The Wounded Guardian (47 page)

By the time he was finished, he was thirsty and tired himself. He wandered back into the audience cave, after first checking everyone had left, and uncorked a bottle of wine. He had not drunk any alcohol for weeks but it would be the ideal thing to help him get to sleep, he decided.

‘I thought you might be back after we left,’ Merren said, stepping into the chamber. She had been waiting for him to return. The conflict within him was obvious. She had to give him some hope, or he might fly apart. That was why she was here. At least, that was what she told herself.

‘It appears as if you do not care if you live or die, as long as you win this war,’ she told him.

‘As ever, your majesty is right,’ Martil said stiffly. He did not want to talk to her about this. Anger was his best friend and companion now. Thinking about a happy future during a war just got you killed.

‘Martil, do you think I want you to die?’

The emotion behind her words stopped him, and without thinking, he sat down.

Merren walked over and sat beside him, placing a hand on his forearm. He could not help but notice that her fingers were long and graceful.

‘We know—I know—how important you are to this little rebellion. If we are to win, we need you. What I was trying to tell you was re-fighting the Ralloran Wars will not unlock the good man you are, the good man that Karia sees. It was the Ralloran Wars that did this to you in the first place. So if we cannot win this war the way you beat the Berellians, we must try something else. Taking this town and protecting it from Havrick will be a good start. And there will be so many men fighting that you will be needed to control the battle, not be the battle. That, and saving a town, may be the start of your road back.’

‘Saving a town to make up for destroying one?’ Martil could not keep the harshness out of his voice.

Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘Listen. I know you cannot forgive yourself for Bellic. Nor should you. But it doesn’t have to rule your life. I cannot understand how badly you feel, but will allowing more people to be killed help your nightmares disappear?’

Martil shuddered at the thought. ‘They should never disappear. Nothing I do can ever make up for Bellic. At my heart I am no better than Havrick or Gello.’

She reached up and touched his face. ‘That is not true. My cousin appeared to be a good man, once. But then the Dragon Sword refused him. His life was forever changed by one fateful day, as yours was. He has faced being defined by that one action, as you have. But where he wants to wash that day away in
a tide of blood, is always trying to pretend his mistakes never happened, you have tried to make up for them. And you will never let yourself forget what you did. That is the mark of a good man.’

He laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. ‘A good man? Just what is a good man? A dragon’s definition of it? Why didn’t they provide a list of instructions for this bloody Sword? If you save this many maidens and help this many old ladies, then you are a good man?’

‘I think,’ Merren said gently, ‘it goes deeper than that. We are the sum of all our actions. All of them. One mistake doesn’t mean you are a bad man. Every day is a new day, a chance to start afresh, an opportunity to wipe away the past.’

Her words sank in. He wanted to believe that, wanted to think that he could, somehow, atone for Bellic. But he felt nothing could wipe away that foul deed.

He felt something break inside him and suddenly the tears were running down his face, no matter how hard he tried to stop them. He took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to hold them back, but it was impossible. Then he felt Merren draw him into an embrace, pressing his head down onto her shoulder, her hand stroking through the hair on the back of his head.

It was the first time someone had held him like this for as long as he could remember. He felt himself relax and he straightened up a little, looking down into her face. She was wearing no make-up or powders, as a queen normally would, but then she did not need them. Her green eyes were soft with concern and her lips were parted slightly, as if to ask him a question. There was a slight scent of lemon
about her, and he felt an almost overwhelming surge of desire for her. It was this, more than anything, that dried up his tears and he leant forwards and kissed her, feeling her soft lips part a little. Her embrace tightened, and pulled him in closer, and he felt all his worries, his guilt and fears, disappear. Nothing mattered but this.

Then the sound of someone clearing their throat made them jerk apart, as if stung.

‘Your majesty? Captain Martil?’ Barrett said mildly.

Martil found himself truly hating the wizard at that point.

‘We were just discussing strategy,’ Merren said coolly.

‘Indeed. I thought the captain was going to apprise us of his thoughts tomorrow?’ Barrett’s voice was impossibly calm, as if he had walked in and found the two of them comparing gold mine tallies.

‘I was just going to bed.’ Martil had kept his back to Barrett until he was sure he had wiped his face clean of tears and, more importantly, was able to stand without embarrassing himself, then he walked out, leaving the wine behind. He would not give the wizard any satisfaction.

Barrett did not say anything until they could hear Martil’s footfalls fade as he walked into the night.

‘Your majesty,’ he began.

