The Wounded Guardian (13 page)

Then disaster struck. Martil won the first roll, and she had to give him some of her money. He won the next one, although he tried not to, and then the third. When she watched him take the last of her money, she flung herself on the floor, kicking and screaming.

Quick, distract her
, Martil thought, and offered her a glass of milk and the chance to play with all the copper coins. He left her making more towers of money and locked the door behind him as he hurried downstairs to the dining room to get the milk and see if he could talk to the woman and invite her to come back to his room after Karia was asleep.

He ordered the milk and, to his relief, saw the woman was just finishing her meal. While he was waiting for the glass to be brought out, he thought he would use the opportunity to talk to her.

‘You were down here earlier with your daughter, weren’t you?’ she said when he walked over to her table, which he took to be a positive sign.

‘That’s right. I’m just down here getting her a glass of milk.’

‘Is she with her mother?’

Martil decided this wasn’t the time to tell the full story. ‘No, her mother died in childbirth,’ he said, trying to compose his face in an expression of sorrow.

‘I am sorry,’ the woman sighed. ‘It must be difficult, raising a child on your own. You probably miss her already.’

‘Well, you know…’ Martil shrugged, trying not to convey the impression of a prisoner who was enjoying his first taste of freedom. ‘Why don’t you come up to my room later and we could talk about it,’ he offered.

‘Oh, I couldn’t! I’d disturb your daughter,’ she exclaimed. ‘Besides, they have a bard on tonight. It’s out of the question.’

Martil was desperately trying to think of a way to make it part of the question when someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see the waitress, holding a glass of milk.

The woman diner smiled. ‘You’ll be wanting to get back to your daughter now. It’s so good to see a man taking care of a child.’

Martil was forced to keep a fixed smile in place, turn around and walk back upstairs with the glass in his hand, muttering to himself. His mood was not improved much by opening the door to discover a bored Karia had gone searching for more money, and thrown Martil’s supplies over the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ he yelled, and she disappeared under one of the beds.

Martil kicked the door closed, giving himself a sore foot, and realised this was not helping. He went into the bedroom and sat down on the floor, where he could see a couple of eyes peering out from under the wooden bed.

‘I have your milk. Want to come out and get it?’

‘No, I know that trick,’ she said sullenly.

Martil felt a little sick at that.
I am better than him
, he told himself.

‘There’s no trick. I was just surprised at what you were doing. It was my fault for leaving you alone. Now, how about you come out and I’ll tell you a story while you have your milk?’

Karia loved stories. Father Nott had told her several each night, always one from the Book of Aroaril, which tended to go on for a while and never had any dragons or interesting creatures in them. But he also read to her from the sagas—glorious tales of adventure and excitement—and magic!

‘Will the story have dragons in it? Or elves? Or princesses? I love them!’ she said.

Martil grimly reflected she liked the sagas. That did not bode well for him. Meanwhile he was struggling to remember some story that she might like. It had been many years since he had been told a story, and then it had been about how the treacherous Berellians were the spawn of Zorva. Not quite the sort of story a small girl wanted to hear. He managed to make up one about a dragon that had lost its puppy, only to find it had merely left it with an elf. He was horribly aware it was not a good story but could not think of anything better.

‘Is that it?’ Karia asked when he had finished.

‘Yes,’ Martil replied defensively. He would have been the first to admit he was not much of a
storyteller but to have it pointed out like that seemed particularly brutal.

‘Bedtime now,’ he announced.

But Karia had no intention of going to bed yet. This place was too interesting and she was determined to see what else was in his saddlebags—or at least get a decent story out of it.

‘I’m not tired,’ she announced, which had always been her standard reply to Father Nott.

‘Well, I am,’ Martil said with feeling. Dealing with her was exhausting.

‘Are you going to go out if I go to sleep?’ she demanded.

Martil was tempted to see if Kettering could find him a woman. But he smiled instead. ‘No, I’ll be going straight to sleep, too.’

But Karia could tell there was something in his voice. Her da and brothers were always going out at night and leaving her. She had hated that. It was the thought of being all alone in a dark house. She had often fallen asleep crying and felt sick at the thought of waking up here alone.

