The Wounded Guardian (5 page)

Cessor nodded his head violently, his eyes wide with horror.

Gello smiled wolfishly, then patted Cessor’s fat cheek. Behind the noble, Chelten took a reluctant step backwards.

‘Good. I will ensure anyone who might stand in our way will be out of the city for that council meeting. And, as to the crisis, why, it will be the biggest crisis this country has ever faced! I am going to steal the Dragon Sword.’

Worick dropped his wineglass, while Cessor nearly choked on his mouthful but neither dared to say anything.

‘Now, this is how we shall do it…’

Father Enterius Nott had been a priest for almost sixty years now and more than forty of those had been spent in Chell.

It had been a good life, in the main. Days of simple duty to his God and his flock, helping guide the villagers through their lives. He had no ambition to be anything more than a village priest and had turned down several offers to move to towns or even cities. Feeling the seasons change, seeing the crops and the animals grow, these were the things he loved. Thanks to Aroaril, few were his villagers who died of illness. His prayers for healing were almost always answered. There had been the one notable exception, but he could look back on a life spent keeping this small part of Norstalos peaceful and healthy. Few could ask for anything more. But now he felt disquiet. As a rule of the church, all priests had to retire at eighty, as it was felt the demands of looking
after their flock were too much after then. He also suspected he was about to be called into another kind of service by his God. He had never been gifted with divination, the way many of his fellow priests had. But his dreams were getting more and more vivid—and distressing. He had seen days of blood and pain approaching, of armies and battles. His immediate superior, Bishop Gameron, was skilled in divination.

‘Norstalos is going through a pivotal point in its history,’ he had said. ‘I cannot see the exact nature of our future but it will force us to face a greater evil than even old King Riel dealt with. Whatever happens, the country is going to be fundamentally changed. The people are not ready for this; they have lived with peace for too long. They will try to hide from their responsibilities. But eventually they will be forced to fight.’ And he had admitted he could not see how it was going to end. ‘You should be thankful to miss it, my friend,’ he had joked.

‘I would rather it not happen at all,’ Nott had replied wryly.

Then the dream had come last night. Or rather, the message from Aroaril. It was impossible to mistake it for anything else. The trick was how much he could reveal. Say too much and the very opposite of what Aroaril intended could come to pass. All that was good in Norstalos, perhaps even the world, would be lost.

He had been thinking on it all day. So it was with both a feeling of delight and trepidation that he heard Karia’s voice outside his house once more. He stood and watched the unlikely pair approach his home. His heart ached when he saw Karia. She was filthy, and painfully thin. It was obvious that Edil
had been as bad a father as he had feared. As for the man who had brought her back to him—the pain in him, the anger and the loathing, they almost made Nott quail. But he knew what he had to do. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to greet them.

Martil nearly stopped in shock. Karia had said Father Nott was ‘very old’, but Martil had assumed she had been speaking with all the experience of a six-year-old, to whom anyone over thirty years was ancient. But Father Nott really was elderly. The priest’s sparse white hair barely covered his scalp, and his face was deeply lined and marked with age spots. His hands, gnarled and twisted, shook slightly. But his eyes were a bright blue, they sparkled with life, and his smile was warm and genuine.

‘Karia!’ he exclaimed.

‘Father!’ she cried and raced into his arms, hugging him as if she would never let him go. Then she was crying, sobbing as if she could erase the memories of the past six months in one flood of tears.

Martil did not quite know where to look and could not help but feel she was far better off here than with Edil, himself or even this mysterious Uncle Danir.

At last her tears dried up and turned into soft sniffles. ‘And who are you and what are you doing here?’ Nott asked, looking up at Martil from where he cuddled Karia.

‘It is a long story, Father,’ Martil sighed.

‘Come on in. I might be getting on a bit but I still have time for a long story or two,’ the old priest smiled, then pointed at the swords hanging from
Martil’s hips. ‘But can you leave those outside, my son? I don’t believe in having them in my house.’

Martil slipped off his sword belt, wrapped it around his swords and left them outside, propped up beside the front door. Not feeling their familiar weight was both relaxing and disquieting.

