by Duncan Lay
‘My Queen, surely that’s too many men. Sergeant Kesbury and his squad, along with myself, can handle anything that Berellian has brought along—’ Martil began.
‘You will not be accompanying us, Captain,’ Merren said loudly but calmly.
Martil felt the eyes of everyone on the table upon him.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand, your majesty,’ he said carefully. ‘Do you not want the Dragon Sword to help bolster your claims?’
‘Of course I do. But, as you have said yourself, you are not able yet to master its latent magic.’ Merren held his gaze as she spoke. She knew this had to be hurting him, but it had to be done. She had tried the gentle approach, tried to help him without anyone else knowing. But he had refused to talk to her, so now she had to take this action. Her feelings for him were still uncertain but she knew exactly what had to be done to retake her throne. That took precedence over anything else.
Martil flushed as her words hit home. ‘If you do not need me—’ he began.
‘That is not true. I, and this rebellion, need you more than ever, Captain. But we do not need you on this particular mission. My fear is, once confronted with the Lord of Bellic, you and your Rallorans will lose control. I want the man and his accomplices captured, not killed. Dead, he proves nothing except that you are a killer of men.’
Martil felt her words like a blow to the stomach. ‘If you are ashamed of my men and me…’
‘That is not the case. You and your Rallorans are a valued part of this campaign. Without you, we are doomed to failure. But in a struggle to convince my countrymen that the sagas they are being told are lies, I cannot afford to have you start a battle. If we do too much fighting at the rangers’ barracks, we have lost. Persuasion is our most effective weapon there. But never think I do not value you and your Rallorans. That is why I have a mission for you that is more important.’
Martil struggled to comprehend what was going on. Every time he had tried to work up some indignation, to let his anger free, she had taken the wind out of his sails, catching him off guard. There was a power about her, a strength to go with the softer side she had shown him yesterday. It left him confused. Now she was saying he had a more important duty? What could that be? It had been his idea to go after the rangers!
‘It’s a twofold task. I need you and Lieutenant Nerrin to start raiding the camp that Gello is setting up. Anything we can do to disrupt his preparations is vital. More than that, did you not tell me of the dangers when too many men camp together? How water must be boiled before it can be drunk, latrine trenches regularly changed, men made to wash and to eat fresh food, or sickness will strike?’
‘Aye,’ he admitted. ‘If Gello does not know his business, within a week he will have as many as one in ten of his men unable to fight.’
‘Do whatever you have to. I want his army weakened when he marches against us.’
Martil could feel his head clearing. ‘It can be done. They will not be expecting it. We can pollute the water they must drink, taint their supplies of food. We did similar against the Berellians…’
‘Excellent. But for you and Sergeant Kesbury, there is a bigger job yet. I need the two of you and Karia to travel to the capital and free the Archbishop, with the help of Father Nott.’
‘We’re going to see Father Nott! Yesss!’ Karia celebrated beside him.
Martil felt his heart leap into his mouth. What if Karia wanted to stay with Father Nott? What if Nott wanted her back? What would he do without her? How could he stop the dreams then? And Merren. He could not bear to think of something happening to her without him there to protect her. His mind was a whirl of worry. He looked down at Karia’s excitement and tried to force a smile onto his face. She was grinning at him, and leaned in to give him a hug.
‘I can’t wait! Can we go now?’ she asked.
Martil knew her long-term happiness and wellbeing were vital. Karia’s welfare should be his first concern. But all he could think about was what it would mean to him to lose her, and what his life would be like. He glanced down the table to where Merren was looking at him, an expression of faint concern on her face. He feared for her too but she had shown him in no uncertain terms where he stood. Her words had demonstrated that she might be fond of him, but he was still an asset, to be used and expended when necessary. Just like every other royal. Now he might lose Karia as well. It was too much. He licked dry lips and tried to muster an argument against this plan.
‘But Karia isn’t powerful enough to open a gateway to allow the Archbishop and others to escape,’ he managed to say.
‘But she is powerful enough to send a message to me. We will be able to co-ordinate our efforts, so I can make sure the priests get away safely,’ Barrett stated. He was struggling to contain his excitement. This was the first time he had heard of Merren’s plan but, naturally, he thought it marvellous. He was eager to help in any way that he could to squash Martil’s objections.
Martil glared at him. He hoped the useless bastard would do something stupid and get himself killed. That would take the smug expression off his face.
‘Won’t Kesbury and myself be too conspicuous in the capital?’ he tried to ask.
‘Kesbury used to work there. He will be a valuable asset in staying hidden,’ Merren stated.
‘Besides, you will have Father Nott and Sister Milly to help you,’ Quiller offered.
Martil stewed in silence, unable to think of another reason against this idea.
‘So when can we go?’ Karia demanded.
Merren cleared her throat. ‘We need to act swiftly. Barrett, we need Wime, Rocus and Forde here as soon as possible. Father, you need to contact Father Nott and tell him to expect a dozen new pilgrims, who will need to be hidden. Aroaril willing, we shall all leave in the morning.’
‘I can’t wait!’ Karia exclaimed.
I can, Martil thought gloomily. The only bright spot was at least Karia would be with him.
