by Duncan Lay
Havrick went white, and his lips tightened. He was not about to take that abuse from a civilian. He took enough of it from his senior officers. ‘I am searching for thieves. Have you been to the capital at any point in the last week?’
‘No. Now let us pass.’
‘You are behaving suspiciously.’ Havrick decided a few days in the cells would teach this arrogant Ralloran a lesson. Besides, he had four troopers with him. What could one man do? ‘I am ordering you to accompany me back to Wollin for further questioning, in case you have it.’
‘Have what?’
‘Don’t be insolent! You know what I’m talking about!’ Havrick screamed.
‘Er, sir, you haven’t actually said what he’s supposed to have,’ a trooper piped up.
Havrick gritted his teeth. ‘The Dragon Sword! It’s been stolen and I think you have it! Now will you follow me or do I have to order my men to arrest you?’
Having spat out his order, he could not resist glancing around to see which one of his men had dared to contradict him. That was a mistake.
Martil had had enough of this puffed-up fool and had no intention of being taken anywhere. His anger, which he had thought was under control around Karia, bubbled over once more and his swords flashed out, so when Havrick turned back, it was to see two blades poised within an inch of his face.
‘Do these look like the Dragon Sword?’ Martil growled.
Havrick looked over the steel tips, slightly uneven from all the sharpening they had had, into the man’s cold grey eyes, and realised he could not enjoy a reward without a head. ‘No.’
‘Good.’ Martil glanced at the troopers. None looked threatening. He stared at Havrick, seeing the conflicting emotions on the man’s face. He was another one like Edil, who had expected to bully his victim, only to deflate when the tables were turned. Martil knew he could still settle this easily. If he offered his saddlebags to their search, they would not find the Dragon Sword and he would be able to go on his way. After all, Havrick did have four men with him. Unlike Edil and his sons, these men were trained soldiers, who all wore mail and carried swords. They would not fall easily. Then there was Karia, half-crouched in front of him.
Havrick took advantage of the silence. This Ralloran scum could not seriously be threatening him, he was just trying to scare him. Perhaps the man had the Dragon Sword after all. This was the time to prove he was worthy of higher honours.
‘Put down your swords and accompany me to Wollin or I shall order my men to attack you.’
Martil instantly forgot about being reasonable. ‘The first man that moves will have to pick up his officer’s head! You will do what I say or I will cut you into pieces so small, the goat that was your mother won’t be able to recognise you!’
Havrick looked into the man’s eyes and saw the fury there. The man would kill him and not care what happened next! Havrick had heard all Rallorans were mad, now he believed it. His throat felt dry and his stomach dropped as he desperately tried to think of a way out of this.
‘Don’t worry, sir. Say the word. We’ll avenge your death,’ one of his troopers—he did not dare turn his head to see which one—said reassuringly.
It was enough to break Havrick’s spirit.
‘Fools! Do as he says!’
Under Martil’s instructions, Havrick and his men dropped their swordbelts. Carefully keeping his sword at Havrick’s throat, Martil had them cut their own reins, then tie each other to a tree, just out of sight of the road. Once they were helpless, he whipped their horses into a gallop, allowing them to head back down the road. Martil watched them go in satisfaction. After a mile or two of that, the horses would walk, exhausted, most of the way back to their barracks, if they made it at all.
Only Havrick remained free now and he could imagine the burning shame of having to explain this. His regiment’s war captain would be particularly scathing, he knew.
‘I’ll be after you,’ Havrick snarled.
‘You might try. But I think it’ll be a slow pursuit. By the time you get back to Wollin, find more horses, then get back here to free your men, I’ll be back in Rallora,’ Martil told him, determined not to let the man know his real destination.
Havrick’s eyes glittered hatred but he was sweating heavily now. It had occurred to him that the embarrassment of explaining his humiliation was preferable to a painful death. Martil sheathed one sword and helped Karia to get down.
‘Just wait there quietly,’ he told her, with an encouraging smile as she gave a nervous nod. He drew his knife from beside his saddle and carefully cut Havrick’s reins, so he could not control the horse. Then he used the leather to tie the man’s hands together, and tied them to the pommel of the saddle.
‘I don’t have the Dragon Sword, Lieutenant. But I don’t like being treated like a fool. When you get back to your regiment, ask about War Captain Martil of Rallora, and you’ll see how lucky you were,’ he told him.
Havrick opened his mouth to say that, instead, this Martil would rue the day he humiliated Lieutenant Havrick of the Norstaline Lights, but before he could speak, Martil lashed his horse’s rump and the beast jumped into a gallop, racing him away down the road, Havrick fighting just to stay in the saddle.
Martil looked at the troopers and nodded to himself in satisfaction. They wouldn’t be able to escape. They watched him resignedly from where they sat, trussed to a tree.
Martil waved to them, then picked up Karia again and urged Tomon into a trot, just in case. He reckoned it would take Havrick the rest of the day to get back to Wollin, then he would have to find fresh horses and get back out here to free his men. By that time he would be a long way down the road.
