The Wounded Guardian (58 page)

This had not been a good few weeks for him. First, the militia had been dismissed. Just like that. One moment he had been a well-paid, respected member of the community, the next he had been out of a job. He had been trying to negotiate the purchase of a small farm when the squad of soldiers had arrived. They were going to watch over his village, while he and his militiamen were sent to Wollin, to form part of a new regiment that was being put together. Just why Norstalos needed a new regiment, and especially a regiment of militiamen, Hutter had no idea. He had no choice in the matter: hauled out of his home and away from his crying wife and children, loaded onto a wagon and then dumped at this huge training camp.

There, an angry sergeant seemed to have made it his personal mission to torment him. Hutter had trained enough men to recognise that the man was trying to break him, so he would be more willing to take orders and go into battle without question. That was, however, scant comfort on these long, painful training runs. Hutter wiped the sweat from his eyes and concentrated on the backs of the men in front. Only a couple of miles to go, then he could vomit, collapse and drink some water. At least this
afternoon would be a little easier. Apparently they were going to get a performance from a bard. Something he could to look forward to. He had always loved the sagas.

‘How are you, Killer?’

Kettering adjusted his hair and glared at the speaker, a thin, nervous man called Leigh who had been sentenced to hang for stabbing a man in a tavern brawl. How was he? How did the idiot think he was? A bloody long way from the Crown and Sparrow, that was for sure. It was a journey that had seemed to become a descent into Zorva’s realm. And the worst thing was, the only way forwards was even further down.

‘Don’t talk to me,’ he snapped.

‘Sorry, Killer. Didn’t mean to upset you,’ Leigh smiled obsequiously.

A fat, bearded man sitting close by leant forwards. ‘’Ere, why are you calling that skinny little pisspot Killer? He doesn’t look like he could knock the top off a good beer!’

Leigh waved his hands frantically, glancing towards where Kettering glowered at him.

‘Don’t you know the story? This bloke was dragged into the toughest bloody prison in the country, screaming that he was innocent, that somebody else knifed those people and framed him. Well, looking like he does, and sounding like he did, there was plenty in that place who thought he’d be easy meat. So these two mad bastards decide to have some fun with him. He does nothing, and there’s plenty there, me included, who are just laughing at him. Then one of them grabs his hair and he finally says something: “Don’t touch the hair.” So of course
they start messing it up. Next thing you know, there’s six guards trying to stop him killing them. Two of the biggest bastards you ever saw, and he took them down like they were a pair of kids!’

The bearded man stared hard at Leigh, trying to see if he was joking. But there was no trace of humour on his face. He glanced over at Kettering, who was glaring at them both.

‘So the name stuck—Killer Kettering. Believe me, you don’t want to mess with him,’ Leigh said quietly, but loudly enough for Kettering to hear.

Kettering sighed. The respect the nickname brought him was welcome, especially in this camp full of criminals. But it was nothing compared to his earlier life. Funnily enough, his hair was the one remaining link to the man he once was, which was why he defended it so furiously. He had discovered that when you had almost nothing left, you would do anything to hold onto it. Arrested by the militia after being found with a bloody knife in his hand, accused of killing four people, including a stableboy at his own inn, given a quick trial and an even quicker sentence, he had been sure he would end his life on the gallows. But then the army had come, given them uniforms and started training them to stand in the battleline. Kettering was beginning to think he might enjoy a battlefield—it would allow him to take out all the anger and frustration bottled up inside him at being treated this way, for crimes he did not commit.

‘You three over there—shut up if you don’t want your necks stretched! The bard’s about to start!’ an officer bellowed.

Lieutenant Kay—although he still thought of himself as Captain Kay—lay on his bed, miserably. A few weeks ago, everything had seemed right in the world. He had been the Captain of the Queen’s Guard, an honoured man in Norstaline society. Women wanted to be with him, men wanted to be like him and his parents were proud of him. Not bad for the son of a woodsman, who had joined the King’s Rangers because of his skill with a bow, risen through the ranks because of his bravery and been made an officer when they became the Queen’s Rangers because of his ability to lead men. But being named as captain of her guard had been the ultimate honour. True, she had been rather distant, and any conversations they had had usually took the form of her rebuking him for some error, but she was still the Queen! Then had come the dark days.

