The Wounded Guardian (49 page)

But when they arrived back in the keep, it was to find there had been an unseen problem. While Havrick had been in control, and the Count in hiding, a small number of people had seen this as their chance to become rich. By offering help to Havrick, they had been allowed to take over other people’s shops, or homes. Now it was time to pay the price for their actions, as their neighbours turned on them, so Martil was forced to send out Wime and his militia to stop these people from being killed.

As it was, he soon found himself standing at the front gates of the town, looking over a score of men, some with families, all bearing bruises and other marks, most clutching just a few possessions they had managed to snatch up before being thrown out.

‘You can’t do this to us,’ one man bellowed. He was sporting a fine black eye, and his rich clothes were stained from where he had been pelted with rotten fruit.

‘He killed a baker and made his family work like slaves for him. Havrick let him do it because he was sending bread to the troopers,’ Wime muttered.

‘You got what you deserve,’ Martil told him. ‘You thought to use people’s suffering to make yourselves rich. Well, now you can go and beg off Havrick’s table once more. Tell him what has happened here. You might even get to live. But don’t come back. Because if he comes back here, he will die. Tell him that.’

‘You fool!’ Black Eye shouted. ‘Anyone can see this is Duke Gello’s time! His men will come back here and crush you like bugs! And we shall return with him, and rule the town! I’ll be back, to piss on your corpse!’

Martil just spat and walked away. ‘Shut the gates,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t have time to deal with scum like this.’

He climbed wearily back into the saddle for the ride back to the castle and the hundreds of problems waiting for him there. Luckily Conal and Sendric had done much of the early work, but, as the War Captain, he was responsible for organising the townsfolk into a small army, capable of taking on Havrick’s professional troops.

‘If only I had an extra head, and perhaps another pair of arms,’ he told Wime as they rode back along the streets that would form the killing ground when Havrick arrived.

‘You could see the wizard. I’m sure he could help you out there,’ the veteran militiaman grinned.

Martil laughed. ‘If I know Barrett, I might end up with more than I bargained for.’ He glanced over at
the militia officer, who had proved so steady and reliable over the past few weeks. In fact all of the officers had come along. Even Rocus could be entrusted with a command now, he felt.

‘How do you think the town will go?’ he asked.

Wime whistled softly. ‘Ask me after the battle,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be putting coopers, smiths, bakers, farmers, herdsmen, shopkeepers and apprentices in against men who have been trained for years and believe they are an army of conquest.’

‘Are they angry enough to stand?’

‘They’re angry. There were many robberies, rapes and quite a few deaths at the hands of Havrick’s men,’ Wime said, then hesitated. ‘I discovered at least eight of the dead were Rallorans.’

Martil looked at him. ‘What?’

‘They were working as security on inns in the town. It has been the mark of a rich inn that it can afford Rallorans to guard its doors. It seems they took their task seriously, even when the inn was full of troopers. But against armed men, they didn’t stand a chance.’

Martil spat. ‘It’s another reason to get my hands on Havrick. So the townies are angry. Good. But will they fight?’

Wime looked around. Even half a day after the original parade, there were still people out waving and cheering at them.

‘They are angry enough to attack. It’s whether Havrick’s men are willing to stand and fight back. That’s when the test will come.’

‘We can’t let them form a shield wall,’ Martil said almost absently, as he looked up at the houses looming over the street. The ones along this road had been built like small fortresses, with solid doors and no windows facing the street on the first level.
He imagined how it would feel to have archers, crossbowmen and javeliners hurling missiles down at you, especially if you were in a tightly packed column. ‘Caltrops,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Caltrops. We need to throw them down along with everything else. If we can get horses rearing and throwing riders, it will help disrupt them completely.’

‘Another thing to add to the list,’ Wime sighed.

