The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  ‘What do you mean? Martil, did you know about this earlier and not say anything?’ Merren asked coldly.

  Martil faced her.

  ‘I suspected he might try something like this, no more. The first farms we helped, the cavalry were getting ready to have some fun there. It might have been a one-off—after our ambush, they could have been under orders to just take food. But either way, we were not ready to go out and face them. More importantly, we needed some time. Time to convince Havrick he was searching in the right place, time to ready the countryside and town, so they would be angry enough to help us.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to discuss this with me?’ she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

  ‘Your majesty, I am sorry. As War Captain, I felt I was taking the right approach.’ Martil knew that offering excuses would only make him look incompetent, or conniving.

  Merren’s face had whitened as he spoke but her eyes were burning.

  ‘Barrett, will you be ready to march tomorrow?’

  ‘I will, your majesty,’ the wizard agreed.

  ‘Officers, tell your men to prepare themselves. You will be going out tomorrow to protect the farmers. Now, please leave War Captain Martil and myself.’

  The rest of the council silently shuffled out, Barrett taking Karia under the pretence of showing her some more magic.

  She waited until the others were clear of the chamber before rounding on him.

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ she spat at him.

  ‘Yes, your majesty.’ Martil had been screamed at by a king before; he knew the best approach was to say as little as possible.

  ‘I thought you were different,’ she snapped, her voice rising now as the others became further away. ‘I thought I could trust you. I thought you had taken an oath to help me.’

  ‘You can trust me, your majesty,’ he declared.

  ‘You thought I would destroy our cause to save a few farmers, so you decided to hide vital facts from me, to protect me from myself. Correct?’ Her voice lashed at him like a whip.

  ‘Yes, your majesty.’ Martil held his head high.

  ‘Just like Gello and the others. Thinking that a woman cannot make tough decisions. If you trusted me, you would have told me what was going on, and then made the argument that we could not ride out now to save them.’ She stood and began pacing around the table. ‘Can I trust you? Because that is far more important than you being the Dragon Sword wielder. I will not take the throne to be some sort of figurehead, with you and Barrett making decisions behind my back. I am the ruler of this country and will bear responsibility for anything that happens—as long as I made the decision. So, will you agree to tell me everything, or will you go? The choice is yours.’

  Martil discovered he was horrified at the thought of leaving. He did not know how it had happened. At first he had come along because of Karia’s suggestion, then because Barrett had warned him he had to; he had rescued the Queen and made an oath to her because he was attracted to her and thought it was the best way to impress her. Up until this point he had just been reacting to events; he had never done anything for her because he really wanted to, he realised, but because other people wanted him to and both they and that damned Sword expected it of him. But now he realised he wanted to see her become Queen once more. His last misgivings melted away. Whether he had been pushed to this point or not, from hereon he would do whatever it took to help her now. If she would let him.

  ‘Your majesty, I swear on Karia’s life that this will not happen again,’ he said thickly, dropping to one knee.

  She walked around the table and looked down on him. He saw from her face that she knew how important that oath was to him.

  ‘I am the Queen. And I will do anything to free my country. I understand what that may cost. As it happens, Havrick has given us the chance to take this tiny rebellion to the next level. As we have talked about before, the people have become complacent. They needed something to shock them and get them ready to join our fight. Thanks to our delay, they have had it. But I shall make these decisions. I know you served King Tolbert of Rallora, who was happy to let you and other war captains destroy Bellic, so he could pretend the blood was not on his hands. But I am not one of those kings. I am a queen who will take full responsibility for the actions of my followers. Do not fail me again.’

  Martil looked up at her with new eyes. He had been looking at her as a woman first, a queen second. There was no doubt she was truly a queen. But he did not want to think too much now. He knew that was his problem, a tendency to obsess over everything. It was why he found the simplicity of battle almost comforting.

  ‘May Aroaril take my life before I fail you again, your majesty,’ he declared.

  She smiled then.

  ‘Let’s hope it never comes to that. Now get up, and stop calling me “your majesty”. It sounds strange coming from you.’

  Martil led the men towards the ambush site carefully. They had left early the next morning, waved goodbye by the wives and families. The families seemed happy enough; after so many ambushes carried out successfully, and no men dead, they saw little to worry about any more. He did not want to mention that he expected to return with several dead this time.

  The men were heavily laden. All but the archers wore hauberks, carried shield, sword, helm, a long spear and two days’ rations. The archers wore the leather jackets and carried eight sheaves of arrows apiece, one hundred and sixty per man.

  Never had Barrett been more useful. Not only did he find a perfect ambush site but he also held open a gateway long enough for men to file through, allowing them to cut miles off their journey. The site was everything he had boasted it would be. The road ran beside a stream, which was not particularly wide or deep but was littered with rocks that would make it impossible for horses to cross unless they were carefully led. A gentle slope led up towards some sparse woodland. Over the years, rain, heavy wagons and livestock had steadily eroded the side of the slope closest to the road until, instead of a gentle rise, there was a jump greater than the height of a man from the now-widened road to where the slope continued up. The process had been helped by some well-meaning people, who had placed large boulders on the side of the road to stabilise the slope and prevent landslides from closing it. This had the effect of making it impossible for horsemen to scramble off the road.