First was the horror of discovering there had been an attack on the palace and men he had worked with, trained and led were dead. Worse was to come. The Dragon Sword had been stolen, while under his protection. Just when he had thought his humiliation could not be more complete, he had been dismissed, sent back to his regiment. Duke Gello and a company of his arrogant heavies had burst into the palace and demanded the Queen give up her throne. He had known his men had no chance, outnumbered and outmatched as they were, and had ordered them to stand down. Even now his fists clenched as he remembered the laughing cavalrymen stripping him and his men of their swords and tunics, as though they were beaten dogs. Even though he knew the order to stand down was the right one, sometimes he wished he had fought. A last stand to protect the Queen, dying in his duty, would surely have been
preferable to the dishonour. It had not got any easier, either. He had been mortified to return to his regiment and find it under the control of Captain Beq, one of Gello’s favourites, who had taken every opportunity to sneer at his disgrace.

Kay and virtually his whole regiment were confined to barracks, not deemed safe enough to be let out, because their loyalty to Gello was suspect. All they could do was drill, practise their archery, eat and sleep. Kay had heard rumours they would be asked to help with the invasion of Tetril, or perhaps Berellia. He had no interest in invading another country but he did long for one thing, wished for it with all his heart. Just one chance at redemption. One opportunity to win back his honour. If not, sometimes he thought it might be easier to fall on his sword. Aroaril knew, Beq had suggested that to him often enough. Only a combination of his hatred for the man and his desperate desire to make his parents proud of him once more kept him from doing so.

He thought about going down to the archery range but could not muster up the enthusiasm, when a knock on the door made him jump to his feet.

‘Enter!’

One of his rangers marched in and saluted.

‘Captain Beq’s orders, sir! Every man is wanted down at the archery range now! We’re to hear a special performance from a bard!’

After Gello’s ceremony in Norstalos City, the audience was told to donate money to the new King’s war effort, and then told to go away. The nobles were invited back to the palace for a party that was to star Lahra, with most of her fellow workers from the Golden Gate in supporting roles. Father Prent—
or rather the newly ordained Archbishop Prent—was not able to make it, although he wanted to. He had to lead a squad of soldiers to arrest the old Archbishop and take over the running of the church. He also had sermons to write, describing every Norstaline’s sacred duty to defeat the Rallorans and to serve King Gello.

Gello also had one duty to perform before he could enjoy the party—to meet with the Berellian ambassador, Ezok. In the short time he had been in the capital, the tall Berellian had become a popular figure at gatherings, known for his love of Norstaline wine, his knowledge of history and his habit of always being impeccably dressed. Today, his long dark hair was held back from his face by a golden band, which was set off by his black-and-gold tunic.

Once pleasantries had been exchanged, and wine poured, he got down to business.

‘Berellia would officially like to congratulate your majesty on your ascension to the throne, and hopes that we can continue our long tradition of being peaceful neighbours,’ Ezok smiled. He was outwardly impassive, but his heart had been pounding since he had received the invitation. This, surely, was the meeting Brother Onzalez had referred to back in Berellia. Now was the pivotal moment, when the future could be changed and the world stood on a knife edge.

Gello smiled back. Humourlessly. ‘Being peaceful neighbours is a long tradition only because you were too afraid of us. Isn’t it true that many Berellian schools teach that the Berellian border should be at the River Brack, rather than where it is, at least fifty miles further south?’

Ezok inclined his head. These sorts of pleasantries
were no more than he expected, and easy to parry. ‘There has been some foolishness in the past. But my king wishes you to know that he has no intentions like that.’

‘Of course not! His treasury has been drained and his armies decimated. His intention is to keep us away until he has the chance to build them up again.’

‘Speaking of armies, my king does wonder why it is you need such vast training camps, when there is no war, or prospect of one?’ Ezok countered.