It was a long list. Martil had half-thought that the days waiting for Havrick to show up would be full of anxiety, nerves stretched by the thought of when the soldiers would appear. But in reality, he did not have time to be worried. In fact, he barely had time to eat or sleep. As well as the weapons they had brought with them, there were the castle’s emergency weapons in the keep. These were javelins, which had the virtue of requiring little skill, just a strong arm, and were thus ideal for breaking up a massed goblin attack. More than a thousand of these short spears were in the castle, which meant Martil could put one hundred men in houses above the streets and let them cause havoc.

But the biggest job was trying to organise the townsfolk. Many wanted to help, and some even had experience. There were a number of men who had served in the army and either retired or left because they would not openly support Duke Gello. Then there were the men who had either served in the militia or hunted regularly. Finally there were the ones who just wanted to protect their homes and families—these ranged from farmers who had left their homes to escape the depredations of Havrick,
to apprentices bored with their menial duties and shopkeepers wanting to protect their wares.

These men must be graded: from those who could be trusted to loose crossbow bolts from the safety of the second storey of a house, to those who would follow Martil’s experienced men into battle and fight, to those who were willing enough but either too old or out of shape to realistically take part.

But his problem was, how could you tell them apart? A man who ran could create a panic and lose the battle in an instant. All professed their eagerness but Martil had to put each one through a mock battle with Wime’s crafty militiamen before he could make a judgement on them.

Meanwhile there were myriad other problems. The town had been stripped bare of wagons, so new ones had to be found or built, then loaded with straw and oil-soaked wood, so they could be used to block side streets and stop Havrick’s advance. Then the smiths had to slave away, creating caltrops as well as trying to make spearheads, which were the easiest and quickest things to produce. Then there were the supplies. The town had been stripped by Havrick, and while all the remaining supplies had been brought from the caves, it was not enough. Especially as many farmers and people from surrounding villages were flocking to the town.

Merren thought they may have been inspired by the Dragon Sword.

‘We can’t be sure. They could just be scared and seeking shelter. If there was one thing I have learned, it is that you cannot underestimate the stupidity of people during wartime,’ Martil warned.

‘But if not, then it means our decision was the right one, and the Sword is responding to you!’

Once again Martil had to draw the Sword for her inspection but the lack of anything much did not seem to dampen her enthusiasm. Merren was thriving in the atmosphere. She was meeting with dozens of people each day, negotiating with the town council, persuading shopkeepers to unearth hidden supplies and just cheering up the volunteers by visiting them and talking to them. This would be the start of her New Norstalos.

Her spirit was rubbing off on the town. People seemed genuinely inspired after meeting her and Martil did not want to spoil what was becoming a potent weapon for the defence. ‘Perhaps it is happening but not when we stare at it. Anyway, we should wait until after the battle to know for sure,’ was all he was willing to say.

Merren might be helping but there were still many problems only Martil could deal with. One morning he was summoned to the main gate, where a squad of Rocus’s guardsmen were caught in a stand-off with a group of caravan guards.

‘What is going on here?’ Martil demanded.

‘We need not only the food they have brought, but the wagons as well. We offered fair market value but the merchant refused to sell, and threatened us when we told him he wasn’t going to be allowed to leave with the wagons so he might as well get a decent price for them,’ Rocus explained. ‘They said they were leaving either quietly or over our dead bodies, then one thing led to another and…’ He gestured towards where the caravan guards stood in a tight semi-circle, their backs guarded by a wagon, shields locked and swords drawn.

Martil sighed. It was the last thing he needed now. ‘I’ll talk to them,’ he told the guardsman.

‘Who is in charge here?’ he called as he walked towards the group, probably a dozen strong.

‘Captain Martil? Is that you?’ a strangely familiar voice called back.

Martil peered at the faces looking back at him from under steel helms and a memory stirred.

‘Sergeant Nerrin? From the inn on the border?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Stand down, man, and bring me the merchant you serve, so I can explain what is happening.’

The merchant turned out to be a rather fat man with an enormous beard and a habit of sweating prodigiously.

‘These wagons are the lifeblood of my business!’ he blustered, looking anxiously at Nerrin, after Martil had explained what they were doing and why they desperately needed wagons.