‘Don’t leave me alone. I don’t like the dark,’ she begged him.

‘I wouldn’t leave you,’ Martil tried to convince her, hearing the tears just behind her voice.

‘Yes you would. You want to leave me. You wanted to leave me with Father Nott and now you want to take me to Uncle Danir and leave me there!’ she accused. She didn’t like him but it still hurt that he wanted to leave her as well. Nobody seemed to want her. It wasn’t fair! Whether she tried to be good or bad, they all still left her.

‘I want to leave you? You were the one who wanted to stay with Father Nott!’ Martil protested,
feeling aggrieved. Then he saw her face. He sighed. ‘I won’t go. I promise. What can I do to convince you?’

Slightly reassured, she thought for a moment: ‘Can you brush my hair?’

Martil tried to follow that logic. ‘Why? Do you want to look your best while you sleep?’

‘No,’ she said, unable to believe a grown-up could be so silly. ‘Father Nott used to brush my hair and that put me to sleep.’

Refraining from suggesting that a quick blow from the hairbrush to the head would be a far better way of getting her to sleep, Martil got up and dug around in his pack until he found the old wooden hairbrush she had brought. Then he began to brush her hair, a not inconsiderable task. He had to be careful, because, just as he thought he had got her to sleep, he would tug at a knot in her hair and wake her up. Finally, all seemed quiet. He held his breath, and clutched the hairbrush, but she did not stir, just kept breathing softly. The night was now his. He could order up some drinks, more food, perhaps even see if Kettering employed any whores.

Then he looked down at her face, peaceful in sleep. And he knew he would not be able to enjoy any of it. He would be worrying about her the whole time. Why, he had no idea. She was a small, screaming monster who hated him. So why did he owe her anything? He could not answer that. It just felt wrong. He pondered getting up and going across to his own bedroom but did not even have the energy for that. So he closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.

He was woken by a vicious elbow to the head and sat up, ready to defend himself—only to see Karia had rolled over and clobbered him while he slept.
He lay back down and yawned—but was woken a short time later by a sharp kick to the knee. He looked down angrily but she was fast asleep and utterly oblivious.

‘I get the message,’ he grumbled, and staggered across to his bedroom. He never thought he would be so happy to get into an empty bed.

He was woken just after midnight by a scream. He raced across to find her sitting up in bed.

‘Where were you! I thought you had gone!’ she sobbed.

‘You kept hitting me! I just wanted some sleep!’ he tried to protest but there was no appealing to her. So he just sat on the bed and patted her back until she stopped crying.

‘Now I need to go to the toilet,’ she announced. ‘Where is it?’

Where we left it
, Martil thought, but struggled off the bed and guided the half-asleep child to the toilet, then back to bed.

‘Brush my hair again,’ she insisted, once in bed.

‘Fine, but if you wake up again and I’m not here, I’ll be across in my own bed,’ he told her. ‘Understand?’

‘I’m not stupid, you big silly,’ she told him.

So he brushed her hair, lay down again, and fell asleep himself, and was woken by a stinging slap to the nose. Swearing under his breath, he staggered back to his bed.

He was able to sleep in peace—until dawn, when Karia woke him, announcing she was hungry.

‘It’s too early. Go back to sleep,’ he protested. ‘The kitchens won’t be open yet.’

It had been years since he had stood a watch through the night. Too many, it seemed, because it
felt as though someone was hitting a hammer behind his eyes.

‘But I’m hungry! Is there any toast?’

Martil rolled over and hoped she would go away. He felt the bed creak as she climbed onto it and then little fingers grabbed hold of his eyelid and tried to open it.

‘Are you awake?

‘Let go!’ Martil jerked free and threw himself backwards, crashing off the bed and landing on the floor. He rolled onto his back and looked up to see her peering over the edge of the bed.

‘Are you awake now?’ she asked.

If Martil had learned one thing as a war captain, it was to recognise defeat when it was staring him in the face.
We should have had a thousand like her—we could have broken the fighting spirit of the Berellians within a week
, he thought.

