The Wounded Guardian (9 page)

Merren abruptly stood and strode away from the table, her back to Barrett. The wizard could see she was fighting for control—after all, this meant the end of all they had worked for these past three years. But when she turned back, her face was impassive, her voice cold.

‘His next move will be to take control of the palace. He will say if the Royal Guard could not protect the Dragon Sword then it will be abolished, the men sent back to their regiment and he will replace them with soldiers loyal only to him,’ she stated.

‘I would say so, my Queen,’ Barrett admitted.

‘Then I am about to become a prisoner, and Gello will ensure I cannot see anyone who could help me stop him.’

Again, Barrett could not lie to her. ‘That seems most likely, my Queen.’

‘I want you to leave now, while you still can.’

Barrett was horrified. ‘My Queen! I will never leave you! I am sworn to serve you while there is breath or a trace of magic left in my body!’

Merren half-smiled. ‘I know. If I could trust just half of my nobles even half as much as I trust you then we would never have come to this. No, you misunderstand me. You are my last hope. Once Gello moves in here, you will not be allowed near
me. So you must get ahead of him. You must try to find the Dragon Sword. Gello would not have sent it south, even he would dread the thought of the Berellians getting their filthy hands on the Sword. No, he will have sent his men to Tetril. It’s small and close—and its army is a joke. You must follow them there and take back the Sword. It is the only thing that could save us.’

Barrett sat down again. ‘I will do whatever you wish. But I do not want to leave you to face Gello without my help.’ He liked to daydream about the Queen, especially about saving her. He often envisaged himself defeating Gello and his henchmen in the throne room, using his extraordinary magical skills to slay the Duke and his tame magicians, and send his flunkies running. By then, of course, he would be near to death from the enormous effort it would take, and he saw himself sprawled, dying, on the throne room floor. The Queen, tears running down her cheeks, knowing he had but moments to live, would embrace him and declare her secret love for him. At that point, of course, he liked to imagine Aroaril, or perhaps even the dragons, would take pity on him and restore him to life, enabling him to take the Queen in his arms. It was a fine dream and one he was unwilling to give up. Even if it did not come to pass, the thought of being seen as the Queen’s last protector, standing firm against Gello and his henchmen, gave him a shiver of delight. Surely she could not help but be impressed to see that? Then he realised she was speaking again.

‘Then do not leave me long. Get the Sword and get back here as fast as you can.’

Barrett hesitated. Even with his formidable talents, he was just one man, and the chance of
finding the Dragon Sword when Gello had obviously gone to so much trouble to steal it was slim, at best. But then he saw himself bringing back the Dragon Sword, driving out Gello and restoring an incredibly grateful Queen to the throne. He would take a wound while defeating Gello, nothing too serious, just a cut along the ribs or something that necessitated him taking his shirt off when she insisted on seeing to his wounds personally. He liked that daydream and decided it was even better than his previous favourite. He wanted to make it come true but also wanted to say something that would both comfort her and sum up what it meant to have served as the Queen’s Magician. But he did not have the words and the silence grew.

Finally Merren decided to break it, suspecting Barrett was about to make some declaration she would regret. ‘Go with Aroaril, Barrett. Make sure you come back—that is an order,’ she told him. ‘Hurry. There is much to do and I do not know when Gello might arrive.’

Barrett, unable to think of something clever to say, simply bowed and then hurried out. The home of the Royal Magician was some distance away from the palace and he had a carriage waiting downstairs. He knew he needed to examine some maps and try to get some idea of where the thieves had gone. He was extremely worried about the Queen. He was also horribly aware of the old adage about needles in haystacks. But most distracting of all, he was refining his daydreams about her.

So perhaps it was no surprise that he was too preoccupied to note the men in hooded cloaks who followed when his carriage rumbled out of the gate and headed for his home.

