. I will not let Gello turn them into an army that will destroy every other country. They deserve a country where they are valued and respected; they have to feel as though they are fighting for something worthwhile. I will give them that,’ she told him.

‘It was Karia, wasn’t it? She does this to people. You think you have things all planned out and then she comes along and changes your whole perception of life,’ Martil grunted.

Merren smiled at him. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’ She reached up and touched his cheek, just brushed her fingertips across his face. ‘You still haven’t washed and shaved. Karia was right. You’re not getting a kiss until you do.’

With that she disappeared, leaving a stunned Martil thinking he should wash and shave. Just in case.

The death of five men had highlighted the safe return of the others. Men hugged their families, while the farm boys who had fought swaggered past the farm girls. There was fresh food from the farms, and a cow was roasted over a firepit, filling the camp with the delicious scent of roast beef. But Martil could tell the celebrations would be muted tonight.

As for him, he could hardly keep his eyes open. The stress of talking to the families, after the horrendous wait in the barn, had left him exhausted, in a way battle never did. Merren declared they would hold a council tomorrow—tonight they could rest.

He only just managed to read a story to Karia, about a princess who slept for a hundred years before a prince on a dragon woke her up.

‘I like those stories,’ she sighed. ‘Would you take me to visit Dragonara Island one day?’

But Martil was asleep, snoring gently on her bed. Karia carefully pulled the blanket up over both of them and lay down beside him. He still smelt a bit, because he had only washed quickly, but she found it comforting to know he was there. She had had a father and a da but now she felt Martil was a dad. Father Nott had told her that a dad was someone who
cared for you, who looked after you, played with you and taught you right from wrong. Her time with Edil had not produced any of those things, so she had decided Father Nott and Edil must have been mistaken. Edil couldn’t have been her dad. Martil must be.

She felt her time here was much more like the family life that Father Nott had described. Your father went out to work and your mother looked after you. She had never known her mother but decided if she was going to choose one, it would be Merren. She was still a bit funny about giving cuddles but she was nicer than anyone else she had met. She remembered Father Nott had said fathers and mothers slept in the same bed, and obviously Merren and Martil did not do that, but Karia felt that was a silly rule. There was never enough room for your dolls.

Merren agreed with Martil that the men could rest and train before going out again. The wounded would take time to heal, although, at Merren’s request, Conal brought Father Quiller for a quick visit to the camp, and the priest healed all but those with minor wounds, before blessing them all and regretfully returning to the town.