The Wounded Guardian (6 page)

‘How do you dine on someone’s soul, Sarge? Surely it wouldn’t taste very nice?’

Hutter sighed. ‘Maybe I should get you to watch this Martil. You’ll anger him and then he’ll have removed my two biggest problems in the one day.’

Cezar liked to work alone. Once released to find his targets, he could not be stopped. But this was no ordinary mission. Apart from what it meant to King Markuz, if King Tolbert found out the Berellian Champion was in his country killing Ralloran officers, even disgraced ex-officers, it would be enough to start a new war. Besides, without the help of Brother Onzalez, he would not be able to find his prey so easily and quickly. Of course, travelling around Rallora with a Fearpriest would have been impossible but Onzalez had other, magical, means of being contacted. Cezar was hidden in a stable, where the bizarre ritual would not attract any attention. He had killed a goat, then filled a shallow silver bowl with its blood. Then he called Onzalez’s true name, the name Zorva had given him, the name emblazoned on Onzalez’s robe. It was in an ancient language and Cezar had had to practise it a dozen times before he had got the inflection and phrasing right. But by now he had mastered it; proof of that was when the blood in the bowl began to swirl, faster and faster, then suddenly stopped and became as clear and smooth as a silvered mirror. Onzalez’s face—or rather his cowled and hidden face—appeared in the surface.

‘Macord is dead,’ Cezar said simply.

‘Ride east from where you are. The village of Quall is where Captain Snithe lives. He drinks heavily. It will be easy. But you must hurry. I have received another vision from our God, and it tells me that what you are doing is even more important than we imagined. One of these five men will be a danger to us. End it.’

‘As you command.’ Cezar bowed his head. By the time he raised it again, Onzalez’s face had disappeared, as had the blood in the bowl.

Martil drank two tankards of reasonable ale, then bought oats, dried meat, salt, fruit and honey-almond sweets from the innkeeper. Normally he would never have touched the last but he had a feeling he might need them for Karia at some point.

He was given a wide berth by the various farmers and villagers who gathered in the inn. His initial plan had been to stay there until he was sure Karia was asleep. But despite the size of the village, the inn was packed. He had been curious about that—until he spotted the distinctive costume of a bard warming up in the corner. He could not help but groan. Bards travelled around the country, bringing news to small villages such as this, as well as to bigger towns and cities, then performed sagas in song or poem form, or both. Martil had no problem with the news but he hated the sagas. Partly because there were plenty that seemed to feature him—but mostly because they were never true. The bards who sang or recited these sagas had never been near a battlefield—and consequently their songs and poems concentrated heavily on heroism and self-sacrifice and never mentioned spilled intestines. He hated them because
he had once enjoyed them, once believed them, until he joined up and saw the real thing. He sighed. Even before the prospect of being forced to sit and listen to a bunch of sagas, he had wanted to get out. It was on nights such as these, when he watched men greet old friends, and swap stories over a few ales, that he felt the most lonely.

Once he had had friends. But then they were killed and he became a captain. And once you were a war captain, you did not have friends. You had men who served you, you had rivals, you had enemies aplenty, but you did not have friends.

The bard warmed up with a saga poem about King Riel, the Norstaline monarch who had been given a sword by the dragons themselves. It was all Martil could do not to spit in disgust. When he had been a new recruit, he had dreamed of following a noble king, of being part of an army that saved his country. Then he had fought his first battle and swiftly became concerned with just staying alive. And when he became a war captain, and sat in on war councils with the King, he came to realise that kings were just like everyone else. He saw the petty jealousies, the fears, the whims indulged. He could smell the King’s bad breath and see how foolish he looked when he drank too much. It was hard to think of a king as a being touched by Aroaril when he threw up after gorging himself, or roared with laughter watching sycophants pretending not to be bothered by the stench of his farts. No, far better to stay away from royalty.

Martil looked around and decided he wanted to get out of the inn, even if it meant seeing Karia again. He looked behind the bar, where the innkeeper kept an hourglass hanging on the wall, but the man had
become engrossed in the bard’s peformance and forgotten to turn it, the sands lying quietly in the base of the glass turner. Still, surely enough time had passed that she would be asleep, he reasoned.