It had been a hugely successful week of trading for the horse salesman Fredden. It had all started when he had sold a gelding for an outrageous five gold pieces! Five gold pieces! The man who was prepared to pay that sort of price—even for a horse that good—had more money than sense! He had, of course, recognised the man but had pretended not to in case he asked for a discount. But he had been quick to tell his customers that the famous Captain Martil only bought his horses from Fredden. This had led to a most profitable week, where he had sold far more of his animals, for far more gold, than he dared hope. In fact he was trying not to attract too much attention as he walked home, his profits from the week wrapped carefully in paper—so they did not clink together—and stuffed down the front of his trews. He was just congratulating himself when a hand reached out of the shadows and hauled him into an alley. He opened his mouth to shout for help when a long knife appeared under his nose.

‘Shout for help and you’ll be dead before the militia can hear it,’ a voice warned him.

‘Wh—what do you want? My purse is here…’ he fumbled for his belt purse, that contained a couple of silvers to appease thieves.

‘I don’t want your money. I want information. You sold a fast horse to a man earlier this week, a man willing to pay a huge price to leave the country. Who was it and where was he going? Tell me or I take your eyes, then your manhood.’

‘It was Captain Martil!’ Fredden gabbled, now thoroughly terrified. ‘He said he wanted to go north, live up on the Norstaline coast! That’s all I know, I swear!’

‘Thank you.’ The knife drove into Fredden’s eye, into his brain and through the skull, scraping on the wall behind him. Cezar lowered the twitching corpse to the ground and took the man’s money to make it look like the work of thieves. He was angry—and afraid. Markuz was going to be furious and Onzalez was going to be disappointed. Cezar was not sure what was worse.

The regular weekly Royal Council meeting was to take place that morning, and Merren knew that was another finger pointing at Gello. Why else would the thieves choose the night before to strike? It had guaranteed the nobles would be asking questions about how the Dragon Sword could possibly have been stolen. The symbol not just of Norstalos, but of peace in Norstalos, was gone. Even those who had been sympathetic towards her would be demanding answers.

Merren walked slowly towards the council chamber, trying to gather her thoughts. This was obviously one of the last moves in an intricate game she and Gello had been playing for years, but which had entered its final phase three years ago, when Merren’s father had died. She paused before a portrait of her father and it took all her self-control not to shout at it. The fool! The stupid, blind fool! To leave her in this situation! It was all his fault!

She knew the reasons, of course, but that did not make it any easier to accept. Kingship in Norstalos was decreed by the Dragon Sword. Every King, all the way back to the celebrated King Riel, had been chosen by the Dragon Sword. Sometimes it ignored sons and chose nephews or cousins; sometimes it skipped up or down a generation. Being able to draw
the Dragon Sword was the ultimate arbiter of succession. But no-one had foreseen this—a Queen on the throne. If the Dragon Sword had chosen Merren’s cousin, Duke Gello, then he would have taken the crown. But it had refused him. She could still remember the day.

It had begun as a day of celebration, the time to anoint the next King-in-waiting. Merren had not been particularly enjoying herself, as she found her cousin Gello to be boorish and arrogant at the best of times. The image of him standing in the throne room, tears running down his cheeks as he tugged impotently on the hilt of the Dragon Sword, watched by the cream of Norstaline society, was one she cherished.

Gello had fled the throne room that day—and Merren’s world had changed dramatically.

Her father, King Croft, had seen the looming crisis. Gello had been the last hope. Every other male noble had also been refused. Norstalos would have to enter a period of caretaker rule, until a new generation could be born and, hopefully, one of them accepted by the Sword. So Merren, as the King’s daughter and the highest-ranking noble, must rule until that day. But there were conditions on her rule. She must marry well and produce sons until one of them took the Dragon Sword. Meanwhile she must also find a Champion who could wield the Sword on her behalf to protect Norstalos. For the dragons had warned King Riel that the Sword’s magic would not respond to a woman, it would only recognise a man. It had been a strange condition but, as Croft had liked to say, when dragons are offering you a magic sword, you don’t ask questions. Merren cursed it now, however. How could the dragons be so powerful, and
stupid, at the same time? What kind of magic was it, that prevented a woman from using it? She had tried the Sword once, when no-one was looking and her father elsewhere, thinking perhaps it was all a tale by greedy men to keep power for themselves. But it had stayed cold and inert, seemingly frozen in its scabbard. It was so frustrating! She wished she could find out why but nobody could answer.

