The Wounded Guardian (52 page)

‘Martil…’ Barrett tried to speak to him but he shrugged the wizard off. No doubt he would want to complain about killing an unarmed man. As far as Martil was concerned, it had been like putting down a rabid dog.

‘Martil, there’s a runner approaching!’ Barrett tried again. ‘It’s one of Wime’s men.’

This time Martil looked up, feeling disappointed that the battle was over—and then saw the expression on the militiaman’s face.

‘Sir! Come quickly! We need help! It’s all gone wrong!’ he gasped.

‘Get the horses,’ Martil ordered.

Jennar’s disquiet had been growing with every step he took into the town. Havrick was a madman who did not care who he sacrificed to his own ambition. And he was persuading other men to do things they would ordinarily find repugnant. He knew several of the cavalry officers, not well, but over the course of the years he had seen them at army exercises. He would have sworn to Aroaril that they would not kill farmers and burn down buildings, yet he knew they had done so. And if they were prepared to do that to their own people, what would they do to the Avish
and Tetrans when the invasions came? Jennar felt like turning his men around and marching back out of the town. He seriously toyed with the idea of just letting the cavalry get too far ahead of him, so he would not be a part of the battle that was to follow. And he even found himself thinking he should wait until the cavalry were committed, then draw swords and attack them from the rear.

So when the trumpets sounded, his mind was far away. But he snapped back into awareness when flaming wagons rumbled out of side streets and blocked his retreat. And when arrows, bolts and spears began to rain down, his mind was back on the job.

‘Shelter by the walls! Stay low!’ he roared, diving for cover as a pair of arrows clattered onto the cobbles where he had been standing. He looked around quickly. A dozen men were down, almost all of them former heavy cavalry troopers, who were too used to their horses doing all the thinking.

There was no obvious escape, and a close look told him the houses were not just empty but had bars over the doors and no windows, so they would prove difficult to break into. Too late he remembered the town had been designed to spring such an ambush on an invading force. More trumpets sounded, and he could hear shouting and war cries, which could only mean that the centre of the column was being attacked. His first instinct was to rush towards the fight, the second to prepare his men to meet the charge. He looked around carefully. How could he form a defensive shield wall if a score of archers and arbalesters were picking his men off?

It was an effective trap, he conceded. But what was the best way out of a trap? To use the one route they would never think of. The wagons were blazing
away, but the wheels still worked—and the cavalry would have some rope on their horses. Almost before he had finished the thought, he was running towards the cavalrymen, angling towards the smarter ones, who were sheltering under their horses.

‘Follow me! Come on, or they will kill us here like rats!’ Jennar bellowed at the squad. A javelin flew at his face—he had to deflect it away with his shield and when a trooper stood up to wave his fellows over, he took a bolt through the chest and collapsed.

‘Move it! We don’t have much time!’ Jennar ducked down, wincing as an arrow slammed into his shield, grazing his forearm. His tiredness was forgotten, although he could see exhaustion had affected the troopers and their horses in particular.

Perhaps a dozen troopers followed him, trying to use their horses as cover. Arrows and bolts slashed down, and three of the horses were struck, while one trooper took a crossbow bolt through the thigh and dropped to the ground, unable to keep up. But they were able to run down the street to where the wagons still burned before the men in the houses above them worked out what was going on.

‘Shields!’ Jennar bawled, and a score of his men ran out, providing both cover and a diversion. Jennar saw he was right to make the wagons his target. The archers and arbalesters were concentrated further down the street, thinking that nobody would go near the blazing wagons. But while the heat was fierce, men were able to get close enough to tie ropes onto the front of the nearest wagon.

‘Pull!’ Jennar roared.

The ropes were lashed to the saddles, and troopers whipped the frightened horses, making them pull and rear—and drag one of the burning wagons
away. Seeing this, a hail of arrows, bolts and javelins flew down. In an instant two horses were down and several men with them. But they had done their job. There was now an opening wide enough for two men to ride through side by side.

‘Come on! Shields up!’ Jennar waved to his men, who responded in a rush.

By keeping together, and keeping their shields up, they were able to ward off the worst of the missiles. A handful of men went down, caught by lucky or skilfully-aimed arrows and bolts, but he was able to get more than one hundred and twenty of his men and dismounted troopers, both light and heavy, out, as well as a score of cavalry, before the gap was blocked by the dead.