‘Barrett. You are not my parent,’ Merren said coldly.

‘I would not wish to be. I only wanted to say that Martil’s mental state is still fragile. He could go either way, become the good man we want, or become so intoxicated with the power of the Dragon Sword in battle that it is forced to kill him.’

‘You are not telling me anything we have not already discussed,’ she said impatiently.

‘We also discussed what makes a good man. And we talked about having something good to live for. I thought that Karia would be sufficient for him but it seems you thought that was not enough. That you wanted to add yourself to that list.’

‘Wizard, you go too far,’ she warned.

‘And if I had not come in? Would you have gone too far with him?’

She stepped in close, eyes blazing, but he stood his ground. ‘Your majesty, we both know that you are destined to marry to secure your throne. He wants you to be a farmwife. A relationship with Martil will create more problems than it solves. He has to find his own way out of the guilt that envelops him.’

She stared at him.

‘Your majesty, you are a queen!’

‘And is a queen not allowed to be happy?’

‘A queen should be happy when her country is happy. Any other reason is immaterial. Look inside yourself. You know that, at his heart, Martil does not see you just as a queen! He sees you as a woman first, and you can never be that for him.’

Merren was silent for a long time and Barrett did not try to break her thoughts. He knew he could sum up how Martil was feeling, because it was how he felt about her. The difference, he told himself, was he would never be so crass as to act on his feelings without the Queen’s permission.

‘You are right,’ she said finally. ‘He does see me as a woman first, a queen second. And I do agree that it could cause more problems with him than it solves.’

‘Your majesty is wise,’ Barrett bowed.

‘Now leave me. We have much to do in the morning.’

She watched him go, then turned towards her own bed.

‘But you are wrong to think that I always want to be seen as a queen first, a woman second,’ she said, almost to herself.

Martil awoke the next morning and felt as if he should just pull the blankets back over his head. As well as everything else that had happened, he now had to come up with a plan to allow barely fifty men to capture a town, then hold off an army that numbered more than five hundred. He sat down with paper and ink and tried to work on something, but no matter how he looked at it, he had too few men to hold the walls of the town. And while he could probably hold the keep for as long as the food held out, then use its secret tunnel to escape Gello’s wrath, this was hardly the victory they were looking for.

He was interrupted by Karia, who wanted breakfast, then to know what they would be doing for the rest of the day. She was thrilled that he was back, and wanted to have some more time with him today. The other children in their little camp had told her they were going to play with their dads that day—she wanted the same.

‘Boring!’ she exclaimed, when he explained about the planning. ‘Can’t we go out into the woods, where I can show you my magic?’

‘I wish you would magic me up a plan,’ Martil muttered.

‘Let me! I can help!’ She instantly became excited.

Martil tried to explain, but she quickly lost interest and started drawing on the plan of Sendric that the Count had provided for him, while he talked about things such as directions of attack, defensive sallies and floating reserves.

‘Don’t do that!’ he began as soon as he realised she was drawing on his plan, and then he looked at the scribbles she had made.

She had drawn a line going along the main route from the gate to the keep, a route that twisted and turned through different streets to help break up an attack. Then she had drawn lines coming out from side streets to meet her first line.

‘Can I have another piece of paper then?’ she asked.

Martil ignored her, as he stared instead at the plan, and an idea began to blossom.

‘Martil! How about some paper!’ she said, louder this time.

He could see it now. A column of troops, riding up towards the keep, suddenly attacked from all sides, with no room to manoeuvre and utilise their horses. In fact, in those confines, the cavalry would become a liability.

Meanwhile Karia was getting frustrated. He did not usually ignore her. A few weeks ago, her next move would have been to throw a tantrum but she did not want to do that now. Perhaps if she just said it loud enough to get his attention.

‘Daddy!’ She yelled it before she even thought about it and was initially pleased when he looked up then realised what she had said. What if he didn’t like being called that? What if he got angry, or wanted her to go away? She could feel her cheeks
burning and kept her head down, so she would not have to see him upset.

‘Karia,’ he said softly, but she would not look up. The knowledge of what she had called him was a warm glow in his chest but he did not know how to refer to it. ‘Karia, I think you’ve solved my planning problem. How about I find you some more breakfast, then we can go for a walk through the woods, where you can show me what magic you have learned this week?’

She was just happy he was not angry—and also happy he still wanted to spend time with her. Perhaps she should just pretend it had not happened, also. So she just hugged him.