Father Nott showed them into his house; Karia obviously remembered where to go, for she rushed straight to the kitchen, while Martil followed the old priest at his much slower pace. The home was simply furnished—basic wooden furniture and not too much of it—but it was overlaid with a feeling of calmness. Just being inside there made Martil feel relaxed. He knew many priests lived in luxury while their flock suffered but this home was no more than the average farmer would have. Karia had installed herself at the large kitchen table and was waiting excitedly for food. Father Nott patted her absently on the head as he went past, opened a cupboard and took out a half-loaf of bread and a lump of cheese, which he placed on a plate and popped in front of her.

‘Tea?’ he asked Martil.

‘Please. But can I help you?’ Martil offered, seeing how Father Nott’s hand shook as he held the kettle.

‘Sit down. The day I can’t make tea is the day I finally meet my God,’ the old priest chuckled, placing the kettle on the stovetop. Martil sat down beside Karia, who was already ripping off chunks of bread and cheese and wolfing into them—although Martil knew she had eaten two apples, several sticks of dried meat and a hefty oatcake already. He watched the old priest bustle around the kitchen, digging out cups, dropping in chunks of crystallised honey and then preparing the teapot with tea leaves.

‘I take it we will not be seeing Edil again, not until my day of judgement, anyway,’ Nott said quietly, producing a jug of milk and pouring out a glass for Karia.

Martil glanced at Karia, unsure what to say.

‘You do not have to say anything more. I always knew that family would come to a bad end. I am just glad to see that Karia is still alive,’ Nott said calmly, as he poured the tea. ‘I hope you like honey.’

‘Of course.’ Martil never drank tea with honey usually—the chances of getting honey and milk with army-issue tea were about the same as having a Berellian axeman offer to read you a bedtime story. But his future freedom depended on impressing this priest.

‘I knew Edil would not treat her very well. But this is far beyond what I expected. She has not been to see me, or even to the village school I run, in months. Now I see why. She’s smaller than when she left here and she actually had clothes of her own back then. Once she has eaten, I think it will be time for a bath, then she can go to bed. And then, perhaps, you can tell me what happened.’

‘Are you talking about me?’ Karia looked up from her food.

‘We were just saying that old tunic is not as good as the dress you left here in,’ Father Nott said smoothly, as Martil struggled to think what to say.

‘Didn’t have time to pack when we ran from the farm,’ Karia explained. ‘I had to leave everything behind and then Da could never find a traveller with a little girl to take a new dress from.’

‘These are the struggles of being a bandit that the sagas never tell us about,’ Father Nott intoned, giving Martil a wink.

‘Are you being silly, Father?’ Karia stopped guzzling milk and looked up, a frothy moustache on her grubby face.

‘Just a little, my dear. Now, how about a bath?’

‘Do I have to?’

‘If you want to sleep here tonight you do. Even the pigs might kick you out of the sty tonight, the way you are smelling.’

Karia giggled and then burped.

Martil sought a way of escaping bathtime.

‘Well, I need to go and see the local militia and explain what happened today,’ he announced.

Nott looked at him as if he knew exactly why Martil wanted to leave but merely said: ‘Edil and his boys were well known around here. You should have no problems with the militia. In fact, I should imagine they might even want to buy you a drink for your efforts.’

Martil did not show it but he was relieved to hear the old priest’s words. The militia might be pleased to see the end of Edil but they might be just as happy to lock up a stranger until they had extracted most of his gold.

‘If there is trouble, ask them to see me. And it might be as well if you take your swords with you. There’s not many men around here who could claim to have…removed…Edil and his three sons without receiving so much as a scratch.’

‘Do you have anything for dessert?’ Karia interrupted and Nott chuckled.

‘After your bath we might think about it. Now come on. You’ll have to help me fill the tub.’

Martil took this as his cue to leave the cosy domestic scene. Swinging on his swords and walking towards the militia post felt like an escape—but he
could not help but think it was a temporary one. Father Nott was far too old to look after a small girl. In fact it was amazing he had not been called up to serve his God more personally before now.

