The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  Blackbeard shook his head and then bit his lip at the effort it cost him.

  ‘No. Her mother died giving birth to her. We left Karia at our camp, about two hundred paces west.’

  ‘Then what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Take her across the border into Tetril, to the village of Thest. We have kin there. My uncle Danir. He’ll take care of her.’

  Martil had only a sketchy idea of the border around here but knew it was a ride of a week or more. His guilt was strong and fresh, but it could only go so far.

  ‘I’ll take her to the next village and then pay for her to travel there,’ he offered.

  ‘I beg you! She must go to Danir!’ The giant paused for breath and some of the desperation in his voice was replaced by pleading. ‘He will reward you when you arrive and you cannot leave her to die here! She’s the only remaining part of our family.’

  Martil wanted to refuse. Anyone could see taking a small girl to a village days away was going to be a nightmare. Let alone a small girl whose father and brothers you had just slaughtered.

  But his guilt was choking him. He could not add the death of a small child to that. The blood on his hands was literally too fresh. Besides, this was peaceful Norstalos. What could happen? And she was only six! How much trouble could a small girl be?

  ‘All right,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Swear to Aroaril!’ the giant gasped, his face growing paler.

  Martil hesitated. An oath to a God was never made lightly. You never knew when they might decide to hold you to it.

  ‘Swear!’

  Martil’s guilt got the better of his common sense. Even though the young robber was dying, he wanted to show the man he was not just another mad sword-killer. ‘I swear by Aroaril to take Karia to her uncle Danir, in the village of Thest,’ he intoned.

  The giant relaxed, and lay back struggling for air.

  ‘Now there is one last thing you must do for me,’ he grunted.

  Martil nodded and closed his eyes, so he did not see the flare of triumph on the young man’s face before his sword struck home. Grimly he wrapped his hands in the bloodstained clothing and dragged the bodies of Edil and his sons off the road, grimacing at the stench of open bowels and blood. Then he washed his hands and his mouth out once more before walking Tomon up the road. That way, when he returned with the girl, she would not have to see the bodies of her father and brothers.

  It was only when he was ready to start walking into the trees to get her that he started to realise the true enormity of the promise he had just made. Why would a small girl want to go anywhere with a strange man? What would he tell her about her family? How would she travel, what would she eat, where would she sleep?

  He almost jumped onto Tomon and rode away at that point. There had to be a village nearby where he could report the attack and the missing girl. Then he paused. What if the girl wandered off and died in the forest? Whatever the sins of her family, she had not tried to rob and kill him. He was finding it hard enough to look in the mirror as it was. Could his conscience stand another child’s death?

  ‘And you’re talking to yourself more and more,’ he muttered.

  ‘Aye, but it’s only a problem when you start answering yourself,’ he decided.

  Still he hesitated, but the thought of the girl waiting forlornly for her family to return, then finding them dead before wandering off to die herself clinched it. He strode off the road before he could talk himself out of it, then crashed through the woods, trying to count the paces carefully, and trying not to think too deeply about what he was doing. He moved slowly, keeping his eyes open for the camp, which he guessed would be in some sort of clearing.

  As he walked he listened for the sound of a young girl. He had no idea what that might be, but he presumed it would stand out from the forest noise. Not that there was much of that. His progress seemed to have scared away any creatures. Then, about where his counting told him it would be, there was a camp. He walked closer, but could not see anyone. He spat in disgust at the smell and the filth. To a man who had spent years making rough camps, this one looked particularly pathetic. The fire was out while a few blackened pots and pans were stacked messily near it. Packs and blankets lay on the ground, waiting for owners who would never return. The family’s possessions seemed pitifully small, which was probably why they had been unwilling to let him pass.

  ‘Hello the camp!’ he called in his friendliest voice. There was no answer.