Ironically it was the very situation that had faced her father. His older sister, Ivene, had been born swiftly but then came years of miscarriages and stillbirths. Not all the prayers of the people, the nobles or even the Archbishop had changed that. Without any male cousins, there were no other options. None of the nobles was able to draw the Sword. It seemed Ivene would have to take the throne as Queen, find a Prince Consort and a Champion to wield the Dragon Sword. Then, with his mother fast approaching the age when she could no longer bear children, Croft had been born. Luckily the Dragon Sword had accepted him, and amid the public celebrations, his sister had had to be content with being named Duchess of Western Norstalos. After years of being groomed to rule the country, this had been a bitter pill for her to swallow. The one thing that had kept this bitterness under control was her son Gello, and her hopes for him to take the throne. Then, to see her son rejected by the Dragon Sword—it had been an enormous blow for them both. Partly as a gesture towards this and partly to solve the crisis of succession, a guilt-ridden King Croft had made a deal with his sister. Merren must take the throne and would immediately begin training for the duty. But Duke Gello would receive unprecedented power. He would control the army, not just while Merren held
the throne, but until one of her sons—or his—were chosen by the Dragon Sword.

The result of this deal would mean, for the first time in the history of proud Norstalos, a Queen could sit on the throne. Crucially, however, she would not have control of the army. Only through the goodwill of the nobles—particularly Duke Gello could she maintain her rule.

Merren had found herself wondering how much of this deal was her father’s idea and how much was the Duchess Ivene’s. She suspected the Duchess might have been the one pushing the line that the only way to secure Merren’s rule was to have Duke Gello run the army.

And not only had Gello taken over the army but she had been forbidden from studying the arts of war. While she learned politics, history, economics and law until she was heartily sick of her lessons, the art of military tactics and logistics, how to fight and how to organise an army, were banned topics. Her aunt Ivene saw to that, while Gello was the enthusiastic recipient of lessons from many an experienced soldier. Duchess Ivene had even paid for Berellian veterans of the southern wars to come up and school the young Duke in the arts of battle.

So when King Croft died, it left Merren as Queen but without the power to discipline Gello. He had control of the army, while she had only the militia under her orders. And it swiftly became apparent that while the King had been happy to keep his side of the bargain, Duchess Ivene would not stop until her son was on the throne.

‘This is what your deal has come to, father! If only you were alive to see what a fool they have made of you, and what they are doing to me!’ she hissed up
at the painting. She dearly wanted to shout and rage but dreaded the thought of one or more of the nobles catching her in the act. She knew what many of them had said over the years. A woman was not fit to rule. Well, the Dragon Sword had decided none of them were, either—especially her cousin. She despised them all. Again she looked up at the portrait of her father.

‘Why were you so blind?’ she demanded softly.

She heard swift footfalls coming towards her and tried to compose herself, although inside she was raging. If it was a hurrying noble, woe betide him…she saw it was her chief lady-in-waiting, Rana, and subsided a little. Not only was Rana a friend, she was also the daughter of a noble, Count Sendric, the most powerful man in the country’s north.

‘My Queen, the nobles are arriving. They are already asking for you in the main chamber.’

Merren forced a smile to her face. ‘Then let us go and meet these treacherous, small-minded dogs, and give them far more respect than most of them deserve.’

The household of the Queen’s Magician came with a score of servants, although Barrett rarely used them. Unlike other Royal Magicians, he never gave parties or used his arts to entertain the nobles. Part of that was because he preferred to study and hone his craft, and part of it was because he was seen as too close to the Queen, so was despised by many at court.

