The Wounded Guardian (51 page)

The street was crowded now, bodies of men and horses slowing their progress, but they were still pushing the troopers back, creating little pockets of men that were surrounded and cut down by the townsfolk behind. On the other side of the street, Sirron had stepped back to let the group that had trained with axes lead the attack. These were particularly effective. Troopers without shields were reluctant to get near to the wicked double-bladed axes. As Martil had hoped, none were willing to step inside the arc of the axes, and a group cowered away, forcing Sirron to turn aside to deal with them. A flood of townies pushed past, eager to join the fight, getting ahead of Sirron’s squad. A dozen troopers, still in the saddle, saw their chance and spurred to the attack, riding down their own wounded to try and drive the townsfolk back.

They cut down several men and others scattered. Rocus saw instantly they had to be stopped, or they could reverse the gains already made. He was about to
shout to his men to follow him to block them, when the last townies were cut down or ran back to reveal Sirron and his farm boys formed up in front of the charge. Rocus, the battle forgotten, watched, afraid of what might happen. He could not hear the orders, but the first rank went down on one knee, the shields came up and suddenly the horses were faced with a wall of spears that they refused to charge into. They swerved to either side, one horse went down with a spear in its chest, and the charge was broken.

Instantly the townsfolk swarmed in, preventing them from re-forming. Troopers cut and slashed furiously, handing out wicked wounds, but they could not guard themselves on all sides. Their horses were hamstrung and fell, or they were dragged out of the saddle and beaten to death with a variety of weapons.

Rocus raised his sword in salute to Sirron, then turned again to the troopers around him. The very narrowness of the street, which had caused the initial problems for Havrick’s troops, was now working in the soldiers’ favour. The townsfolk needed the advantage of numbers to smash through, but only a certain number of men could fight in the street at the one time. Rocus could see the armoured forms of heavy cavalry troopers ahead, who were pushing through their lighter cousins to join the fight, and knew his men would be in trouble soon. He wanted to win the battle by himself, but Martil had drilled into him that a good leader knew when to ask for help. He signalled to one of his men, who began waving a flag, so Martil and Barrett could see it. That done, he returned to the attack.

‘Kill them!’ he roared, pushing his way to the front of the wedge again, and battering down a trooper
with repeated heavy blows, until the man failed to block one and took a sword through the throat.

Martil was the first to see the blue flag waving near Rocus, even before Barrett.

‘Rocus is asking for help. Obviously he thinks the heavy cavalry will be able to stop his advance,’ he said aloud.

‘Wime is doing well, driving his side further back,’ Barrett reported.

Martil looked down at the battle for a moment. He knew his options. He had not wanted to have too many side streets accessible to Havrick’s men. It would be too easy for them to escape down them. So he had used fire wagons to block them onto the main street. But it meant he could only get his fighters into battle down two streets, one for Wime and one for Rocus. And men who had not reached the battle could not win it. He had to push the cavalry far enough back to bring all his men into play. There was only one way to do it.

‘Let’s go. We’ll smash our way through them together,’ he ordered.

Barrett hissed his disapproval. ‘And the Queen’s order to stay out of the battle?’

‘We have to win this battle. If we don’t go now, it may be too late. The Dragon Sword will crack the defenders open. Come on.’ Martil had no time for debate. The battle was in the balance. Wime’s successes would count for nought if the townsfolk with Rocus were put to flight.

He and Barrett were on the roof of a large house, four storeys above the battle. Rather than run down the stairs, down several streets and then push their way through the men waiting to join the fight, Barrett simply took Martil’s arm.

‘Jump!’ he cried and together they leapt off the building, floating down gently to land behind Rocus. Martil had been warned what to expect but he still found it both terrifying and exhilarating to have their descent controlled by Barrett’s mastery of the magic.

Townsfolk made space for them to land, while astonished troopers stopped fighting for a moment to watch the amazing sight.

‘I don’t have any armour!’ Martil realised, too late.

‘Don’t worry,’ Barrett smiled. He touched Martil on the arm, and suddenly Martil felt warm all over. He looked down to see his skin had turned a deep brown. He poked at it experimentally and discovered it felt the same from the inside, but outside it was hard and unyielding, like leather armour, only stronger.