Martil stopped off at Tomon, where he unsaddled the horse and fed him. The feel of the saddlebags reminded him he had left a fortune in gold just sitting in the open. Even for someone who cared little about money, it was foolish. He left the bags in the old priest’s bathhouse before walking to the militia post, reflecting that Father Nott may be old, but help could be bought with gold.

Sergeant Hutter liked a quiet life, which was why Chell suited him perfectly. In the big towns and cities, sergeants of the militia had to deal with professional thieves, brawls, riots and murderers. Here, a few drunks and the odd theft was the extent of the problems. There was Edil and his sons but until he could get some extra men from his captain, he had no intention of chasing around the woods looking for them. At one time he had dreamed of wearing the golden epaulettes of a captain, of serving in the big cities and even meeting the King. But a few years of midnight patrols had dampened his enthusiasm, and then seeing his partner get stabbed to death beside him had put him off promotion. He had received his sergeant’s stripes for bringing in the killer and had managed to land this cushy post afterwards. That was enough for him, and his wife and children appreciated the country life better than the cramped terrace house they’d had back in the city. Now his expanding stomach showed how much he enjoyed the locally-grown produce. He had the respect of the community and set himself up as
the perfect trainer for young recruits, which he sent on to the towns after a few years. Impressing young recruits and old farmers was more than enough excitement for the pay he received.

But he had not lost his instinct for danger. This was why the hairs on the back of his neck stood up when the warrior with the two swords walked into his militia post. Quickly he rounded up his three men from various parts of the building and together they listened to the man’s story.

‘So you killed them all? Edil and his sons are just lying out there in the forest?’ he could not help but ask at the finish.

The man turned those eyes on him and it was all Hutter could do to stop the shiver down his spine.

‘That’s what I said,’ he repeated.

Hutter thought about it for a moment. How best to tackle this one without trouble?

‘Can I get your name?’ he asked curiously. Edil and his sons had not been particularly skilled but odds of four to one were enough for most men.

‘Martil. I’m a former war captain in the Ralloran army,’ the man explained.

Something stirred in Hutter’s memory, the way his afternoon snack had been stirring in his stomach since this warrior walked in.

‘War Captain Martil? The Butcher of Bellic?’ he breathed.

He saw the man’s face tighten in anger for a moment, then relax.

‘Aye. But I prefer just Martil now,’ the man said coolly.

Hutter ignored that. If the fabled War Captain Martil had been attacked by Edil, then the vicious old fool and his brutal sons had obviously paid
the price and he was well rid of a thorny problem. Best of all, he would not have to try and arrest this warrior.

‘You are welcome to go back and have a look. I’m staying with Father Nott,’ Martil offered.

Hutter snorted. He could see one problem was solved and he had no intention of looking for another. ‘No need for that! Let the animals choke on their rotten carcasses! We should give you a medal for cleaning out that pit of vipers! I’ve got a file as thick as my new constable here on Edil and his sons. Stealing animals, waylaying travellers—you name it. If the forest wasn’t so big, I’d have been ordered to muster the village and hunt them down. But they were stupid enough, or smart enough, never to be truly successful bandits and make the trouble of hunting them down worth it. No, I’ll file a report for my captain and then breathe a sigh of relief.’

‘I’m free to go and get some supplies then?’ Martil asked.

‘Of course! Enjoy yourself! We might even go and buy you a drink later.’

Martil left smiling; Karia had not been mentioned and he preferred to keep it that way.

The militia watched Martil walk across to the inn and disappear inside.

Hutter’s new constable, a gangly youth named Turen, broke the silence.

‘Should we watch him, Sarge? There’s something strange here. I mean, it took all four of us to bring down Edil’s son Hibbet when he’d had too much to drink, the black-bearded bastard.’

Hutter cuffed him over the head. ‘He’s Captain Martil. One of the Butchers of Bellic. They say he used to eat Berellian axemen for breakfast, and dine
on the souls of their weeping families. Edil and his boys wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

Turen nodded doubtfully, while the other two muttered agreement. But the young man still had one more question.