He knew he should say something to her, say how proud he was she had called him that, tell her how much he loved her. The fact he could not was haunting him. But he did not know how. So he just held her. They stayed like that for a long moment.

‘Come on, let’s get you some breakfast,’ he said gruffly, to cover what he really felt.

It was after noon, when everyone was ready to break a morning’s work with the midday meal, when Martil called them into the audience chamber. He knew they had expected him to spend all morning working on a brilliant plan, so he had no intention of telling them he had found the winning strategy in a child’s drawing and had then spent most of the morning playing dolls or catch with Karia.

The small council of war, including Tarik, who had been summoned back from his forest ambushes, listened as he outlined the obvious choices. The first was to seize the town, fortify the walls and try and hold off Havrick’s army. But there was no way to
spread out their trained men to defend that length of wall. Simple arithmetic showed each man would have too much to hold. It was an impossible task.

The second choice was to just hold the keep, but that would mean giving up the rest of the town, leaving the townsfolk to Havrick’s less-than-tender mercies.

‘I cannot allow that,’ Merren stated flatly.

Martil nodded. ‘So that leaves us with our third choice. Use the town’s defences against Havrick. In fact, Count, the town was built specifically to have a defence against an invader that had broken through the outer wall.’

Sendric nodded. ‘Of course. The main road to the keep. It twists and turns, so an attacking force could be confused, split up, and attacked from the flanks and rear. The town’s designers took the possibility of a surprise attack, or goblins breaching the wall, into account.’

‘That is what we shall do. Havrick’s men will ride in, expecting us to be up at the keep. Once they are spread out over several streets, we shall strike. We shall use flame wagons to cut off their retreat and their advance. The surrounding houses we shall fill with archers and javeliners, to keep the vanguard and rearguard pinned down, while we strike in the centre and push backwards and forwards, splitting them up. Unable to use their numbers effectively, we can destroy each half. But it will be grim work. We cannot expect them to surrender quickly or easily. Remember, they think we are peasants and rebels. I will not lie—our trained men will have to lead the attack. I cannot send untrained townies in against soldiers. We could suffer heavy losses, even in victory.’

‘Is there another way?’ Merren asked quietly.

‘I cannot think of one,’ Martil admitted. ‘Although if any here believe they know of one, they should say it now.’

There was a long silence, and then Merren turned to Sendric. ‘Will the town fight?’

‘Of course, your majesty. They will be especially eager to fight knowing armed men are in the town and they must protect their families.’

Merren turned back to Martil. ‘Would it not be better to bring the families here, for safety?’

Martil took a deep breath. He was conscious of the Dragon Sword at his side, and what it might be thinking of this plan.

‘I would advise against that. The men will fight harder, knowing that, if they lose, Havrick’s men will rampage through the city. If their families are here, the men’s minds will also be here. In their minds we are already half-defeated, for we have made plans in case of disaster.’

Merren nodded slowly and Martil held his breath.

‘I see what you are saying, and much as it goes against my instincts, it makes sense. The townsfolk must fight harder than they have ever done before. Knowing they will be protecting their families might prove vital.’ She placed her hands on the table. This was the chance she had prayed for—but could she take that decision, knowing she was dooming many men to death? A few days ago the choice would have been easy. Now it weighed heavily on her conscience. Finally she looked up. ‘We shall leave tomorrow, and take the town tomorrow night. Let the men have the night to be with their families, then we shall leave here in the morning, on a march that, Aroaril willing, will take us to Norstalos City.’ It was a
decision that had to be made. She just hoped it would be the right one.

Barrett surged to his feet.

‘I give you the rightful Queen of Norstalos!’ he roared, and they joined his cheer, raising their cups of water or wine.

She acknowledged their salute and swore to herself she would make this sacrifice worthwhile. These men had to know they were fighting for a better Norstalos.

That afternoon was incredibly busy for Martil. All the supplies they had stolen had to be organised: the horses loaded up with as much as they could carry, the rest to be carried by the men, women and children. Martil did not want to leave a single sword or arrow behind. Having several hundred recruits was no use if they wore old cooking pots for helms, pillows for armour and carried a kitchen knife and a lump of wood.

The mood in camp was strange; the men and their families were excited about what they were doing, but also nervous at what such a battle might mean. The farmers, those who were too old or too young to fight, were to stay behind until it was safe again, but had offered two cattle for the night’s feast. These were roasted, and the men and their families gorged themselves. When all were full, a few musical instruments appeared, and they began to dance around the fires, a last night of revelry before a battle.

Martil was dragged out of a cave, where he was counting arrow sheaves, so he could report to Merren.