  Martil was not paying attention to where he was going, so he stumbled over a tree root and nearly fell into the remains of the fire. Flies buzzed hungrily around the pots, which held only some crusted, blackened scraps. He looked around carefully for a small girl, perhaps hiding under a tree or in the bushes, but could see nothing. He even peered at the family’s crude latrine pit, dug far too near the camp for his liking, before coming to the happy conclusion that there was nobody here.

  ‘Maybe she already ran away,’ he pondered, testing the theory and liking it. After all, he had tried. It wasn’t his fault she had already run off. He could ride to the next village, report the attack, and leave it to the local militia to sort things out. Their job was to keep the peace. She would probably walk out to the road, find the next traveller and be taken to her uncle that way.

  Feeling as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, he turned with a broad smile and started walking back towards the road. But he had only taken two paces when he nearly fell over a small figure that appeared in front of him.

  ‘Who’re you? What’re you doing in my camp?’ she demanded. ‘My Da and brothers’ll be back soon.’

  Martil had to flail his arms for balance and only then had a good look at the little girl. It was not an encouraging sight. She was wearing what appeared to be one of her brothers’ old tunics, which stretched down to her calves and was belted with an old piece of rope. The sleeves were far too long and seemed to have been hacked off with a dagger. She wore no shoes and the bits of her that stuck out from the crude tunic were filthy. Martil could smell her from where he stood, a combination of woodsmoke, old food and leaf mould. Her hair was tangled and appeared to have a small stick stuck into it. Yet there was something about her. Edil had not been a handsome man. But his wife must have been a beauty. The little girl had a snub nose, smudged with dirt, while her hair was probably blonde under all that muck. What struck him most was her eyes, big and brown and staring directly at him.

  They seemed to capture his attention, although he could not mistake the fact she was also holding a rusty frying pan as if it were a weapon.

  ‘You must be Karia,’ Martil said, then wondered how there could be any other little girls wandering around the forest.

  ‘Who are you? Da’ll be back soon!’ she warned.

  He tried to marshal his thoughts. As a war captain, he had had to deal with plenty of town councils and merchants, usually either trying to get them to surrender or hand over food for his men. He had not enjoyed it but he had some experience in getting people to do things they did not want to do. He decided to try these techniques on her.

  ‘I’m—I’m a friend of your father’s—he asked me to take you to your uncle Danir,’ Martil said brightly.

  Karia dropped the frypan, narrowly missing Martil’s feet.

  ‘So Da and the boys are dead then,’ she stated flatly.

  Martil blinked. ‘I never said that!’ he protested.

  He half-expected the little girl to start crying but she just gazed at him coolly and spoke in a calm, clear voice.

  ‘Da said that’s what would happen to me if he and the boys were killed. He often said it. He told me I’d have to go and see my uncle Danir.’

  Martil tried to pull himself together.

  ‘Yes. Well. That’s right. Sensible man, your Da. So, if you want to collect your things, we can make a start,’ Martil gestured back towards the packs and blankets.

  But the girl made no move.

  ‘Are you a militia shit-s
linger?’ She asked it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  Martil gaped. He had not had much to do with children but he had some idea they weren’t supposed to talk like this.

  ‘Zorva’s balls!’ he gasped. Even as he blurted out the words he realised what he had said. ‘I mean, no, I’m just a traveller, trying to pass through the forest,’ he added hastily, hoping she had not noticed the phrase he had used.

  ‘You said a square word,’ she said accusingly.

  The conversation was getting away from Martil. ‘A what?’

  ‘A square word. A rude word. Da says them all the time. But I know you mustn’t,’ she informed him loftily.

  ‘Square? Oh, a swearword!’ Martil finally caught up. ‘But you used one first!’

  She just stared at him. He felt he should break the silence. ‘But that’s all right. Do you want to go now?’

  She made no move. ‘So Da and the boys stopped you. Did you kill them or did they kill some of your friends first?’