He looked up to see Barrett’s skin was the same.

‘You will be able to move as if you were wearing no armour, but it will stop most sword and arrow blows, although an axe cut can do some damage,’ the wizard grinned. His caution at joining the fighting seemed to disappear as he hefted his staff, which had suddenly become the size of a small tree again. ‘Shall we go and win this battle?’

Rocus was no longer pushing forwards, but standing and holding his ground against the heavy cavalry troopers who were facing him. Over to his left, he knew Sirron would be doing the same, but he dared not spare the time to look. His left arm was bruised from the battering his shield had taken, while his right shoulder and arm were on fire from where he had been trying to bash his opponents down. The armour was now a weight that was making his back ache, while he desperately wanted a drink of water and the chance to rest his arm. But he
dared not step back. He and his men were taking a toll of the enemy, but the troopers were brutal on any brave townie who tried to take them on.

The two sides were locked together now, shield to shield, thrusting and jabbing with their swords, the men in the second ranks doing most of the killing. The ones at the front barely had room to swing their weapons.

Then he heard a bellowed war cry from his left, and risked a look. The trooper he was fighting did not take advantage of the sudden opening, for he too was staring in surprise and horror.

Rocus turned again, to see Martil and Barrett push their way to the front of the shield wall. None could stand against them. Barrett would swing his staff, and knock back two and three men facing him, not just sending them to the ground, but flying ten feet through the air, to crash into the men several ranks behind them. Martil, on the other hand, carried two swords but used only one. Each stroke of the Dragon Sword sheared through shields, swords, armour and flesh; one blow was all it took to cut down whoever faced him.

Into the space they created, townsfolk pushed forwards, attacking troopers from two sides.

‘Into them!’ Rocus, his sore arm forgotten, pushed forwards again, using brute strength to shove the trooper back, and then swung his blunted sword with all his might, forcing it through the man’s armour and into his groin.

The troopers in the front line simply could not stand against the wizard and the warrior. Martil was frightening in the way he fought, just a brutal economy of movement as one blow was all it took for a man to be killed or wounded so badly he could not
fight on. There was something implacable in the way he drove into the troopers, the way the Sword cut through metal armour as easily as the flesh beneath.

But the one doing the most damage was Barrett. He fought as if he held a quarterstaff, but one that was four times as large as anything any trooper had seen. With each blow, men were sent flying, to crash into those behind them. Screaming men were sent high into the air, one even soared across the street to smash into the wall of a house. Another that got too close took a blow to the head and was punched downwards so hard his helmeted head was crushed level with his shoulders and his leg bones were smashed to shards. Men tried to back away, pushed into those behind them, and all the time Martil and Barrett were driving forwards, a mass of townsfolk behind them. The battle was at a critical point now. It required the troopers to do something dramatic to win. But the men were exhausted, hungry and tired and most of their officers were dead. They did not have it in them to tip the balance back again. One man threw down his sword and raised his hands in surrender, then another, and then a rush of them.

‘Hold!’ Martil bellowed, and the advance stopped.

The townsfolk nearby gave a massive cheer, waving their weapons in the air.

Martil signalled to Rocus. The big guardsman had slung his shield over his shoulder and was drinking deeply from a waterskin but he hurried over, a broad grin on his face.

‘Well done, Lieutenant! But we’re only halfway there. Take your men and one hundred townsfolk and go and help Wime. He was pushing the other side back but I’m sure he’ll be glad of the reinforcements.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Rocus saluted. ‘Sirron did well, stood down a charge and broke it up.’

‘Did he? I’ll be sure to thank him. Now go! We’ll celebrate after the last man is in our hands.’

Rocus saluted again and then ran off, calling his men to him.

‘Sergeant Sirron!’ Martil waved the young farm boy over, but one look at his face told him this was not just a farm boy now, this was a soldier.

‘Good work, lad.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I think you are ready to become a lieutenant now, and take command of your own company!’

