by Duncan Lay
Martil glanced over his shoulder to see her smile at him, total trust in her eyes. He grinned back at her.
‘Hold on!’ he said and was off, running down the corridor, deliberately swerving towards decorative pillars, taking steps two at a time and laughing as Karia squealed with delight and clutched on tighter.
‘Faster!’ she cheered.
They burst out into the sunlight and Karia slid from his back. Puffing a little, but laughing, he followed her into the small kitchen garden.
The afternoon seemed to go on forever. Martil felt like a prisoner released from a dark cell. Everything just melted away—his fears, his guilt—around her it disappeared like mist before the sun. It was a feeling that was worth all the money he had and could ever have. Yes, she could be occasionally annoying but, for a time like this, it was more than worth it. Whether telling stories, playing games or just walking and talking through the kitchen garden, he felt happier than he had in years—it was almost as if he was a child again, through her, with nothing but a bright future and boundless optimism ahead of him. It just felt so good.
Karia revelled in that glorious afternoon. The sun was shining, she was wanted and loved; she was having so much fun, making him laugh and laughing at him. It was perfect. She knew that afternoon would stay in her memory forever. She did not want it to end, and was excited when he suggested they eat dinner in her room, rather than in the audience chamber, where the Queen would preside over the evening meal. Karia thought this was great—she hated having to sit still and quiet at the table while the adults chatted endlessly—boring! And the food always took too long to arrive. The kitchen staff were only too pleased to oblige, having been thoroughly charmed by Karia, and witnessing first-hand how Martil had fought to save them and their families.
So it was a natural extension for Martil to suggest, after they had eaten, that they have a sleepover in her room that night. Part of this was his plan for Karia to keep away the bad dreams, but part was simply not wanting to be without her. She could make him laugh, as nobody since Borin or Tomon had.
Again, Karia thought this sounded just fine. She liked having her own room, with plenty of space for the dolls, but the bed was too big, and the keep made strange noises at night. Plus she felt she didn’t get enough sagas read to her, nor songs sung to her. With Martil right there, he would have no excuse for not singing just one more song. And perhaps she would not feel so lonely.
So it proved. After three sagas—including her favourite one about the many princesses who loved to dance every night—two renditions of his ‘go to sleep’ song and much hair brushing, she reluctantly fell asleep, clutching Dolly.
Martil was exhausted by now—and lying in an awkward position, on his side, squashed up on the edge of the bed with a huge pile of dolls between them. But he was happy.
Looking down at her small face, so peaceful in sleep, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and thought how much happiness, how much colour she had brought into his grey life. He smiled. He had not thought about Bellic all the time he was with her.
‘Your fault! All your fault!’
Martil sobbed as he scrambled over mounds of bodies. They all seemed to be the murdered Ralloran villagers, although the streets were clearly in Bellic. Worse, even though every one of them bore hideous wounds, they all opened their mouths and spoke with one voice, condemning him as he tried to climb over them, tried to escape the Berellian woman and her son who stalked him remorselessly. Babies, their heads misshapen and smashed, wailed as his hands scrabbled to find purchase on the piles of the dead. Even in the midst of the dream, he found time to wonder where all the Berellian dead had got to. Then he clambered over another pile and discovered them. The side streets were full of the walking dead. Every one of them had wounds ripped into their dead bodies, but the weapons they brandished were clutched tightly in their hands.
‘There he goes! It’s him! He’s the last of them!’ the cry went up from a thousand dead mouths, and they rushed forwards.
‘I am sorry! I wish I could go back! I wish none of this had ever happened!’
But they ignored his anguished apologies. Instead they hungered for vengeance.
Martil ran as he had never run before. The dead bodies choking the streets had impeded him, but now he just skimmed over the top of them. The dead reached out for him but he was able to evade them. Their moans and screams of hatred pursued him as he sped into the town square—and skidded to a halt.