It took him a long while to splash some water on his face and pull on his boots. Dawn was just lighting the sky and he wondered whether the kitchens would give them anything. Then he cursed himself for being stupid. There would be a dozen bakeries around here, all hard at work.

‘Come on, we’re going out,’ he said, deciding to take his swords along, just in case.

Word had spread. They might have divided the country but to many Rallorans, the ones who had suffered beneath the Berellian heel, the Butchers of Bellic were still heroes. Two were dead and one had disappeared. Bards all over the country were speaking of it, and there was much speculation as to how it had happened. Three accidents was too much and King Tolbert was forced to announce an inquiry.
The man once known as War Captain Oscarl had no intention of waiting to see what that discovered. Instead he hired a coach, piled it high with possessions and left town for his old village. To ensure he arrived safely, he hired a squad of guards, who rode in front, behind and to the side of the coach, as well as on the roof. Surely nobody could possibly get to him while he was travelling—and the driver he had hired, a small, nondescript man in dark clothing, looked as if he knew his business.

Later, Cezar stepped over Oscarl’s body and down from the carriage. This had gone as well as could be expected. The country was suspicious but it was already too late. He was now less than half a day’s ride to the Berellian border and then he could pick up a change of horses and pursue Captain Martil.

Martil had followed his nose until the smell of baking bread almost became thick enough to spread butter on, then bought two hot cheese loaves from a baker. Then he had a fight with Karia about whether they were too hot to eat.

‘You’re not like Father Nott,’ she grumbled. ‘He’d let me have some.’

‘He’d let you burn your mouth on it and then turn it into a lesson about how you should listen,’ Martil declared. ‘Wait until we get back to the inn.’

She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at him.

‘That’s it. I’m going to eat the lot,’ Martil told her.

She started to wail and cry, and slumped to the ground. Martil tried to calm her, to no avail, and could imagine a horde of angry townsfolk coming out at any moment, ready to wreak revenge for being woken like this.

‘All right. If you are quiet, and sensible, I will give you one piece,’ he offered in desperation.

‘Don’t give in, man! Kids have to learn!’ a voice called, and he looked up to see a trio of militiamen walking towards them. They were smiling, obviously because they had heard the argument. Two were younger, while the third was a man in his forties, with a thick beard and the stripes of a sergeant on his chest.

‘Don’t worry,’ it was the sergeant who had spoken. ‘Children never listen to their fathers.’

Karia looked up. ‘He’s not my father,’ she announced.

Martil groaned. At that moment he would have happily stuffed an entire cheese bread loaf into her mouth to keep her quiet. The militiamen would have let them go on their way with a quick comment. Not now.

‘Really? Who is he then?’ the sergeant asked, his two men spreading out slightly.

Martil opened his mouth to explain but Karia was too quick.

‘He killed my father and brothers and now he’s taking me to my uncle but I don’t want to go. I want to stay with Father Nott back in the village.’

Martil tried to smile but he could see the militiamen’s faces had closed in, and their hands were now resting on their belts, close to the thick cudgels they all carried.

‘It’s not quite like that,’ he said with a half-laugh.

‘Oh really? Why don’t you tell me how it is then?’ the sergeant’s good humour had disappeared. Martil felt his anger begin to rise. How did he end up in this situation?

‘I was attacked by bandits, I fought them off, only to discover this girl. As she said, I am taking her to
her uncle, at the request of a priest of Aroaril,’ he snapped. ‘I told a militia sergeant about what happened, back in Chell. I have no wish to go through it all again.’

‘Chell, you say? I saw a despatch from there last night. Bunch of notoriously bad bandits, Edil and his boys, were wiped out. But how could one man take out four bandits, even four as stupid as that family?’

Martil glared at the sergeant. ‘I’ve killed men across battlefields for half my life. You think four peasants could stop me? Or how about three militia? Could they?’

‘Who do you think you are?’ the sergeant growled.

One young constable, who had grown a moustache to make himself look older, pointed at Martil. ‘I saw that despatch too, Sarge. It said he was Captain Martil, one of the Butchers of Bellic.’