  Martil spluttered. He had half a mind to point behind her, shout ‘bear!’ and, when she turned, start running for his horse. Humour was struggling to help him in the face of this strange little girl. What could he say to her? ‘Yes, but they tried to kill me first?’ How was that going to sound?

  ‘It’s all right if you did. I expect they tried to kill you,’ she said reassuringly, although it did not reassure Martil in the slightest.

  ‘You shouldn’t know about these things!’ Martil finally managed to protest.

  She shrugged. ‘Da and the boys always talked about what they did,’ she explained, and Martil had an image of a family sitting down to dinner, discussing what a great day they had had, killing and robbing travellers.

  ‘I know you must have killed them, because they wouldn’t have told you about Uncle Danir and sent you to come and get me,’ she told him.

  Martil gave up. ‘Yes, I killed them. I asked them to leave me alone but they attacked me and I had to fight. But I promised to take you to your uncle,’ he finished brightly, as if it made up for the rest.

  Karia nodded, her face expressionless. Then she kicked him furiously in the shins and screamed at him. ‘I hate you!’ she shrieked and raced off towards the largest pack.

  ‘Zorva’s balls!’ he growled, then turned to see her rummaging furiously through the pack. ‘Getting your stuff together?’ he asked, more in hope than anything else.

  Then she produced a long, rusty knife and rushed at him, jabbing it at his stomach.

  That did it, his reactions took over.

  Martil stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. He was shocked at how thin her arm was, and how easy it was to twist her wrist until she dropped the knife and tried to kick him again. He dodged that and shoved her backwards, prepared for her to spring back up at him. But she just lay there and started to cry.

  Feeling embarrassed, and rather guilty, he picked up the knife and hurled it into the bushes.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ she wailed.

  Martil reflected on how much he would have liked to do that.

  ‘I can’t do that. How can a little girl like you live out here in the forest, by yourself? Wouldn’t you be happier with your uncle Danir?’

  ‘I’m not a little girl! My name’s Karia!’ she shouted tearily.

  ‘Fine!’ Martil could feel his temper rising but after his explosion of hatred and anger back on the road, it was easier to keep calm. Besides, he reminded himself as he took a few deep breaths, this was just a little girl. ‘Right then, Karia, wouldn’t you be happier with your uncle?’ Martil tried to inject some warmth into his voice but he had no idea if it was working.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him.’

  Not for the first time, Martil wondered why giving up was not in his nature.

  ‘You can’t stay here. I’ll take you to your uncle.’

  Karia’s wails turned to sobs, the sobs to sniffles, then she looked up at him, tears streaking the grime on her face.

  ‘You’ll take me to my uncle? Just you? No militia?’

  Martil thought her preoccupation with the militia was another sign Edil had taken a small girl into his confidence rather too much. It was the militia’s job to hunt down bandits such as Edil but if his daughter knew all about them—as well as their unsavoury nickname—what had he been telling her?

  ‘Yes, I’ll take you to your uncle. Just me,’ he promised, feeling as though she had just won some sort of victory, although he had no idea what that might be.

  ‘All right. Help me pack,’ she told him, and scrambled to her feet.

  ‘Which one is yours?’ Martil gestured at the packs.

  ‘None of them.’

  ‘So what will you be taking?’

  ‘What I want from Da and the boys. They won’t need any of it now they’re dead.’

  Martil was trying to keep up with her sudden changes of mood.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about death for a young girl,’ he could not help but say.

  ‘We lived on a farm before this. Things were always dying, or Da and the boys were killing them. And when they brought stuff back, they’d always say the people who had them before didn’t need them, because they were dead now,’ she explained matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Martil was not sure if he found her explanation comforting, or horrifying.

  Meanwhile, she emptied out the first pack, revealing dirty clothes and old tools. She put these aside and came up with a mirror and a brush. Both were made of wood, and neither looked to be in good condition, which was probably why they had not been sold.