‘What now, sir?’ one of his sergeants asked, as Jennar looked back at the chaos.

Jennar hesitated. He could march away with honour intact, bring his men back to Norstalos City and perhaps even win promotion. He could surrender, and know he had done his best. Or he could try and turn the battle.

‘We make for the keep. We’ll use the back streets. We know this town as well as they do. We can avoid them and arrive at the one place they won’t be expecting us,’ he decided.

‘But the keep, sir? Why there?’

‘The Queen will be there, along with the Count and all the town elders. Maybe even all the women and children. It’s the logical place to keep them. We take that and they’ll hand themselves over to save their families. Take the keep and we win,’ Jennar declared.

The last of the light cavalry were surrendering by the time Martil and Barrett arrived at the other end of the column. They had taken the back streets, which had taken time.

‘What’s the matter? They’re giving up!’ Martil pointed to where Wime was stripping weapons from a group of beaten troopers. Again, these men looked tired and Martil noted absently that this had obviously had an effect on the battle.

Rocus waved to Tarik, who came running over.

‘The infantry managed to drag one of the fire wagons out of the way and escape. We think there could be as many as a hundred and fifty of them, infantry and a handful of cavalry. We’ve looked in the surrounding streets but they’ve disappeared,’ the hunter gasped.

‘They know the town. They know if they try to hold the gate for Gello’s reinforcements, we’ll attack from all sides and swarm them under. Perhaps they’ve decided to run back to Gello,’ Rocus suggested.

Martil looked around. The man who could get out of this trap was not going to slink back to Gello.

‘They’re going for the keep,’ he said suddenly.

‘What? Why?’ Barrett exclaimed.

‘They realise the Queen is there. They capture her, and the townsfolk’s families, and we’ve lost.’ Martil knew he was right, although it made him feel sick in his stomach. ‘The townsfolk would rather turn against us than see their wives and kids killed! Get the horses now!’

‘We can’t get back through the main street, the fire wagons will still be burning,’ Barrett protested.

‘Then you need to put them out! Move! We need one hundred men and fifty horsemen!’ Martil roared.

‘It’ll take a while, the horses are being held further back up the road,’ Rocus pointed out.

‘Then you follow as fast as you can,’ Martil said calmly. ‘Barrett, you come with me—I need your magic to get me past the fire wagons.’

‘And where are you going, Captain?’ Rocus shouted.

‘To buy you time to reach the keep,’ Martil replied, leaping onto Tomon.

‘But, Martil…’ Barrett began.

‘There’s no other choice, wizard! You and I have to save the Queen!’

Without another word, Barrett swung into the saddle and the two of them galloped back up the street, men leaping out of their way.

‘You heard the captain! Follow me!’ Rocus bellowed, running after them.

Martil let Tomon run as fast as he dared. Although the town’s priests and healers were out helping the wounded, the street was a charnel house of dead men and horses, not to mention all the caltrops that littered the cobbles. It had been a brutal fight, packed into a small space, and dead and
wounded men lay thickly atop each other. Men clutched missing limbs or clawed at their own spilled entrails, screaming in pain. Others were crying: begging for help, for their loved ones, for release from their suffering. Some dragged themselves towards where they hoped help might come from. Others just lay there, unable to do more than moan, as their lives leaked into the cobbles around them. Martil saw it all, and it burned into him, although he brutally forced it from his mind, focusing instead on where he was needed. The horses would normally shy away from treading on bodies but thanks to Barrett’s magic, they seemed to glide past every obstacle, hurdle every problem that might have slowed them. Martil could hear Barrett grunting with the efforts he was making, for there was no respite for him. The few areas that were clear of bodies were only empty because they contained still-burning fire wagons. As they approached each one, Barrett extinguished them, until Martil could at last see the huge barricade that had blocked Havrick’s advance, still burning fiercely.

‘I can put out the fires and move the wagons, but then I’ll have to rest,’ Barrett warned breathlessly. ‘I don’t have much left.’

Martil glanced at the wizard and saw the sweat beading his face. ‘Just get me past the wagons,’ Martil told him. They raced towards where the burning wagons still completely blocked the street. Martil was beginning to think Barrett had left it too late, when the fire suddenly flickered and died, and the nearest wagon skidded across the cobbles, opening enough room to get past. Martil glanced over his shoulder to see Barrett slumping over his horse’s neck, his face grey and lined.