This time Gello’s laugh was genuine. ‘I like your style, Ambassador.’ He raised his glass to Ezok. ‘Especially as Berellia is a shadow of the power it once was, and could be snapped up easily.’

Ezok smiled once more, although it got nowhere near his eyes. Time to throw this arrogant usurper off balance a little. ‘Indeed, your majesty. But it is wise to remember that it is far harder to keep a country, than it is to take one. And one should not count one’s eggs until they are in the pudding. Both things we learnt, to our cost, during the Ralloran Wars. I would hate to see a king such as yourself make the same errors.’

Gello roared with laughter. ‘You mistake me, Ambassador. I am an admirer of Berellia. Its honest approach to border expansion is one I have long wished to emulate. In other directions, of course. In fact, you may not realise how close we are in our ambitions.’

Ezok tried hard, but could not keep the flicker of interest from his face. He must play this cautiously, not seem too eager. If Onzalez was right, Gello would deliver himself into his hands. ‘We have long thought that an alliance with Norstalos could bring great benefits for both countries,’ he said carefully.

Gello held up a hand. ‘You are getting ahead of yourself, Ambassador. First we must develop more of a relationship. How do you think our countries could make a fresh start?’

Ezok sipped his wine, and raised an appreciative eyebrow. ‘What about something to help celebrate your ascension to the throne. What might your majesty like?’

Gello smiled. ‘Nothing big. Just some help with a little problem I have in the north. With a man who was one of the Butchers of Bellic.’

Ezok pretended to be thinking, although he knew full well that only one remained. ‘We know he is here. War Captain Martil. There is nothing my country would not do to see him dead.’

Gello savoured his wine, as well as the hatred apparent on Ezok’s face. ‘I want you to help me destroy him—and about one thousand of his foul brood. All veterans of the Ralloran Wars and all bloodstained by Bellic.’

‘A thousand veterans of Bellic? What are they even doing in your country? To think that any civilised nation would harbour such monsters…’

‘Calm down, Ambassador,’ Gello growled. ‘Spare me the mock indignation. Listen, I want my peasants to be in fear of these Rallorans. I want my people to think there are one thousand raping, murdering barbarians invading our country, and helping Queen Merren. I want them to be hated, so I can go north and crush them unopposed.’

Ezok nodded. He knew King Markuz was always happy to kill Rallorans. ‘We would like to help. I can provide you with a score of our finest bards, all of whom specialise in the Real Saga of Bellic, the story as it should be told.’

Gello smiled again. ‘An excellent start. My peasants love the sagas. And I believe the Berellian King has a Champion, whose only purpose is to kill his enemies.’

‘Correct, your majesty. He is a busy man. But he might be able to help you with your Ralloran infestation.’ Ezok did not add that Cezar was desperate to finish the mission he had failed.

Gello smiled gratefully. ‘Then this could be the start of a fruitful relationship for both our countries.’

Ezok raised his glass in agreement. Obviously this was the start of Norstalos moving under Berellia’s control.

Gello laughed. ‘After you have helped us, perhaps we can look at an alliance. I’m sure we can work out the new borders of this continent amicably. And once we have Tetril, Aviland and Rallora, it will be time to look over the seas. Can you tell me now if Berellia would be interested in what I propose or do you need to consult with your King?’

Ezok fought to keep his face straight. This was everything Onzalez said it would be! But he could not move too fast.

He had enough for now. The key to trapping such a big prize was patience. Let Gello become ensnared just a little bit at a time. Then let the world tremble!

‘You will see that Berellia and I will become the best friends you have ever had,’ he promised.

Gello’s blood was fired by the thought of triumph. In his mind’s eye he could see his map of the continent again and every country under his rule. And then overseas, where legend had it there were countries with so much gold it was not thought valuable; even, perhaps, to the fabled Dragonara Island. The treasures and glory that waited for him!

‘Nothing can stop me now!’ Gello laughed.

‘Nothing can stop
us
now,’ Ezok offered, in mild reproof.

‘Of course, nothing can stop us now!’ Gello said magnanimously, and refilled their wine glasses.

‘Come and join my party, ambassador, there’s a woman called Lahra that you must meet.’