The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Who was that?’ he snapped.

  ‘Who was what, Sergeant?’ Karney asked for all of them.

  Chelten turned to look at the Sword again. Had it…Surely not! He reached out once more, then thought better of it.

  ‘Bring me a cloak,’ he snapped.

  Hands now protected by thick cloth, he took the Sword down and wrapped it up. He was unable to restrain a triumphant smile.

  ‘Now for the horses. We shall ride to Tetril, hide there for a few weeks, and then return in triumph. We’ll move only at night and stay off the roads. Nothing can stop us now!’

  The palace was in an uproar. The bodies had not been discovered until the daily food deliveries had arrived just before dawn. Even then there had been a delay because the deliverymen had run to fetch some militia rather than go inside by themselves, then the militia sergeant had not wanted to walk into the palace without an officer, then the officer had to find a Royal Guard officer, who had to find the Royal Chamberlain to talk to the Queen. The sun had risen before there was enough organisation to send word to close the city gates. And then there was the dispute over who should pursue the invaders. The militia’s responsibility ended at the city gates, while the Royal Guard only had jurisdiction over the palace. Anything beyond that fell to the army, which was commanded by Duke Gello, and his permission had to be sought before messages could be sent to the cavalry regiments to pursue the thieves and murderers.

  Queen Merren had been woken by her maids but had been unable to come down to inspect for herself until she had been dressed and her hair styled. Her father had always said that royalty was not allowed to look as though it had just leapt out of bed. It was a frustrating wait and she found herself fighting the urge to scream with anger for the maids to hurry up. There were far more important things than hairstyles going on, yet she knew if she did not walk out looking immaculate, there would be more whispers spread about her.

  She forced herself to look in the mirror. She knew she was not the image of a saga princess; her chin was too strong, her nose just a little too long, but she had long blonde hair and green eyes and men always fell over themselves to pay her compliments. Although the things they said behind her back…she sighed and submitted to the efforts of the maids.

  Finally she arrived at the gate, to find the militia and the Royal Guard arguing over who should be sent to Duke Gello. Resisting the urge to yell at them and keeping her face impassive, she ordered the militia to send the messages, although she knew it would take most of the morning to find the Duke, then have messengers reach the cavalry. The thieves would be long gone by then. Listening to the conversation quickly showed her there was little more she could do. They were at a loss and she had no desire to listen to excuses from the Royal Guard or apologies from the militia. Besides, as soon as she had seen that the Dragon Sword was gone, she had felt an icy fist close around her heart. Something had to be done and she did not trust these men to achieve anything. Instead she summoned her Royal Magician, Barrett, to a private audience chamber, where she could be sure gossiping servants in the pay of Duke Gello were not going to report what was said…

  ‘What can you tell me?’ she asked him immediately. Of all the men who served her—or pretended to serve her—she trusted just this one.

  Unlike the typical mage, Barrett was relatively young, in his mid thirties, with long dark hair tied back and no hint of the beard that the older wizards seemed to love. Instead of strangely-coloured robes, he preferred to wear tunic and trousers, albeit of a rich purple and green, while his wizard’s staff was plain wood, unadorned with the usual feathers, silver charms and strange bones that often festooned a traditional wizard’s staff. It was a statement in itself. Only someone so talented in the magic arts could so disdain the usual costume of his kind.

  ‘It was undoubtedly Gello’s men, my Queen,’ Barrett sighed. ‘No ordinary thieves could have gained entry so easily, nor dealt with so many Royal Guards in silence. And who else has so much to gain?’

  ‘Agreed. So what will happen if I simply accuse him, and demand he submit to the Archbishop of Norstalos, for judgement by Aroaril?’

  Barrett looked at her in shock. ‘Accuse the Duke of murder and theft of the country’s greatest treasure? We could try it, but there is no way we could force him to appear before the Archbishop. It would, perhaps, throw some doubt in the minds of ordinary people, but as far as the nobles are concerned, they would not stand for it. The most powerful noble in the land treated like a common criminal without a scrap of evidence? They will clamour for Gello to take over.’

  Merren sighed. ‘That is what I feared. So what will he do with it?’

  Barrett considered for a second. ‘He has to get it out of the country. With the Dragon Sword gone, the people will be afraid and the nobles will be terrified. It will only be a matter of days before the Duke claims he was asked to step in with the army to maintain the peace. Then some of his men will “find” the Dragon Sword in another country and he has an excuse to lead an invasion. By then he will be King in all but name, and, with the country at war, who will stand in his way when his tame nobles call for him to be anointed as ruler? So what if he cannot draw the Dragon Sword?’

  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.