‘One last thing!’ Barrett thrust a hand out and Martil felt his skin tingling. He glanced down to see he had turned brown again, which meant his skin was the texture of thick leather. He looked back to thank the wizard but saw Barrett had fallen off his horse and was spreadeagled on the cobbles. There was no time to stop and see if he was all right. The keep was ahead.

Merren paced up and down the walls, trying to see what was going on. She had heard the trumpets, seen the fire wagons and listened to the screams, shouts and the clash of weapons as the battle started, but the smoke from the flaming wagons blocked their view. Even with their elevated height, she could only see arrows and javelins flickering down.

The waiting was terrible. She wanted to be out there, wanted to see what was happening. A few weeks ago she could have looked at this objectively and seen that a victory was more important than individual lives. She could have told herself that every man fighting had made his choice and knew what they were risking. But she could not help worrying about the men who had fought for her in the woods, and the ones she had met over the past few days, the townsfolk who were defending their families and homes.

They weren’t just a faceless mass any more, they were people with real lives—lives that could be ending in blood and agony on the street. She could see the pain and the fear on the faces of the women and those children old enough to realise what was going on, who waited behind her in the keep. Once she would have struggled to understand it. Now she shared it. And it made her wonder if this would
make her a stronger, better ruler—or weaken her. Certainly Gello did not seem to worry about the fate of the men who served him.

She paced the battlement and forced her face to radiate calm. If not for the people watching her, then for Karia. She dreaded to think what would happen if the little girl lost Martil. She had tried to distract Karia with books—hoped to distract herself in the process—but could not manage it. Luckily Conal was also there.

He was dressed in armour, which actually seemed to suit him. There was little trace of the old, stinking bandit now. He looked like a grizzled old veteran and he alone seemed calm. She had thanked him for it, because he was keeping Karia happy.

After what seemed to be an age, the noise and action had moved further down the street; they could not see arrows flying and the shouts, screams and the sound of metal on metal had definitely lessend.

‘I could take a patrol to have a look,’ Conal offered.

Merren was tempted, because she desperately wanted to know what was happening. The last word she had had was that Barrett and Martil were joining the fighting. Without the wizard’s magic, it was obviously much harder to receive word of how the battle was progressing. And she did not want Karia to see what was going on.

‘Look over there!’ Karia jumped up and down, her voice squeaking excitedly…

Everyone automatically followed her gesture and saw the fire wagons suddenly flicker, the flames die, then shift aside—and a man gallop through and charge towards the keep as if Zorva was right behind him.

‘It’s Martil!’ Karia said excitedly.

‘Martil? But why is he coming here—like that?’ Conal voiced what they were all thinking.

‘He’s shouting something—what is it?’ Merren strained to hear, and the others dutifully fell silent.

‘Get the gates shut! You’re about to be under attack!’

‘Under attack? But I thought the battle was getting further away,’ Merren gasped.

‘Look there!’ Sendric pointed off to their right, to where a mass of men were pouring out of a side street, both infantry and cavalry, the cavalry racing to cut Martil off.

‘Can we shut the gates?’ Conal turned to Sendric immediately.

Sendric looked at how close the cavalry were getting.

‘Not a chance. The gates have not been moved in years. I cannot remember the last time they were shut. I doubt we could force them now, if, indeed, they can be shifted at all. Your majesty, I would advise you to head to the tunnels. We can hold them off long enough for you to escape.’

‘And the families we have in the courtyard?’ Merren demanded.

Sendric shrugged. ‘The reality is, your majesty, that we can always find a few more farmwives and mothers. But if we lose you, then we lose the war.’

Merren looked down at the women and children massed in the courtyard below. She knew instantly there was no way she could leave them there and still take the crown. She would never be able to live with herself.

‘I won’t leave them to die. Conal, take all the men you can to the gate passage. It is narrow there, is it not?’

‘Aye, but I have old men and,’ Conal held up his own hand, ‘cripples. We won’t stop them for long. But while I have breath, I shall hold them back for you, your majesty.’

Merren leaned forward and kissed him on the brow. ‘Go with Aroaril. Whatever crimes you committed in Norstalos, I now absolve you of them. Fight once more with honour.’

Conal slipped the stump of his arm into the straps of a shield and saluted. He blew a kiss to Karia and then ran down the stairs, bellowing for men to join him.

Merren watched Martil riding closer. It was clear the attackers would not catch him, but they would not be far behind.