Here there were no dead bodies lying on the cobbles. Instead, four scaffolds stood in the centre of the square. Hanging from them were the other four war captains from Bellic. Each twisted and choked on the ropes around their necks, while their chests were ripped open, their hearts lying on the cobbles beneath them.
‘Your fault, all your fault. You led us to this,’ they moaned with one voice.
‘No! That’s not true!’ Martil tried to protest.
‘Don’t lie to the dead! You are the one! The Butcher of Bellic!’
‘Don’t call me that!’ Martil screamed, but they twisted and turned away from him, writhing endlessly on the ropes that held them.
A roar from behind him made him turn, to see the hordes of the dead rushing forwards, led by the woman and her son, the long knife and the wicked spear lusting for his flesh.
He turned to run once more—the gates were not far away—only to find his legs would not move. Looking down, dreading what he would find, he stared into the bloodied face of the woman from the Ralloran village, holding her slaughtered baby.
‘Your fault! All your fault!’ she hissed.
‘Daddy! Wake up!’
Martil sat up, the beginning of a scream dying in his throat. His heart was racing and he could feel cold sweat all over his body.
‘What’s the matter? You were making funny noises in your sleep! You woke me up!’ Karia accused.
Martil wiped his face with a shaking hand and tried to calm his hammering heart.
‘It was a bad dream,’ he managed to say.
Karia carefully moved her dolls aside until she was next to him.
‘Lie back down,’ she advised.
‘I can’t…’
‘Do what I tell you,’ she instructed. ‘Lie down and I’ll sing you to sleep.’
He allowed her to pat his face and try to sing to him. It was relaxing.
‘Now your turn to sing to me,’ she declared.
So he managed to sing through a dry mouth, until it was obvious she had fallen asleep again, her small hand resting in his.
He held on to it tightly. He felt that as long as he held her hand, the dream would not come back.
Romon finished his performance, as always, with a bow. He was finding this harder and harder to do, although the presence of a pair of guards meant he had plenty of motivation. But this was ridiculous! Giving a performance in front of a pack of criminals! Murderers and the like—as if they were able to appreciate his art. The thought of what he had been reduced to by Gello left him dispirited. If he had known another trade, he would have snapped his lyre and returned to it. As the audience was ordered back to the training grounds, he turned away, stuffing the official scrolls into his belt pouch.
‘Romon! Romon the bard!’
He turned, hearing a vaguely familiar voice, to see a lean man with an angry face hurrying towards him. The man had hard lines around his eyes and, although the top of his head was bald, he had long hair swept back from above both his ears and tied into a ponytail with a crude leather thong. Romon looked around for his guards but, their duty done with the end of another performance given exactly as scripted, they were several paces away, talking. Romon wondered with alarm if this criminal was going to try and kill him in front of so many witnesses.
Romon had never fought a man before, but he did not lack courage. He straightened himself to his full height and held his lyre as if it were some sort of weapon, rather than a small musical instrument.
‘What is it?’ he said haugh
tily, putting all his skill into those words and striking a pose that he hoped would show off his fighting qualities.
‘Do you not remember me?’ the criminal asked, stopping a full pace away.
Romon looked at the man carefully. He had performed to so many people, including some rather fanatical fans who insisted on following him around and sending him strange gifts. There was something about the man that was vaguely familiar—but that was not necessarily a good thing.
‘I’m sorry…’ he began.
‘It’s Kettering, from the Crown and Sparrow at Wollin. I used to book all the bards—you performed for a week straight earlier this year,’ the man said urgently.
Romon stared in shock. The Kettering he knew had been a good-hearted, efficient man with all the fearsome reputation of a limp lettuce. What he was doing here, and how he had survived life with this band of cutthroats, Romon shuddered to think.
‘You look different,’ Romon said automatically. ‘Your hair looks good, though.’
Kettering gave him the ghost of a smile. ‘It’s all I have left of me,’ he admitted.