He doubted he would see that lieutenant again. The man would be searching in the wrong direction, for a start. Still, just to be on the safe side, Martil left the main road and decided to travel east by a more circuitous route. It would take a day or so longer but at least he would sleep soundly.
They found a small village to stay in as the sun was just setting. It could have been Chell, except there were probably twenty fewer houses and the church was on the other side of the one street. Off the main trade road, the inn was small and the innkeeper delighted to have some guests. The food he served up, a greasy mutton stew with rough-cut bread, was hardly up to the pie at the Crown and Sparrow. And their room merely had one large, crude bed, while the bathroom was a chipped basin and a jug of cold water; the privy was out the back. But it was better than the forest.
Martil knew that if he had not angered Havrick they could have been on the main road staying in a large inn where demand meant the food and the rooms were of a good standard. He had lost his temper and now they were living with the consequences. Again. The only bright spot was it meant the chances of running into a bard performing more bloody sagas was blessedly remote.
One thing was the same. The talk was of the Dragon Sword. Soldiers had not been here on their search Martil was relieved to hear, but, being close to the border with Tetril, the people were nervous. Apparently back in the days of King Riel there had been several battles fought along this border. Martil, who had seen an invading army smash through his country and destroy his home and family, found it hard not to say anything scornful. If a man’s home was threatened, then he took up arms to defend it, he didn’t sit around in an inn worrying about who was going to protect him. These Norstalines seemed to have forgotten how to stand up for themselves in all those years of peace, he reflected. Worse, as the drinking went on, their fear turned to boastfulness.
‘At least we don’t have to worry about the Berellians. If the Rallorans could defeat them, then we’d be able to knock them over using two old grannies on my daughter’s ponies,’ one fat farmer announced, to much hilarity.
Martil had to take a bite of bread to stop himself from saying something. He remembered the Berellian Guards, men in fine armour, carrying spears and long shields. The Guards had shown the Rallorans that spirit and enthusiasm were no match for t
raining and discipline. Then there were the axemen, huge men who carried massive double-bladed axes. The Berellians used them to smash a hole in enemy lines, just before the Guards struck. Martil could still remember his first battle against them. With their tall helmets, the axemen had looked like giants. And nobody wanted to face them. How could you stand against a man holding an enormous axe? There was something about it that inspired fear. Even now Martil shivered as he recalled the first one he had killed. He had been in the third line, feeling relatively safe, only to see the axemen cleave apart the first two lines as if they were scattering children. A tall man had aimed a huge blow at Martil, he had thrown up his shield and the axe had split the wood; only the metal boss had saved his arm. He had shaken his broken shield off and jumped back from the next blow. The rest of his regiment scattered but he just concentrated on staying alive. Then he had seen a sword jutting out of the ground, where a fellow Ralloran had dropped it. He snatched it up and used two swords, swinging one blow that the axeman had instinctively tried to block, before ramming the second through the man’s throat. His fear had gone and he rallied survivors around him, eventually gathering three score of men together and managing to escape where hundreds of his countrymen died.
That day had changed his life, helped him win a war that had taken years and untold thousands of lives. And now these stupid farmers were mocking it.
‘I’d like to see you try to stop them,’ Martil muttered.
‘What was that?’ Karia piped up.
Martil tried to smile. ‘Just talking to myself. We’d better get to bed soon. Early start.’
Karia did not seem upset at the prospect of going to bed, which had Martil feeling a little wary. He soon discovered his instinct was right. She wanted to go to bed, because she not only wanted to wear her new nightdress, but also take all her dolls to bed, which she artfully arranged so there was no room for Martil to get in.
‘You have to move over to the side, and I’ll sleep on the other side,’ he tried to explain to her.
‘But it’s comfier in the middle!’ she wailed.
‘At least move the dolls over, so I can get in,’ Martil complained. He was not thrilled about the idea of sharing a bed with her, after his experience back at the Crown and Sparrow. But the only other choice was the floor—and that was cold and hard.
After much grumbling, the dolls were finally rearranged, so they were only taking up half the bed, and then a story was read, all about the third son of a king who went on a quest to save a princess after his two older brothers had failed. It was a typical saga, heavy on the happy ending and light on reality, but she loved it.
‘You need to sing me a song now,’ she declared. ‘Father Nott always sang me a song. I can’t go to sleep without it.’
Martil could see he was not going to get any peace unless he came up with a song. He racked his brain for something suitable, but every song he could remember was the classic soldier’s marching version—full of swearwords and stories of sexual exploits. The one about the mystery animal—whose variety he still could not remember—was one of the cleaner ones.
‘Well, what did Father Nott sing to you?’ he asked in a flash of inspiration.
‘How would I know? I was asleep when he sang it,’ Karia said icily. She thought that Martil was a big silly! He didn’t even know any songs! If he did not have such a nice horse, play games, buy her things, have lots of food, answer her questions and read stories, he’d hardly be any use at all.
Desperate now, Martil just started to sing the first thing that came into his head.