The servants kept his over-large house and garden clean but he strongly suspected several of them were in the pay of Duke Gello, so he told them he would be travelling and would not be back for several days. All seemed rather pleased at the prospect of a few days’ holiday. Just to be on the safe side, he watched them go before searching through his extensive library for maps of eastern Norstalos and Tetril, as well as any other useful information he could find about these areas. It was not easy. Tetril was a small, poor country that was generally accepted to be no threat to anyone. Eastern Norstalos was full of plump farmlands and small towns, with none of the industry of the west and south and no mines like the north, so had little beyond its tax yields to interest city folk.

Still, he had found the location of a royal
magician’s lodge near the border, which was useful. Wizards such as he had the power to rapidly travel long distances—but needed time to rest when they arrived. A safe place for that rest was vital. He was just sorting the papers he had found into a bundle—and thinking about taking some provisions with him when someone rang the bell outside his front door. At first he ignored it, because there were servants to get those sorts of things. But when it kept ringing, he remembered he had dismissed his servants. He slammed down the papers and stormed off towards the front door, vowing he would show them what it meant to knock on a wizard’s door uninvited.

He threw open the door, ready to terrify some foolhardy salesman—and found himself face to face with three bearded men in long robes and pointed hats, all clutching staves heavily adorned with silver talismans, feathers and mystic sigils. Even if he had not already known them, their outfits would have screamed ‘wizard’. But he recognised them instantly. The leader was Tellite, one of his former rivals for the position of Queen’s Magician, although he was never a serious contender. Tellite cultivated a long white beard, which someone had carefully plaited. The other two were acolytes of his, Elong and Ackwal. They were typical young mages, puffed up with self-importance and easily impressed by a cheap showman such as Tellite. They were trying to grow beards, to emulate him, but their rather wispy efforts just made them look younger, rather than adding to their status as mages. The brotherhood of magicians was a relatively small one, and most knew each other at least casually. But Barrett knew them well because the three of them were most often referred to as Duke Gello’s wizards.

‘What do you want?’ Barrett demanded, in no mood for a social visit.

Tellite smiled. ‘May we come in? We have a proposition that may interest you.’

Barrett ignored the two acolytes and concentrated on the leader. ‘No.’

Tellite’s face tightened, while the other two shuffled a little nervously.

‘Listen to me, Barrett. You need to come with us to see Duke Gello.’

Barrett stared at him coldly. ‘I will go nowhere with you.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Barrett! The Queen’s days are over! Duke Gello will soon rule this country, and from there the continent and from there, who knows? Come and work for me. The Duke can be a generous man.’

Barrett laughed. ‘He would have to be, to employ a pack of useless finger-wavers like the three of you! But you can tell your precious Duke that I am going away. I will not be in the palace when he comes to depose the Queen.’

Barrett could see that statement shook them, firstly that he was not going to be there, and secondly that he foresaw their purpose.

‘I’m going, so you can reasonably walk back to the Duke and tell him not to worry about me stopping him from becoming a traitor.’ He stared hard at them. ‘Or, you can stay and try to face me.’

Tellite, painfully aware his allies were now shuffling nervously and casting glances back down the long drive towards the street, decided to reassert his authority.

‘By the power vested in me by Duke Gello, I demand you accompany us for questioning over the
theft of the Dragon Sword,’ he snapped. ‘If you refuse, it will go badly for you.’

‘Badly for me?’ Barrett smiled thinly.

Tellite cleared his throat. ‘Be reasonable, man! You don’t even have your staff with you!’

Barrett’s smile stayed in place but his voice was cold. ‘The fact you think I need a staff shows why you were never going to be the Queen’s Magician,’ he told him, then clenched his fist.

Instantly, the tall plants on either side of the doorway exploded into growth, tripling and quadrupling in size in a heartbeat, thick branches reaching towards the trio of wizards.

‘Get him or we’re all dead!’ Tellite screamed, just before a thick bundle of leaves shoved themselves into his mouth.