  Then she sorted through the clothes and came up with a large purple tunic, the brightest colour in the pack, although its cloth had been faded by both time and dirt.

  ‘Do you want me to carry those?’ Martil asked.

  Without replying, she undid the rope and threw off the old tunic she was wearing, before reaching for the purple one.

  Martil had time to register how thin she was, how her ribs showed clearly and how her legs were like sticks. At first he thought she was also covered in dirt, until he realised in horror that she was covered in bruises. Then he turned around as fast as he could.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded roughly.

  ‘Getting dressed,’ she replied, in a tone that indicated he must have all the intelligence of a particularly foolish sheep.

  ‘That’s not right! Go behind a tree!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s not decent! You don’t take your clothes off in front of strangers! Didn’t your Da teach you that?’

  ‘No. Why is it important?’

  There was nothing but pure curiosity in her tone, which made Martil grind his teeth in frustration. Did he have to explain everything to her? He felt his control weakening.

  ‘We don’t have time for this! Now, I’m an adult, and you’re a child, so if I say something isn’t right, don’t question me!’ he snarled.

  ‘Don’t hit me!’

  Martil turned, to see her wearing the tunic now, but cowering away from him. At that sight, his anger drained away, replaced by self-loathing.

  ‘If I didn’t hit you when you tried to stab me, why would I hit you now?’ he wanted to know, genuinely mystified.

  ‘Your voice. That’s the sort of thing Da used to say, right before he hit me.’

  Martil remembered the bruises and shuddered. There was no way he was going to hurt her. It was time to prove he was a better man than the one who had killed her father and brothers.

  ‘I wouldn’t hit you,’ he said gently. ‘Now finish getting dressed and we’ll start on our way.’

  Warily, she belted the rope around her waist, then tried to pull the long sleeves of the tunic back as far as she could. He helped her roll back the sleeves until her hands were actually visible.

  ‘Time to go,’ he suggested.

  He let Karia go first, just in case she found another knife, and directed her through the trees until they re
ached Tomon, hobbled by the side of the road.

  ‘Is he yours?’ Karia asked as soon as she saw Tomon. ‘Can I pat him?’

  It was the first real interest in something she had shown, and he was eager to encourage it. ‘Of course. He won’t bite.’

  ‘Can you lift me up so I can touch his mane?’ she asked.

  Martil shrugged, then picked her up around the waist, so she could reach over and pat Tomon’s head. He was struck by how light she was.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Tomon. He’s named after an old friend of mine,’ Martil explained.

  ‘Is he dead? Did you kill him?’

  Martil ground his teeth. ‘I did not kill him.’

  ‘But you are a murbeler.’

  ‘A what?’ Talking to her was like trying to catch a butterfly with your hands.

  ‘Da told me about them. Said if he was killed, it would either be militia or a murbeling maniac.’

  ‘Murbel…that would be a murdering maniac,’ Martil worked out.

  ‘That’s what I said. Now, can I feed your horse?’

  Martil tried to make his brain follow the leaps in conversation. ‘Not now. He ate this morning, and will eat again this evening. We have to go if we’re going to get to the village of Chell before nightfall,’ he told her.

  ‘We’re going to Chell?’ she squeaked excitedly.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ he admitted, wondering if this was anything like murbeling.

  ‘Then I can see Father Nott!’ She clapped her hands together.

  Martil had no idea who this was, although it was most likely the village priest. Why the daughter of a bandit would be excited about visiting the local priest of Aroaril, he had no idea. But if it got her on the horse and him away from here, she could visit the bloody Archbishop for all he cared.

  ‘Of course. And if you want to keep patting Tomon, you can sit in front of me and stroke his neck while we ride,’ Martil offered.

  She thought that was a good idea, so he lifted her up into the saddle. It took a little while to sort out the reins and to make sure she did not fall off as she patted Tomon, but eventually he was able to urge Tomon into a brisk walk. Up close, she was particularly fragrant.