‘What happened to you?’ Romon blurted.
‘There isn’t much time. They don’t like us talking or thinking,’ Kettering said urgently. Part of him registered Romon’s reaction but he did not have the luxury of being horrified by it. ‘Romon, I know you. You were always a bard to be trusted. Why are you spreading these lies?’
Romon instinctively glanced over to where his two guards were still engrossed in conversation.
‘Because I’ll be dead otherwise,’ he said quietly. ‘King Gello is making all this up, he’s allied himself to Berellia.’
Kettering nodded. ‘As I thought. Thank you. Good luck.’
With that he turned away. He had learned not to attract attention to himself and besides, he needed to think about what this meant.
‘Wait! What are you doing here?’ Romon called, but Kettering had been swallowed by the crowd of criminals, and Romon had no intention of plunging into them to try and find the man. What was going on in this bloody country?
‘Captain! Wake up!’
Martil cursed as his eyes opened. He had been sleeping, actually sleeping without dreams! He held up his hand and, sure enough, Karia’s small hand was still safely enclosed. He let go with the greatest reluctance.
‘What is it?’ he called.
‘A rider from the passes! Urgent message for you, sir!’
Martil groaned and stood. Karia still seemed to be sleeping—she might be tough to get to sleep but, once she was asleep, she was harder to wake. He opened the door to find one of Wime’s men, accompanied by a dirty, tired Ralloran scout.
‘Message from Lieutenant Nerrin, sir.’ The scout handed over a sealed scroll. He was swaying slightly as he stood to attention.
‘Take him down to the kitchens, get him food and water, then find him a place to sleep,’ Martil instructed the militiaman.
He waited until the pair had walked away before opening the scroll. He read it quickly, feeling his brain wake further with each new word.
‘Zorva’s ba—’ he began before realising Karia was standing behind him in her nightdress, yawning slightly. ‘Ba—backside,’ he amended hastily.
‘What’s going on? And when’s breakfast?’ she asked automatically as he hugged her.
‘Let’s get dressed—we need to get word to Merren,’ he sighed.
It was a hastily assembled council that waited anxiously to hear what he had to say. Outside, the town was just waking up. In the audience chamber, servants placed plates of bread, cheese and honey on the table, and added pots of hot tea and jugs of fresh fruit juice.
Merren waited until the last servant had left. It was not that she distrusted them, but she suspected there might be some bad news that she did not want spreading through the town. There was a general feeling of optimism these days, a feeling the worst of this war had passed, and they were on the winning side. ‘What is the news from the passes?’
‘We only have a little time: a couple of weeks at best, definitely no more than a month. Nerrin has reported Gello has sent an advance party north; they are setting up a massive camp only ten miles from the most northerly pass. It appears Gello is planning to bring at least ten thousand men north. If we are to act, we must act now.’
‘Can we hold those passes?’ Merren asked immediately.
‘If we concentrate at one pass, we could repulse them for a few days. But they will have cavalry enough to sweep through at least one of the other passes. It will be a delaying tactic, no more.’
‘And if we had the rangers as well?’
‘We could hold for weeks, but not forever.’
‘Can we face them in battle?’ Merren made sure her face was impassive. She could see the worry, even the first signs of panic, on the faces of some of the councillors. Barely six hundred of Gello’s soldiers had caused carnage in the streets of the town. Now ten thousand were marching north. To show a hint of the concern she was feeling would be deadly. ‘I will not allow these towns to be besieged and destroyed. It was my actions that freed them. They are my responsibility. I will not shelter behind innocent people. Whatever happens, it will take place far from these walls, and far from the women and children. If the worst comes, then I will face Gello on the field, alone if necessary.’
‘You will never stand alone, my Queen,’ Barrett declared immediately.
‘You cannot do that! My Queen, you should flee the country,’ suggested Sendric. ‘Once we are safely away, we can think of returning one day…’
Merren ignored them. ‘Captain, I asked you a question.’