But Elong and Ackwal were swamped under a mass of greenery, picked up and slammed into the hard stone pathway.

Tellite, however, was powered by desperation. Swiftly the plants around him died back, and he leapt away, soaring high in the air. The effort he was expending was obvious—his lips were drawn back in a grimace and sheets of sweat were flying from his face.

Barrett, lightly sweating, brought up both hands and sent Tellite cartwheeling away across the garden. The older wizard managed to control his landing and spun, jabbing his staff back at Barrett. Insects roared out of trees and bushes, or crawled out of the ground, and flew or ran at Barrett, who was breathing harder now as he sent them scurrying back away. Surely Tellite was going to give up soon? He would be exhausted by his efforts so far. But one glance at Tellite told a different story. Wizards used
their strength to summon natural magic; when a wizard was exhausted, they stopped to rest. But Tellite was not going to stop, although he was gasping for breath.

Sending a swarm of bees flying back to their nest, Barrett jumped at Tellite, using his magic to propel himself fifteen feet at a time. Two jumps and he was on top of the other wizard, who snarled, showing long teeth in shrunken gums, then ignited his whole staff this time, swinging the weapon at Barrett’s head, using the magic to speed up his blows.

Barrett had to reach into the magic himself, to spring backwards and away to avoid the attack, but Tellite chased him, swinging wildly. Desperately, Barrett grabbed Elong’s fallen staff and copied Tellite’s technique, increasing it in size and using magic to strengthen his arms. He traded blows with the berserk wizard, unsure how much longer the man could last. Tellite looked almost skeletal now, his flesh burning off in his crazed attempt to keep the magic flowing. Barrett had heard of cases like this before, of mages so caught up in the use of magic that they were unable to stop until it had drained every last spark of life from them. If he had the energy, he would have found this fascinating: how far a wizard could propel himself down the path of death before the magic ran out. But he could feel his own strength draining away. His breath was coming harsh and fast and sweat was now dripping into his eyes. He was also conscious of how much else he had to do that day. It would serve his Queen little if he defeated Tellite but failed in his mission to find the Dragon Sword. He had to end this. He doubled the size of the staff he held until it resembled the trunk of a small tree, then smashed it at Tellite’s head.

The crazed mage blocked the first blow, then a second, but was knocked back by the force of the impact.

‘You’re coming with me!’ he screamed, eyes unnaturally bright in a sunken face.

He raised his arms to the skies, his beard and robes beginning to whip around him as wind and dark clouds began to swirl above him.

Barrett stared at him in horror for a moment, unable to believe the man would really go so far as to try and summon a giant electrical storm. Weather magic was the hardest to master, and the most dangerous. Since it was usually the preserve of the priests, most wizards were happy to avoid it. It took an enormous toll on the body, because of the disruption not only to the local weather but also to the weather across the continent. But Tellite was obviously not thinking rationally. Instead he was trying to create a huge thunderstorm concentrated on this one spot. If he succeeded, the house and anyone near it would be destroyed by a massive bombardment of lightning. Barrett wasted precious time thinking about that before he reached into the magic and tried to break apart the storm.

But once started, such a storm could not be easily dismissed, and Tellite was laughing now as dark clouds spun across the sky at his bidding. The wind was whipping through the garden, gusting hard, and Barrett had to dig deep as he fought to break apart the clouds and force the storm away.

‘You cannot stop me!’ Tellite screamed, his eyes triumphant, as he swung hands like claws at the sky.

Barrett saved his energy for what he was doing, although the effort was beginning to tell on him as well. Despite his best efforts, the clouds were
growing thicker, and an ominous rumble of thunder in the distance warned them both of what was to come. Gritting his teeth, Barrett concentrated on the main cloud mass, urging it to dissipate. For long moments, nothing seemed to happen; Barrett risked a glance at Tellite to see he was also concentrating on the clouds, seeking to keep them together. Then the huge cloudbank seemed to blow apart, scattering across the sky.