  With Tarik and two men on watch, there was nothing to do but wait, talk to Barrett about ways to stop charging cavalry, watch the wizard eat prodigiously and worry.

  ‘Captain! Wagons approaching, escorted by a squadron of cavalry!’ Tarik and his men ran up, scarcely out of breath, to make their report.

  ‘Form up! To your places! Archers to the high ground!’ he roared.

  Tarik and his lightly-armoured men scrambled up the rocks at the side of the road. From here, they could rake the cavalry attack without worrying that they would hit any of their own men.

  Martil took his place in the middle of the third row, standing with the farm boys, where he could see what was happening in the battle. Sirron and the others all looked white in the face, and he could feel the tension in the ranks, not just among the farmers but in the militia and guardsmen as well. A swift fight in the woods against an outnumbered and bewildered enemy was one thing; standing in a line, expecting a cavalry charge, was something else.

  And all could hear now the noise of the wagons and many horses approaching.

  Many glanced around nervously. Some looked white with fear.

  ‘Wait for my signal! And don’t worry. They’re more scared of you than you are of them!’ Martil shouted.

  ‘They must be bloody terrified then,’ Sirron called.

  Martil did not know why, but being close to death seemed to make everything seem funnier. The comment would have been lucky to raise a smile back at camp, but here men burst into laughter and he felt the tension ease.

  The cavalry trotted around the bend and actually kept riding for what seemed like an age before noticing
the band of men tightly clustered on the trail before them. Martil let them stop and stare for a few heartbeats longer before signalling to Tarik.

  The cavalry officer was just beginning to organise his men when the first arrows started dropping and the men and horses started falling.

  ‘Will they run, sir?’ Sirron asked.

  ‘No. They’re cavalry. They’re not smart enough to run. Besides, they know they’ll all be flogged if we get the wagons,’ he smiled, then bellowed, ‘Spears!’ The men formed up reasonably well, not as smoothly as Martil would have liked, but they were soon presenting a wall of shields, bristling with long spears that would deter any horse.

  It was just in time. The cavalry officer, stung by the arrow assault, had ordered an immediate charge. Troopers spurred their horses into a gallop, the swifter ones drawing clear, some having the sense to draw close to other troopers, so they would arrive together. A man on his own facing a shield wall was a dead man riding. But a group of men, all striking home at the same time, could break the wall, especially if the men behind it were not well trained. It may have been a badly-formed charge but it was still fearsome. Martil glanced up to where Tarik and his men were on their feet, loosing shafts as fast as they could. Men and horses were going down but because the charge was so ragged, the men behind were able to jump over bodies or swerve around injured horses. Many of the horses had one or more arrow shafts sticking out of them now, but the big cavalry horses would soak up several arrows before falling.

  ‘Hold fast! They won’t charge home! Hold fast and they’ll turn away!’ Martil roared, as he could feel the nervousness ripple through the ranks. He turned and waved at Barrett, who nodded, closed his eyes and thrust his hand forward.

  Martil spun around to see what was going to happen, and watched as one of the leading horses suddenly swung right, despite the frantic urging of its rider. It crashed into a pair of others, the three of them falling into the stream, the horses screaming and the men shouting. Another horse came to a dramatic halt, kicking up dirt and dust; its rider catapulted over its head to land in a clatter of armour and a spray of blood on the rocks to the side of the road.

  Barrett had broken up the front ranks, ensuring only individual riders would first attack the shield wall. That was still frightening enough. The big horses had been ruthlessly schooled to be both steady in battle and a weapon in themselves. They would kick and bite if anyone got near; Martil had seen men lose half their face in one screaming moment of bloody horror. But they would not charge home onto glistening iron spearheads. They veered away, the troopers on the back slashing down at the spears, although one trooper raked his horse’s sides bloody with his spurs and forced it onto the spears, hoping to create a gap. Two spears snapped and man and horse went down screaming, the horse with a spear point deep in its lungs. The armoured trooper tried to get up and fight but Rocus stood and slammed his spear down into the man’s throat.

  The two men in the front line whose spears had been broken were knocked off their feet by the impact, and the men to either side dodged the flailing hooves of the dying horse. For a moment the shield wall was vulnerable, while Martil, Rocus and the sergeants screamed for the men to close the line. Troopers tried to exploit the gap but could not get past the horse’s body. One who tried received three arrows in his back from Tarik and his men, another suddenly found his horse impossible to ride. It bucked and kicked and threw him down to where Rocus and his men forced spears into the gaps between his armour until he stopped screaming and died. But now the main body of the charge was about to hit home.

  ‘Barrett! We need more!’ Martil turned and yelled.

  In answer, birds swooped down, not just the crows and ravens the wizard usually used for gathering information, but hawks and eagles, birds that would normally never fly together. A score of them, aiming at the eyes of the horses.

  This was not something even warhorses had been trained for. Their natural instinct was to rear away as sharp talons reached for their eyes. Troopers tried to strike at the birds with swords, and one large eagle was even dashed to the ground by a lucky blow, but the following ranks dissolved into chaos as horses broke legs on rocks in the stream, crashed into the one next to them, or just reared over backwards.