Sirron’s face lit up, the hardness around the eyes going and the young farm boy re-emerging in his broad grin.

‘And you, sir! You were amazing! You and Barrett won it for us!’

‘No, lieutenant. You and your lads won it for us, with your bravery.’ Martil smiled and took Sirron’s hand in the warrior’s grasp, wrist to wrist. He felt a great deal of affection for the youngster. Martil could see the parallels with himself in Sirron, and knew that on such men, an army could be built.

‘Your first task as a lieutenant is to get the prisoners into the houses we prepared.’ Along the street, houses had been turned into temporary prisons. All the furniture had been removed and the windows boarded up. Once the doors were locked, the men inside were no longer a danger and could be watched over by one or two men. ‘After that, you need to check the wounded and go and find the priests.’

The town’s three priests, as well as two from outlying villages, had volunteered their services to help the wounded. They would concentrate on the badly injured, while the town’s apothecaries and
healers, as well as other volunteers, would help bind the wounds of those less badly hurt.

‘Yes, sir!’

Martil watched Sirron stride away and start yelling orders, and smiled. He did remind him of himself, years past.

‘Good work, Captain,’ Barrett said tiredly, removing the magical protection from his and Martil’s skin.

Martil shook the wizard’s hand as well, again using the warrior’s grip. ‘You did well. They were more scared of you than they were of me,’ he smiled.

‘I’m glad they gave up when they did. That was taking a great deal out of me,’ Barrett admitted.

‘The job is not over yet, wizard,’ Martil warned.

A yell behind them made them turn, and Martil saw Sirron striding towards them, dragging a protesting Havrick along with him.

‘Captain! I found this coward hiding in a doorway, behind the body of one of his own men!’ Sirron shouted.

Martil walked over to where Havrick was trying to wriggle out of Sirron’s grip, but the young man’s farm-bred strength was proving too much for him.

‘Captain Havrick. I’d like to say it was a pleasure to have you in my power but there is no pleasure in it at all. You are a piece of filth who allowed your men to commit vile crimes without fear of punishment. I will see you tried and hanged for the murdering scum you are,’ he told him. ‘Throw him in one of the houses by himself and, if we’re lucky, he might save us a job and kill himself.’

All Havrick’s bluster of their previous meetings was gone. He twisted and turned helplessly in Sirron’s grip, his eyes wide with fear.

‘The code of honour?’ he gabbled. ‘I am the commander of this army, you cannot try me like a common criminal!’

Martil laughed. ‘You spat on the code by your actions in this town and the surrounding farms. Take him away. He has nothing to say that I wish to hear.’

‘Wait!’ Havrick began but Sirron dragged him away.

‘Your men killed my father. I’ll be asking the captain if I can carry out your sentence, you bastard!’ the farmer hissed.

Havrick looked into the cold eyes and knew he was not going to survive. Well, if he was going to die, he was going to take some of the scum with him. Martil caught the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, but even as he started to yell a warning, it was too late. Havrick had a dagger at his belt and he whipped it out and slammed it into Sirron’s chest, the slender blade crunching through the mail shirt, right up to the hilt. Havrick tugged the blade free but lost control and it dropped to the cobbles. He turned to run but Martil was on top of him before he could get more than two paces.

‘No! I am unarmed!’ Havrick covered his head with his hands but Martil was in no mood for mercy. The Dragon Sword swept around in a terrible blow, and head and arms went flying into the air. Martil did not even stop to see the mutilated body fall, instead turning to Sirron. The young farmer had sunk to his knees, and had gone very white.

Blood was spurting out of his side, drenching his armour and the cobbles around him.

‘Someone get one of the priests!’ Martil roared.

‘There are men they could save. I don’t think I am one of them,’ Sirron grunted.

‘Don’t talk like that,’ Martil snapped. ‘I order you to live!’

Sirron tried to smile. ‘Sorry, sir. Look after my brothers.’ Then his head slumped forward and the breath died in his throat.

Martil laid him down gently and retrieved the Dragon Sword. A terrible anger was building within him, and he made no attempt to stop it. He just hoped the battle had not finished, so he could take it out on some of Havrick’s men.