‘Go to sleep, go to sleep, it’s time for you to sleep…’ He was horribly aware his voice was not made for singing. Yelling orders across a battlefield he was happy with, but not singing. Martil sang the same line, over and over again, until her breathing deepened and it appeared she had fallen asleep. He sighed in relief and tried to get comfortable in the little space available to him. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered was waking up with a sore shoulder—and a small hand resting on his face. She had left the dolls behind and migrated across the bed, until she was pressed up against him.
He watched her face for a while. Asleep, she was actually pleasant to be around. Her small hand was soft against his face and gave him a strange warm feeling in his chest. He lay there for he did not know how long, wondering about that. Then he carefully eased out of bed and went around the other side, where he took some satisfaction in shoving the dolls over until they were between them, then lay back down to sleep.
Breakfast was not up to the cheese bread standard, but there was plenty of bread that could be toasted, and fresh butter, honey and milk to help it down. As Karia was devouring her plateful, Martil tried to talk to the surly innkeeper. He proved not to be a morning person but his wife, a plump woman with a truly ugly face, was more than helpful. She pointed out villages where they could stay and confirmed they had not seen any cavalry coming this way. She had also not heard anything good about Danir the Destroyer.
‘He rides across the border most nights, looking for farmhouses and unwitting travellers. Best stay behind a well-locked door,’ she advised. ‘Why’re you going to Thest anyway? It’s a fleapit.’
Martil looked around the bar, which featured plenty of stains, as well as some unusual smells—of which pig was the only one he could recognise—and wondered how bad Thest could be to invite scorn from the owner of this inn.
‘Relatives there,’ was all he said.
‘I was told you were someone who could help me.’
Father Prent smiled. ‘I am a priest of Aroaril. I am always available to help those in need.’
‘I don’t want an answer straight from the seminary! I need some bloody help! That bastard of an Archbishop is going to defrock me!’
Prent sighed theatrically. The hooded man had sneaked into his church after dark, as instructed. He had him hooked, now he just had to reel him in. ‘Well, there was that business with the village girl. That sort of thing does reflect badly on the church.’
‘Don’t you think I know that? What can I do?’
‘My dear Bishop, have you thought about praying for Aroaril’s forgiveness?’
‘He doesn’t answer my prayers—hasn’t for years as you bloody well know! That’s another reason why the Archbishop hates me! So, are you going to help me, or just keep tormenting me?’
Prent smiled thinly. ‘And where would the church be if we removed all the people who had fallen out of favour with Aroaril? The good news is, I can help you. I can speak to the girl, see that she does not testify against you. But…persuading…her will not come cheap.’
‘I can afford it,’ the bishop admitted bitterly.
‘Excellent. Then this sad incident will soon be forgotten—except by you and me.’
Martil discovered a new horror as they started that day’s trip. The forest was sparse around here, more like patches of trees interspersed with farmland and rolling hills. It also made a fine place for flowers to grow, and Karia decided she wanted to pick them. So flower stops were included along with food stops and toilet stops. She even added a rather bedraggled arrangement to Tomon’s reins, much to the horse’s disgust.
Karia found herself enjoying this lifestyle. It was nice to ride gently through the countryside, eating when you wanted, and stretching your legs to collect flowers. If she pestered him enough, Martil would even use his knife to help cut some of the bigger blossoms. It still wasn’t life at Father Nott’s, but it wasn’t bad. Sometimes she even forgot to annoy him, although her frequent questions still had him muttering what she was sure were square words sometimes.
She was a fund of questions, about the trees—Martil knew some of the varieties, but made the rest up and hoped she would never notice—the few birds and animals they saw and, of course, about the merchants and farmers they passed on the road. It was not the main road west, but it was still well travelled. At first Martil tried to discourage her questions, by giving
her short answers, or ignoring her. But this only provoked more questions. So he finally gave up and told her as much as he knew.
The days stayed warm, although twice they had to cut short their travels because of rainstorms and shelter at an inn, which meant more reading for Martil, as well as playing games.
They also spoke to some of the travellers they passed; people were not in a rush and were happy to chat. They often complimented Karia on her dress, as well as swapping news about the road ahead, and concerns about the missing Dragon Sword.
‘What a beautiful little girl,’ they said again and again.
‘Takes after her mother,’ Martil always said, which, as far as he knew, was entirely accurate.
One merchant even invited them to join him for lunch. Martil had been unsure, and wanted to ride on, but Karia had been hungry and he was aware of the need to conserve his own supplies.
So they sat down beside the road, ate cold pork and apples, washed down with water, while Tomon enjoyed a few apples with the merchant’s draught-horses. The merchant’s name was Berne, and he was a short, muscular man with brown hair and a neat beard who had lived all his life in eastern Norstalos, buying crops from small farmers and then selling them in larger towns. He was evidently in no hurry to get his load to market, because once he had been asked about the Dragon Sword, it was hard to get him to shut up.
Martil had suggested what seemed to him to be the obvious solution. If one sword had gone missing, ask the dragons to give them another.
‘Ask the dragons for another sword? Are you mad? King Riel had to save a dragon’s life to get this one. They don’t just pluck magical swords off a tree like so many apples, you know!’ Berne spluttered, waving around a piece of the fruit. ‘Do you not know the Sword’s rich history, understand its intrinsic importance to this mighty country?’