  But Barrett saw the death of one of the birds and opened his hand. Instantly the birds flew away. Martil, who had been enjoying the effect of the unusual attack, spun around angrily, but Barrett had his eyes shut and Martil could not spare the time to argue with him.

  Tarik and his men were loosing arrows swiftly, picking off men all the time, but a dozen archers were not enough to stop this many cavalry and they crashed into the line.

  Troopers swung their horses sideways into the attack, trying to open up holes for the men behind.

  The front row bent under the impact, the second row staggered back, and bellowing troopers tried to cut off spearheads with their swords, or swung wildly at the men beneath them.

  ‘At them!’ Martil pushed the men in front forwards. ‘Aim at the horses’ legs!’

  Men dropped spears and drew swords, hacked at hamstrings and bellies, and horses were brought down to provide an even more effective barrier. But swords banged down on helmets and the second row was forced to hold their shields high to try and protect the men in front.

  Martil knew this small battle was delicately poised. He drew the Dragon Sword and threw himself forwards. Standing firm was not enough now. The force of the charge had been absorbed, and the dead horses and dismounted troopers were helping block the rear ranks. But there were still plenty of cavalry eager to fight.

  Martil squeezed past a pair of militiamen and reached a mounted trooper who was lashing out at anyone who came close. His horse kicked out, the hoof banging into a shield and knocking the holder backwards. Martil jumped into the gap and swung the Sword down, lopping off the horse’s lower leg the way a normal sword would cut a flower.

  Screaming, spraying blood, the horse collapsed, crushing the trooper beneath it. Martil jumped onto its side and thrust down to end its pain, then dared any others to come close.

  Two were prepared to take up the challenge, spurring their horses towards him. The first one, Martil blocked his sword thrust and sheared off the top half of his sword. As the astonished man gazed down at the ruined sword he now held, the Dragon Sword slid into his chest and he toppled off his horse. The second one rode past, aiming a wild cut at Martil, who simply ducked. Rocus and two of his men jabbed spears at the horse and the trooper checked its progress, only for Martil to jump forwards and ram the Dragon Sword deep into the man’s back, easily piercing his mail shirt. Behind and beside him, Martil’s men followed his example, rushing into the attack.

  Instantly the battle changed. The cavalry were not able to charge home; the press of bodies and fallen horses prevented that. Troopers hacked down at his men, trying to use their superior height, while their horses tried to create room for themselves by kicking out. The guardsmen and militia used spears and swords to bring down the horses, then butchered the men when they fell.

  Martil could see two of his men were down, while others were calling out for help, yet once the troopers were down or isolated, they were proving easy prey. One man could not defeat three or four working together. The troopers could not stand for much more; their officer saw it too, and spurred his horse forwards to hack down at a pair of guardsmen.

  ‘Break them!’ the officer screamed, then seemed to choke as an arrow disappeared into his mouth. He toppled backwards and fell among the carnage of his squadron.

  That was enough for the remaining troopers. They wheeled their horses and rode for safety, while three others tried to follow on foot and were picked off by Tarik’s men.

  ‘Let the rest go,’ Martil roared. ‘Lieutenant Rocus, half your men to help their wounded and put the horses down, the rest go with Lieutenant Tarik and fire those wagons. Lieutenant Wime, help our wounded. And drink water. That’s an order for all of you!’

  Mar
til sheathed the Dragon Sword, feeling tired and sweaty. The ground in front of the shield wall was filled with bodies, of men and horses, while the road back down towards the wagons was also littered. Martil guessed that barely a score of the cavalry had escaped, and many of those would be wounded.

  Two guardsmen were dead, while two of the farm boys had been injured—trying to prove themselves as good as the others, they had rushed into the fight without thought of self-preservation. In all, eight of his men were wounded, most of them guardsmen who had taken the brunt of the attack. It was their first losses but could have been so much higher. That was scant comfort for their comrades—and the families who waited for them back at the camp. He went around, praising as many men as he could.

  He had other duties that were more difficult. ‘Thank you, Barrett. Your efforts were the difference,’ he told the wizard, who was helping the wounded.

  ‘I’m glad I could help,’ Barrett nodded, his eyes ringed with dark shadows.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Martil asked in concern. A healthy wizard was vital to their plans.

  ‘Some of the wounded were in bad shape. They’ll all be fine now, though,’ Barrett gasped and Martil realised the wizard had been attempting to heal them. Unlike priests, who received powers from Aroaril through prayer, wizards had to use their own energy to heal others. Barrett had obviously exhausted himself saving the badly injured. Martil half-carried, half-dragged him to the stream, where the wizard revived a little in the cold water and forced down plenty of dried fruit.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get us back tonight. Might have to wait until tomorrow,’ he groaned.

  ‘That’s fine. You just take it easy,’ Martil instructed. He could not be angry that the wizard had put so much effort into helping the wounded, even though it made things difficult. If they could not escape the way they had come, they needed to try something different. He thought swiftly, remembering tactics he had used back in Rallora, then went to find his officers.