‘Martil must have a plan. He needs time. Sendric. Get some boys over the murder holes, ready to drop anything they can on the attackers.’

‘The fires have not been lit, and any oil left above the murder holes will probably be rancid by now. Still, the smell alone might deter them,’ Sendric shrugged, then hurried away himself, calling for the older boys to stop kicking a ball around the courtyard and follow him.

‘What should we do, Merren?’ Karia asked, her eyes wide.

Merren was about to suggest Karia should go to the stables, where she could get to the escape tunnel easily, then remembered the little girl’s powers.

‘We wait,’ she said.

Martil galloped under the gate, cursing Conal and Sendric with every breath. Why were they not closing the gates? He kicked free of the stirrups and jumped down as soon as he was clear of the gate tunnel, to find Conal, a dozen town elders and two
score of older men, none of them under fifty, many of them carrying paunches, white beards, or both, forming up. Sendric was talking to a bunch of boys, all judged too young to fight.

‘Why isn’t the gate shut?’

‘Bloody things are rusted open,’ Conal replied. ‘We’re going to try and hold them in the gate tunnel. Anyone else coming to help?’

‘Rocus and about fifty men on horseback, followed by about one hundred more on foot, but they’ll be a little while.’ Martil raced back down the gate tunnel. It was dark and narrow, closing from the wide gate to funnel men into a small space, just wide enough for two men on horseback to ride down. Above were many of the arrow slits and murder holes, if Sendric could just get the boys to use them. Here a small group could hold back a much larger one for a short time, until weight of numbers eventually began to tell. But perhaps they could hold them long enough for Rocus to arrive. Not waiting to see if Conal and the others were following him, Martil grabbed one of the massive gates and heaved at it. The thing did not move. Swearing, he hauled back with all his strength, and it shifted perhaps an inch before it stuck fast on a raised cobble.

‘Martil!’ Conal roared, and he looked up to see the first infantry were barely fifty yards away, advancing at a brisk walk now. Behind them, the score of cavalry they had brought had formed up near the smouldering fire wagons, obviously planning to delay any help getting through. Martil cursed again, left the stubborn gate and ran back down the tunnel. At its narrowest, there was room for four men to fight abreast. This would slowly
increase as they were pushed back, until—Martil did not want to think about that. Standing in the front row were Conal, a fat town elder with a bushy black beard whose name Martil could not recall but who claimed to have been a soldier many years ago, and one of the town blacksmiths, a massive man who would have been a tough opponent in his youth but who had a pair of young grandsons playing in the courtyard behind.

‘Just give me room and make sure they can’t get around to my sides,’ Martil instructed, drawing the Dragon Sword and rotating his neck to loosen his muscles. ‘Is the Queen safely away with Karia?’

The sudden silence did nothing to reassure him.

‘She won’t go,’ Conal said finally. ‘She doesn’t want the families to die while she escapes.’

‘This is not the time for noble gestures! If they get her, it’s all over!’ Martil snarled.

‘Not the time for noble gestures? Captain, what are we doing here then?’ Conal pointed out.

Martil sighed. ‘You know, I think I preferred it when you were making jokes, rather than making sense,’ he grumbled.

‘If I think of anything funny, I’ll tell you,’ Conal smiled. ‘It’s been a pleasure to serve with you, Captain. An honour. Except for the fact you threw a tankard of my own piss over me, I would thank Aroaril you walked into the inn that day.’

Martil shook Conal’s hand, taking it in the warrior’s grip. ‘You saved my life back at Barrett’s house. I’ll try to repay the favour.’ Then he turned to the man on his right, the elder with the big beard. ‘Aroaril forgive me, but I have forgotten your name. I hate fighting with men whose names I do not know,’ he admitted.

‘Garif,’ the elder smiled. ‘And don’t worry, Captain, I may have slowed a little but I can still teach these youngsters a thing or two.’

‘Warrun.’ The blacksmith on Garif’s right offered a massive, scarred hand. ‘I’ll stand firm. This’ll be something to tell the grandkids, how I fought with Captain Martil.’

‘As long as I can tell my grandkids I fought with Warrun the Smith,’ Martil grinned back. He hated war but he could not stop himself from loving the brotherhood of the battleline. He was about to risk his life with these men and every breath was sweet, every silly remark was hilarious. You felt an extraordinary kinship with men you stood beside in battle. It was something you never forgot. He could see Havrick’s infantry getting closer, so drew his left-hand sword.