8
In his former life, Hutter had been a huge fan of the sagas. He had often made a special trip to Wollin to hear a really good one. He had lost some interest in them now, especially the Real Saga of Bellic, which was beginning to grate. Luckily this was to be the last performance before they marched north to end the slaughter the Rallorans were visiting on the towns there. Or so he had been told. But when he saw the bard was the famous Romon, he could not help but look forward to the performance. He had seen him twice before and thoroughly enjoyed both appearances.
Sadly, however, this one was something of a disappointment. Not only was it the same damned saga, but there was none of the spark, the showmanship, that had set apart Romon’s earlier performances. Still, it was not every day that you were able to meet a bard who had performed at court, so he lined up to speak to the great man.
Romon was signing scraps of parchment and shaking hands, and this was the only time he actually looked animated. Hutter wondered at the two guards who had watched his performance but who now were rolling dice.
Finally it was his turn.
‘So where are you from?’ Romon asked warmly.
‘Chell—a little village just outside Wollin. I saw you perform there twice, at the Crown and Sparrow.’ Hutter smiled.
Romon looked at the man. That was the second mention of the Crown and Sparrow he had had recently.
‘I can’t help but feel your performance today was not up to that standard,’ Hutter continued.
Romon looked around carefully. This time, given his audience was militiamen, he had been allowed to mingle with them, and his guards were even less interested in what was happening with him.
‘Why do you ask?’ he said carefully.
Hutter shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I made a career out of telling the difference between truth and lies.’
Romon rubbed his ear. What was it about people from that part of the world? What was going on? ‘I just perform what I’m told. Or else,’ he said quietly, gesturing over his shoulder towards his gua
rds.
Hutter’s face hardened. ‘I understand. Thank you. Aroaril go with you.’
And with that he was gone, before Romon could ask him if he knew Kettering, and why they were both suspicious about this saga. There was a story in here, Romon felt. If only he could have the chance to find out what it was. But there was no time. After he had spoken to the other men standing in line, he would have to ride hard with his guards. Apparently tomorrow he had to perform at the barracks of the King’s Rangers. Some Berellian dignitary, a lord no less, was to address the men before they marched north, and he was required to back this up with another bloody recital of this cursed saga.
‘What’s the matter?’ Karia asked.
Martil looked down at her in surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’
She shrugged. ‘You’ve been really quiet today. I wondered why.’
Martil was literally lost for words. What could he say? Where could he start? And what would she understand of his problems, his concerns? It would not be fair to burden her. Besides, what could she do?
‘Would a hug help?’
Not trusting himself to speak, Martil just nodded, and she immediately grabbed him around the chest, squeezing him tight, as if she would never let go. He hugged her back, smelling the fresh scent of her hair, lemony, like Merren’s. He kissed the top of her head. Something in him wanted to tell her about his dreams but his fear kept him from doing so. After all, they were about to go off and see Father Nott. This was not the time to be telling her the truth, or she might want to stay with Father Nott.
For her part, Karia was also feeling concerned. She was excited about seeing Father Nott again, especially as he had said such a thing was impossible. But there was also a fear within her. Father Nott had given her up to Edil; Edil had not wanted her. Martil had tried to return her to Father Nott and he had sent her away again. She was enjoying life with Martil but what if he did not want her any more? Would he try and give her back to Father Nott? But she did not dare ask Martil. She did not think she could bear that.
‘Do you want me to hold your hand again tonight?’ Karia looked up.
Martil hugged her fiercely. ‘Yes, I do,’ he admitted.
Martil sat up, the beginnings of a scream dying in his throat, the sweat thick and clammy on his body.
‘You bloody idiot,’ he told himself softly. He must have let go of Karia’s hand in the night, giving the dream a chance to take hold.
Then he looked down to see Karia’s small hand in his own.
‘What am I going to do now?’ he whispered into the darkness.
Tiera had proved to be an extraordinarily valuable ally for both Milly and Nott. As well as being able to pass on messages to the prisoners, to warn and prepare them for a rescue attempt, she had smuggled a dozen robes out of the laundry: Nott had decided to disguise Martil and his men as novice priests. A few weeks ago such a disguise could not have succeeded but many of the novices being recruited by Prent were far more muscular than the usual crop. Besides, it would only have to be effective for a day or two.
Now Nott, Milly and Tiera were waiting in a city park, near the huge oak tree that was the meeting point. Not many people were around this early—the mornings were beginning to have a definite chill and the city’s denizens usually waited for the day to warm up. But they had already seen a few children and wanted to be careful. Tiera and Milly kept watch while Nott checked the tree.
‘There they are,’ Nott said urgently.
The end of a wizard’s staff was suddenly poking out of the seemingly solid trunk of the oak tree.
‘Anyone around?’ Nott asked.
‘All clear, Father,’ Tiera reported.
Nott tapped thrice on the end of the staff, the pre-arranged signal, then stepped back.
A large Ralloran soldier walked out of the tree trunk, holding on to the oaken staff, followed in quick succession by nine more soldiers, then out came Karia and Martil. As soon as they were clear of the tree, Martil knocked three times on the staff and it was withdrawn.