‘You will be able to buy double the number of wagons once you are back in Norstalos City,’ Martil said impatiently.

‘Double, you said?’ the merchant asked, suddenly interested.

‘Double,’ Martil agreed wearily, wanting this over with. He was spending the Queen’s gems rather rapidly but victory always came at a price.

‘Done! A pleasure doing business with you!’

Martil watched him hurry off, and signalled to Rocus to pay the man and then drag the wagons off to the keep.

‘Sir?’ Nerrin said, interrupting his thoughts.

‘Yes, sergeant?’

‘I couldn’t help but overhear what you said. And it would be an honour for my men and me to serve you once more, sir!’

Martil looked at the tough, red-headed Ralloran warrior and felt the temptation to add a dozen prime men to his little army. They would be worth ten times their number in shopkeepers. But then the memories of the Ralloran battlefields came flooding back.

‘Sergeant, this is not your fight. You and your lads have done all the fighting you need to. Relax and earn your money from merchants. But mind he pays you a bonus, your bravery earned him double the fee we are giving others!’

‘But, sir…’

Martil put his arm around the man’s shoulder. ‘Nerrin, I am taking a bunch of townsfolk into battle against professional soldiers. We may outnumber them slightly but there are scarce fifty men I can count on. I would love nothing better than to have you and your men on my side. But I have seen too many good Rallorans die under my command. I cannot have any more die in a fight that is not their own. Let these Norstalines stand up for themselves. They are always telling us how good they are. As for me, I have no choice. I drew their Dragon Sword, now I am the Queen’s Champion. But you—you should go away, find a wife, and raise some kids. Don’t walk into another war.’

‘Sir, you know any Ralloran who served with you would walk into Zorva’s realm and spit in his face for you.’

Martil stared into Nerrin’s eyes. ‘That is why I cannot ask them to. You understand? Now go, you are not to take part in this battle. That is an order!’

Nerrin’s face showed his reluctance but he still drew himself to attention.

‘Yes, sir!’ The Ralloran saluted and signalled to the rest of the guards to follow. He hated to leave
Captain Martil but he could not disobey a direct order. He watched Martil walk away, then blinked. It seemed to him that the hilt of the captain’s sword was shining at him. Strange, for the sun was not even out.

Not all problems were so easily solved. Martil had the various forces rehearsing twice a day now, using trumpet calls to relay his orders. Simple ones, such as advance and retreat. For anything else, he would rely on Barrett using magic to communicate with his officers. The early attempts were a shambles: wagons arriving at different times, men charging down streets that did not meet up with the main approach road, men falling over and injuring themselves. But they were getting better. Slowly.

And all the time he was spending training the men meant he was not seeing much of Karia. And she was less than impressed with this—and constantly pestered him to spend time with her—and added to his existing guilt by telling him how much she loved him. Much as he wanted to indulge her, so many lives depended on him that he could not spare her much time. Nor could he bring himself to tell her how he felt. Karia, meanwhile, was both frustrated and upset by Martil seemingly ignoring her. He had tried to explain things to her and, while she could understand why he had to keep leaving her, it did not mean she liked it.

Meanwhile, Barrett was keeping an eye on Havrick. The men who had been forced out of the town had scattered, but a dozen had stayed together and travelled to Havrick, telling him the town had risen behind him. His search parties had now travelled quite some miles into the woods—in the wrong direction—and he had to recall his
wide-ranging forage parties before he started his march back towards Sendric.

‘He’s pushing the men too hard. The supply wagons are not catching up until late at night, and he’s moving so fast that they don’t have time to forage. By the time they reach the town, they will have run out of food,’ Barrett reported.

‘Excellent. The men will be tired and hungry. That may prove to be a decisive edge,’ Martil smiled.

‘I estimate they will arrive in two days’ time. And that will be a hot day for marching.’

‘Better and better,’ Martil agreed. ‘Our men will rest during the day, eating and drinking as much as they can. We have to force them to do this, for many will be too nervous to feel like food, but they will fight better and longer on a full stomach.’