He left, slinging his sack full of food over one shoulder, and breathing deeply once he was outside. He walked back to the priest’s house, ignoring the few villagers still out and about at this time. Most were either in the inn or at home, eating with their families and playing with their children. He knew what it had been like. Once he had lived like this, before the war came to his country. He did not need to look into the houses to see what they were doing. Nor did he want to. Seeing happy families was too painful.

He discovered Father Nott sitting quietly, pouring himself a glass of whisky. He had the strange feeling the old man had been waiting nervously for his return.

‘My one vice. Some say it’s the secret to my long life and good health,’ the old priest greeted him.

‘What do you say?’

‘They are fools. Aroaril keeps me here, not a glass of fermented grain. Join me?’

‘Is she asleep?’

Nott chuckled. ‘Do you think I would be sitting here quietly if she wasn’t? After her bath, and two helpings of cherry pie, she fell asleep, protesting that she was not in the least bit tired.’

Martil relaxed a little and sat down opposite the old priest.

‘I’d love one. The combination of average ale and bad sagas in the inn has my stomach churning,’ he said.

‘Ah, yes, we have a bard in town tonight. And no doubt you have seen too much war to enjoy foolish
tales about it now,’ Nott said as he first poured, then passed a whisky to Martil.

Martil decided to break the silence.

‘So, looking after young children, is that the sort of thing you do often?’

Nott smiled sadly. ‘Karia was only the second. The first was her mother.’

Martil sipped his drink. ‘Her mother?’

‘Aye. My wife had just died and we had not been blessed with children during our marriage. I did not know why, and Aroaril would not answer my prayers on the subject. Then this baby was abandoned, given over to my care. I saw it as part of a grand plan. This, obviously, was the reason why I had never had children, so I would be free to look after this one. She was a beautiful child and grew into a beautiful woman. Too beautiful for these parts. I’d had such hopes for her.’

Nott paused and Martil saw him struggle to contain his emotions.

‘Foolish pride. The decent men around here would not go near her. All thought she was too good just to work the fields. Instead, to my dismay, it was a roguish farmer called Edil who charmed her. You may not have seen that when you met him, but he could talk the birds out of the trees, had he the wish.’

Martil nodded. ‘I could see that. He spoke like no ordinary bandit, kept me talking even when I knew it was a trap. An inexperienced girl…’ he broke off as he realised he was about to talk about Nott’s adopted daughter.

But Nott just grunted his acknowledgement. ‘Then you understand. Against my better judgement, aye, and my wishes, they were married. He had tempted her with talk of silk and jewels, he had dazzled her with tales of Norstalos City. She wanted more than a
village life. He promised her the world. What he gave her was a servant’s existence out at his farm, and a child who killed her, despite all my efforts.’

Nott stopped and took a sip of drink before he continued. ‘Mara, Karia’s mother, was made to keep working through her pregnancy. She nearly lost the child and I had to beg Aroaril to give me the power to save them. I thought my prayer had been granted but it was more subtle than that. You know of a priest’s powers?’

Martil nodded. ‘You can ask Aroaril for magic. If you and the request are worthy, Aroaril will grant you power to heal people, bring rain to dry fields, all sorts of things.’

‘So you did listen in church. But Aroaril works to a plan that none of us can imagine. He saved the mother, but only so He could save the child. Mara’s lifeforce brought Karia into the world but there was not enough left to save her.’

‘What nonsense is that, Father? Surely Aroaril can do anything He wants.’ Martil felt especially sensitive to stories of divine intervention. He had heard far too many tales that Aroaril was going to come down and save Rallora from the invading Berellians to put much stock in them.

‘One thing I have learned is that His plans are not for the likes of us to know. And they are mocked at your peril.’ His voice was mild but Nott’s steely gaze left Martil in no doubt this was a dangerous subject. Understandably enough, Martil thought. You watch the girl you raised as a daughter die giving birth to your granddaughter and the God you have served all your life refuses your pleas to save her.