‘No! Come back!’ Tellite screamed. Raising his hands to the sky, he jerked suddenly, actually lifted off the ground slightly, then collapsed in a heap.

A little spatter of rain fell, then the clouds dissipated and the sun came out once more.

Barrett ignored that, as he leaned on his borrowed staff and sucked in air. His legs were trembling and his stomach was growling. He knew he needed to eat and rest—and swiftly—but he wanted to check on his foe first. Cautiously he used the borrowed staff to flip Tellite over—and almost recoiled in horror. The man was nothing but skin stretched over bones. His fingers were twisted into claws and his mouth was open, as if for one last defiant cry. He was obviously dead, the magic having consumed him. Barrett shuddered and turned away. How frightened had he been of the Duke, to drive himself beyond the limits of his body? Still, he had achieved something. Barrett was exhausted. He hurried inside, careful to magically lock the door. Hopefully the still-entangled Elong and Ackwal would come to their senses, see the body of Tellite, then rush back to the Duke to report that Barrett was gone. If not, then he would have to deal with them. Whatever they did, he knew he had little time. As soon as he realised his tame wizards had failed, Gello would send other men to
stop him. The Duke could not let someone as powerful as Barrett wander around the capital. He rushed through to the kitchen. He ate fast, always with one ear out for more of Gello’s men, until he could no longer stand the feeling that they were about to burst into his house. He had to go. He grabbed his papers, staff, a waterskin and a last hunk of cheese and walked out the rear door. Tired though he was, he still took the time to cast a series of magical traps on the ground at the back of his house. If anyone came this way, he wanted to know about it. Especially as his secret escape route was hidden at the back of his huge garden.

Years ago, wizards had discovered how to use oak trees to move great distances. It was a complicated and exhausting use of magic. Somehow the oak knew the location of other oak trees—Barrett believed it was due to the way the trees propagated themselves. Careful study had shown there were he-oaks and she-oaks and they needed to know where the next one was so they could fertilise each other. Combining that with an ability found in some birds, such as pigeons, which could find their way across country they had never seen before, it allowed a wizard to step into one tree and emerge at the next nearest oak tree, be it feet or even miles away. The first attempts, like all new magic, had been fraught with danger and required the mage to both commune with the tree, and with birds, before attempting it. But once the theory had been mastered, and taught, it had been refined to the point that Barrett had reached. By stringing these steps together, he could actually travel from Norstalos City to the far east of the country in a matter of heartbeats. But this travel came at a price—he
would be exhausted when he arrived, as if he had walked that same distance.

Although researching plant and animal behaviour and how that could be reproduced magically had taken up much of Barrett’s training as a wizard, an equally large amount had been devoted to discovering the limits of his power and, more importantly, his strength. His relative youth and fitness was one reason why he was such an accomplished wizard. Older men had the knowledge but lacked the strength to tackle great feats of magic. Through hard work and study, he had amassed knowledge while still being strong enough to put it to use. Still, he had just had a graphic demonstration of what could happen to a wizard who went beyond his own strength. As if he needed any more. His own master, a former royal magician, had died attempting to push himself beyond his limits, just five years ago. This journey was as long as any he had undertaken and he was a little apprehensive. But his daydream about returning to the Queen drove him onwards.

His oak tree was hidden behind several other trees, for even wizards as pitiful as the unconscious Elong and Ackwal would instantly understand this was his method of moving to and from the city, and have it watched or cut down.

Cautiously he moved to the tree and touched the bark. His breathing was normal, and he no longer felt hungry or thirsty, but he could feel the tiredness in his muscles. He was aching all over and normally would have slept for the rest of the day before attempting this. But there was no time, so he deliberately put aside his aches. Taking a deep breath, he reached out into the magic, becoming one with the tree. Holding onto the feeling of this tree, he
sent out his mind, darting to the next oak tree, which was in a park on the outskirts of the city. Carefully he gathered the impression of that tree, and leapt to the next, which was outside the city walls.