Martil rubbed his face.
‘There is one place—about fifteen miles north of the passes. I do not know its name but there is one last, steep hill that overlooks the road—’
‘Pilleth,’ Gratt interjected. ‘It’s known as Pilleth.’
Martil nodded his thanks. ‘It reminds me of a Ralloran hill, called Mount Shadar. I fought the Berellians there many years ago. We used the angle of the hill to enormous effect. Because of its steepness, our bowmen outranged even their crossbows. With barely two hundred archers, we were able to hold an entire army at bay, simply because they could not advance up a steep slope into an arrow storm. It was not until our arrows ran short that they were able to make progress, but even then the slope gave us an enormous advantage.’
Merren, who had been contemplating a lonely and painful defeat in some muddy field somewhere, snapped back to the conversation instantly.
‘With just two hundred archers, you said? So what if you had one thousand—the regiment of rangers?’
Martil forced his face to remain impassive. The story of Mount Shadar was true enough, although he had left out the rather vital fact that only desperate and ferocious hand-to-hand fighting had held the Berellians back until King Tolbert and the rest of the army arrived. His division had inflicted enormous casualties on the Berellians but it had been shattered in the process. His cavalry company, which he had fought with that day, had led several counter-attacks that had saved the lives of many of his men, including Nerrin. But, by the end of the day, barely a dozen still lived. ‘With a thousand rangers, as well as my own Ralloran archers and Tarik’s company, we could slaughter Gello’s men. Half his army is barely trained—men such as that will break rather than advance up a steep hill into certain death. With a little luck, we could actually defeat Gello.’
The reaction around the table was astonishing. One moment everyone had been contemplating a grim future of fighting a last, desperate battle or running for safety. Now Martil—the fabled Captain Martil, the man who had led them to an endless series of victories and who had never lost a battle as a commander—was telling them they could win!
Only Merren did not join in the excited chatter, and the cheers depressed her, rather than lifted her. She had made the decision not to go after the rangers. Martil might think that finding and killing this Lord of Bellic was the best t
hing for him but she rather doubted that. More importantly, it sounded too good to be true. There was nothing on the surface to arouse her suspicions—it was obvious the information had had to be tortured out of Warnock. But she was wary of committing herself to such a risky venture. Freeing the Archbishop and the priests would be tackling a handful of guards and freeing just enough prisoners who could be transported away by Barrett’s magic. As well, they had people on the inside. But the rangers…How many would turn on her? Even if it was just a company, she could lose every man who went down there.
And, even if they could be turned, how could she get them back, especially if most of Gello’s army was setting up outside the passes? Persuading men to join her then marching them to their doom was not acceptable. She had been wondering how to tell Martil that. But now it looked as though she had no choice.
With no sign of the talk dying down, she looked quickly around the table. Only Martil did not seem to be joining in the excitement. She caught his gaze and they locked eyes for a moment before he looked away. She felt her heart sink. All those years she had prayed for a Champion to wield the Dragon Sword and now she had one who was both more, and less, than she needed. But she merely slapped her hand on the table to bring silence to the room. This would be a tough decision. But she would make it.
‘I have decided we shall attempt to capture this Lord of Bellic, rescue the bard and win over the rangers to our side,’ she said heavily. ‘I am not convinced this will succeed but I am afraid we must try. The chance to face, and beat, Gello is worth risking everything for. And if we can win over a bard, we could indeed start bringing more men over to our side. With the rangers, perhaps we could hold the passes long enough to give us a chance to try. Because the risk is so great, I will be going. I will not send men to their deaths without risking my own life. For protection, as well as the need to persuade Kay and his rangers that the stories they have been hearing from Gello’s bards are all lies, I will take Tarik, Wime, Forde and Rocus, Sendric and Barrett. Wime, Forde and Rocus can each bring a squad of men to defeat any guards and capture the Lord of Bellic.’