‘You cannot miss our last night of fun,’ Merren greeted him. ‘Would you like to dance? Or is our fearless captain afraid?’

‘Only of what people might say,’ Martil admitted, thinking of Barrett, and adding the unspoken thought that he was also nervous about what he might feel, having her lithe body so close to him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Come along.’

She grabbed his hand and he had no choice but to follow her out. The other dancers saw them and spread out to give them room, clapping and cheering.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you look foolish. Just follow my lead and don’t fall over,’ she said quietly, although he found the advice to ‘not fall over’ hardly comforting.

She took his left hand in her right, and put his right hand on her waist, just above her hip. Her left hand was resting on his shoulder. She was wearing a dark green dress that set off her eyes and, he could not help but notice, her figure. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the dress, while her hand was warm on his shoulder.

‘Here we go.’ She winked at him and then was off, twisting and spinning, Martil desperately keeping up. True to her word, she made it look as if he knew what he was doing and he even managed a grin as Barrett glared at them from beside the fire. Sweating lightly now, he was mightily relieved when she spun to a stop and he could cover his nerves with a wave to the cheering men and women. He led Merren back to where Karia was bouncing up and down and clapping.

‘My turn now!’ she declared.

‘Be careful with him, he gets scared out there,’ Merren told her.

‘I do not!’ Martil protested, then had to wipe his sweaty brow.

‘He doesn’t lie very well, does he?’ Karia said critically.

‘Do you want a dance or not?’ Martil growled.

Dancing with Karia was far easier. He just picked her up and spun her around and she giggled.

‘I love this!’ she laughed. ‘Keep dancing with me, Daddy!’

Martil almost cringed at the word. He wished she would stop saying it, because every time, saying something in return was getting harder. He didn’t know if it was his determination not to look into the future or just because he had never said such a thing before. But he could not say what she wanted to hear, what she deserved. Desperate to distract her, he looked around. Many other children were also dancing. The night had a strange air about it, as if the people were trying too hard to have fun, but were afraid of what the next days would bring. Martil could see many of the farm boys sneaking off into the bushes with women. He could not blame them.

He danced with Karia until he saw her eyelids drooping, then put her to bed; she protested she was not tired although she nodded off during a story. When Martil returned to the fire his thoughts were on Merren. But his hopes of getting her alone again were being stymied by Barrett, who was following him around like a lost puppy. He could at least sit beside her at the fire. She, too, was aware of Barrett but was determined to make Martil think of something other than a looming battle.

‘What was it like, growing up in Rallora?’ she asked.

Martil almost had to rack his brain to remember a time when he had not had a sword in his hand.

‘Peaceful,’ was the best he could manage. ‘I lived outside a small village, where my family had a sheep farm. We looked after the sheep, sold the wool and the meat, went to the local church, learnt our letters at the local priest’s school, went to dances, enjoyed warm summers and huddled before the fire in winter. It was a good life, but I suppose I had become bored with it, which was why I jumped at the chance to join the army. Of course, it might have all changed now. The village was burnt out, my friends and family killed.’ He paused, horribly aware he was spoiling her mood now. ‘What about you? What was it like growing up in a palace?’

‘No sheep,’ Merren said immediately.

‘I knew you’d make a joke about the sheep. You Norstalines always reckon Rallorans are a bunch of sheep-shagging barbarians,’ Martil joked, then realised what he had said.

‘Yes, I was saying that to the Ralloran ambassador just the other day,’ Merren said wryly, ‘and he was reminding me that Norstalines are the only people who can shit rose-scented marble.’

Martil stared at her in shock.

‘Well, he didn’t actually, but I was talking with some of the families the other day. One of them is Tetran and she was saying that to the others. I may have had some of the best teachers in the country but I am learning plenty from just listening to ordinary people,’ she smiled.

‘It must have been lonely, growing up there,’ Martil said what he was thinking.

‘It was,’ she admitted. ‘I never knew my mother, and barely knew my father.’

‘Tell me about your father,’ he invited.

Merren smiled wanly. ‘He drew the Dragon Sword, so he must have been a good man. Sadly, I did not see much of it myself. I think he was haunted by guilt—he felt guilty for being born and taking the crown from his sister Ivene, he felt guilty whenever he saw me, for he loved my mother and would take no other wife, although most of the nobles begged him to do so, especially after Gello failed to draw the Sword. I can understand him, in some ways, but I can’t forgive him for leading us to this.’

‘What do you mean?’