‘Father, where are you?’ Martil turned. Kesbury and his squad were spread out defensively around the tree, just in case.
‘I am here.’ Nott stepped around the bulky Kesbury and Karia let go of Martil’s hand to sprint to him, almost knocking him over in her excitement.
‘Father!’ she squealed.
Martil watched her run over and hug the old priest and felt a sensation not unlike pain in his chest.
‘Karia!’ Nott hugged her back and kissed her.
But Martil had no time for their reunion. ‘Father, we should not stay here,’ he said urgently. ‘Who are your companions?’
Nott straightened up with some difficulty, as Karia was still hanging on to him.
‘Sister Milly, former secretary to Archbishop Declan and my eyes and ears in the church. And Tiera, one of the church’s servants and a loyal friend. She has secured us these robes, which we will use to disguise you.’
Tiera immediately began handing out the large brown robes, which came with a deep cowl. Martil nodded approvingly. He had forbidden his men to bring their mail shirts, for the sound and smell of them was impossible to hide. Instead, each man was wearing a boiled leather breastplate and carried sword and dagger, all of which were sure to arouse suspicion on the streets of the capital.
Tiera, who had long red hair and wide green eyes and whose shapely body could not be disguised by the modest uniform she wore, was attracting plenty of approving glances from Kesbury and his men as they pulled on the robes. She stepped close to Milly, under the pretence of picking up more robes. The young priestess had been expecting this. After all, Tiera had just escaped the unwanted attentions of Prent. The last thing she wanted was to have a bunch of burly soldiers ogling her.
‘It’s all right. They are good men,’ she said softly.
Tiera nodded and smiled, a little uncertainly. ‘I am fine,’ she lied confidently, then started handing out more robes. Milly sighed. A girl like Tiera should have been able to flirt and laugh with these men, for it was obvious they meant no harm, they were just reacting normally to a pretty girl. But instead her eyes were downcast and her body language nervous. Prent had so much to answer for.
‘How are you?’ Nott crossed to Martil and gripped his arm. The old priest had been delighted to see the change in Karia. She had put on some weight, her hair was clean and brushed, her skin fresh and clear of bruises, her face happy. But not much had changed with the warrior since Nott had seen him last. In fact, judging from the deep circles under his eyes, Martil was even worse than before.
‘I am fine, Father.’ Martil did not want to discuss anything with the priest.
‘I am sorry I could not tell you what was going to happen. The state you were in, I feared you would have simply run.’ Nott tried to joke about it.
‘How about you just tell me how it ends, and we’ll call it even?’ Martil suggested, trying to make it seem as if he was also joking.
Nott sighed. ‘My son, I do not know how it will end. In fact, I fear even Aroaril does not know how it will end.’
‘Then what use is He?’ Martil said unthinkingly.
Nott’s grip on his arm tightened. ‘I have told you not to speak like that! And, given what we are about to do, I suggest we need all the help we can get.’
Martil pulled his arm free. ‘Let’s get somewhere safe and you can tell me all about your plan.’ He accepted a robe from Tiera and pulled it over his head.
Nott stared at him coolly. ‘I hope you remember I am not your enemy,’ he said softly, then turned to the others. ‘Follow me, all of you. If we are stopped, you are all under a vow of silence. Tiera, I need you to take Karia’s hand and walk with her, a little way ahead of us. If you see a patrol, stop and pick her up, understand?’
Milly opened her mouth to volunteer for the job instead but Tiera was quick to step forwards.
‘I can do that, Father,’ she said confidently.
Karia was a little reluctant to
be parted from Nott but, reassured that she would see him back at the chapter house, she skipped happily enough alongside Tiera.
‘Follow the Father—and for Aroaril’s sake keep those swords out of sight,’ Martil instructed his soldiers. He had had enough practice over the long years of the Ralloran Wars to put aside his personal feelings in order to get the job done. He would do so again, although watching Karia skip away from him was putting that ability to its sternest test.
The ranger barracks was several miles from any villages or towns. On one side was a long series of archery ranges, from the basic series of targets to the more advanced, complete with trees, walls and even houses. On the other side was a small wood, which was also used as a training ground. There was no wall around the barracks, and getting in was obviously not going to be an issue. It remained to be seen if getting out again would be. The woods, with the undergrowth trodden flat by years of training exercises, had three oak trees, one of which they had arrived through, any of which could be used as an escape route. But Merren prayed it would not come to that.
‘Your majesty?’ Rocus gestured at the model of the barracks they stood around. Thanks to Barrett’s magic, some twigs and mud had become miniature buildings on the forest floor.
‘We’ll go in as a small group, and we’ll be relying on you, Barrett, to make it a dramatic entrance,’ Merren announced.
She was not happy about this whole mission.
They had managed to get some accurate information about the upcoming performance by sending one of Wime’s men in to pose as a tinker. He had been generous with a couple of bottles of brandy, sharpened a few knives and come back with a fair idea of what was going to happen.
After all she had risked, and faced, it seemed ridiculous to gamble so much on this. But she knew there was no choice. Still, giving the final order to go in there was not easy.