Nott continued. ‘Of course Edil had no use for a baby on the farm. So she was left with me. Karia is
a special girl. In my foolish pride—again! You would think I had learned—I boasted of her abilities, and word of it reached Edil’s ears. He wanted her back, for he thought she could help provide for him. He threatened to go to my bishop over it…I could not stand in his way, despite her tears. Now I see her here and I wonder if this was part of Aroaril’s plan.’

Martil could see the conversation going down a worrying road.

‘It seems to me that He was testing you and now the circle is complete, she is back in your care,’ he suggested.

‘It is not that simple,’ Nott said heavily. ‘You are no ordinary man. And you arrive today. An unusual child, an unusual man, bound together by a common purpose. But to what end?’

Martil could feel his temper rising but he quashed it ruthlessly.

‘Now look here, Father, I am no plaything of the Gods. I have seen too much death and pain on too many battlefields to think that there is some higher plan in all we do. Zorva’s balls, if I…’

‘How dare you?’ Nott snarled. ‘Never mention that name in my house!’

‘But that was just a harmless jest…’

Nott’s eyes flashed fire and he seemed to swell in anger. ‘There are no harmless jests concerning that foul God. Understand?’

Martil gulped. If he was going to persuade Nott to take on Karia, he had better not offend him. ‘My apologies, Father. It is a bad habit of mine, to make a joke like that. My friends and I used to laugh about it. I won’t let it happen again.’

Nott was breathing heavily, and his face had lost
its colour. ‘To joke about the Dark One is to risk his attention. Believe me when I say you do not want that. It was his agents that seduced the Berellian King, and led to years of war and suffering down south. But at least you believe in that, don’t you?’

Martil smiled grimly. ‘I know all about it. I was there from the start. Part of the Ralloran army that went to help the Avish against the Berellian invasion, only to learn that it was a trap and the two of them intended to parcel us up. I was there when we were beaten, only to be saved when the arrogant Berellians turned on the Avish, wanting a bigger share of our country. I was there when we finally drove them out. And I was there when the Berellians broke the truce and we destroyed their city of Bellic so they could never rise against us again. Now I just want to buy a mansion on the coast, enjoy the sun and have the rich merchants fighting to marry their daughters off to me.’ Martil was aware he was letting his mouth run away with him and shut it, before he said something that would really offend the priest.

‘You have earned the right to peace. But if there is one thing I know, it is that we do not get what we want. We get what Aroaril knows we need. And what you both need is to go to Thest.’

Martil was horrified at the thought. ‘What I need, and what the girl needs, is for you to look after her or at least keep her until you can send word to her uncle Danir in Thest.’

Nott finished his drink and took a long moment before he looked up at Martil again.

‘I cannot do what you ask. Tomorrow is my eightieth birthday and, according to the rules of my order, I am to return to Norstalos City, there to live out the rest of my days in our Chapter House.
My replacement will arrive here tomorrow, along with my bishop. Karia cannot stay here and she would not be allowed in the Chapter House.’

Martil fought to control his temper. ‘I suppose this is the purpose you were talking about.’

Nott smiled gently. ‘My son, I have done many strange things in my life but I can assure you that growing old to spite you is not one of them. Now, please listen to me. There are things happening in my country that disturb me. The priesthood has always stayed out of politics but that does not mean we are blind and deaf to events that are going on around us. Norstalos has a queen, for the first time in its history, who cannot use the Dragon Sword, for the dragons made it so only a man can draw it from its scabbard. No noble was judged worthy, which means until the Queen has a son, she needs a Champion to wield it on her behalf. The people have always believed that the Dragon Sword has magically protected this country and need the reassurance that its power is working to keep them safe.’ Nott held up a hand as Martil opened his mouth. ‘I know, it sounds unbelievable that a sword can somehow keep a country at peace. I am one of the few people who suspect this power of the Sword is more legend than reality. Nevertheless, most people believe it to be true, for we have not suffered the wars and invasions that have plagued every other country. If a lie is repeated often enough, then it becomes a kind of truth. Whether the Sword protects us or not, understand that unless there is someone in the palace holding that Sword soon, things will happen to change this peaceful country. When you leave here with Karia, there are many paths you can take. But there is only one that will not lead to your doom. You and Karia must go to Thest.’