by Duncan Lay
Kay gaped at him. ‘Sir, I must protest! Whatever foul customs the Berellians insist on using, this is Norstaline soil and the dead being despoiled, whatever their faults, were Norstaline!’
Finally Beq showed some emotion. ‘That is enough! You are to return to your duties, Lieutenant Kay, and if you mention this again, I can assure you that you will never hold command in the King’s army! That is a direct order!’
Kay saluted stiffly and marched out of the room, seething inside. Everything had seemed so simple a few hours ago. Lead his men north, defeat a rabble of barbarous Rallorans and regain his honour, as well as his rank. Now it was all mixed up.
‘Where have you been?’ Karia demanded.
Martil stopped in his tracks. They had returned to the chapter house without incident and slipped back upstairs again without being seen. If his men’s safety had not depended on the chapter house guards being so useless, he would have been angered by their incompetence.
He had been mentally rehearsing his story for Nott, going through several possible excuses on the way back. He expected Sister Milly to tell tales to Father Nott, so he thought he had better get in first. But no sooner had he walked in the room, than Karia had run over and confronted him.
‘Nowhere,’ he said defensively.
Karia was on edge. It had been lovely to see Father Nott again, and she had enjoyed her time with him but it had left her feeling uncertain. Father Nott had seemed preoccupied with other things—she had had to remind him of their place in the story they were reading at least six times! Then there was Martil. He had been acting funny the last couple of days, and now he had gone off by himself. What if he left her behind, and Father Nott did not want her? She had made up her mind to make Martil feel guilty so he would spend more time with her.
‘Why didn’t you take me with you?’
Had Nott put her up to this? Martil felt his anger rise.
He tried to cut her off. ‘You couldn’t come. I had to go alone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I said so!’ Martil roared in her face.
Karia burst into tears and ran away, jumping onto the bed at the back of the room and covering her head with her arms.
‘Martil…’ Nott began.
‘I don’t want to hear it!’ Martil bellowed, and stormed from the room.
Gello only just contained his temper. First came the news from Ezok that the trap to kill his cousin and her Ralloran mongrel had failed, then a report the Ralloran had been waiting for him at the Golden Gate! The report from his guards, who had been there to escort Lahra back to the palace for the night’s entertainment, was rather garbled. A session with the torturer’s knives had failed to get much more sense out of them, either. But, according to Lahra herself, the Ralloran had planned to be there to kill him. And, judging by the incompetence of his men, may well have succeeded if Gello had not remained at the palace!
‘How did he know I was going there?’ Gello asked grimly.
Ezok spread his hands. Cezar’s failure had left him seething. Still, he recognised this was an excellent opportunity to get further inside Gello’s trust.
‘Well, sire,’ he began carefully, ‘you have mentioned Lahra many times. All the nobles know you visit her. It may be that one or more of them still bear some allegiance to the former Queen. Or, perhaps jealous of you, they think they might do better under her rule.’
‘The bastards!’ Gello breathed.
‘It is the curse of great rulers such as yourself. The nobles can be compared to a pack of jackals, squabbling for scraps from the table of a lion. But, like all jackals, they cannot be trusted.’
Gello nodded thoughtfully. He had been battling a growing dread these past few days—he was so close to wiping away the stain of his past dishonour but he feared another failure. Without his mother to talk to, he was eager for good advice from a source that would not try to take his throne, or accuse him of strangling her. With some difficulty, he forced his mind away from that train of thought. ‘There is much sense in what you say. What do you suggest?’
‘Obviously you must be careful as to what you say before them, sire.’ Ezok shrugged, inviting Gello to take it to the obvious conclusion.
‘Indeed. And I shall keep them under my eye at all times. I want them with me, not in their estates, plotting. If they are all in the capital, under my control, they will find it hard to try anything!’
‘A brilliant plan, sire!’ Ezok applauded. ‘But what about the Ralloran, Martil? If the Queen’s Magician helped the Queen escape, he is unlikely to be in the capital. So Martil will have been unable to escape. He might be lying low, waiting for the traitor to contact him again.’
‘You are right!’ Gello exclaimed. ‘I will have the guards doubled on all gates, as well as on the palace. And I’ll have the nobles followed. Anything suspicious and I’ll have them on the rack faster than they can beg for mercy!’
Ezok bowed. ‘As always, your majesty is a man of wisdom,’ he intoned. With the nobles not to be trusted, and the war captains sidelined, he would be the only person Gello would listen to now. Just as Onzalez had prophesied. He would have liked to spend some more time just reinforcing that, but he had another appointment this evening. The new Archbishop was sending begging notes, asking for a meeting. Snaring the Norstaline archbishop for Zorva on the same day he had secured his hold on the King—that would be a success to put against the failure of Cezar.
‘What is it that ails you, my son?’ Nott asked gently.
Martil, who had been ready for anger and accusations, was caught off-guard. He had half expected Nott to walk in, declare he was no longer a fit guardian for Karia and walk out again. Now Nott had wrong-footed him by sitting down and asking a concerned question.
‘What makes you think there is something wrong?’ Martil countered.
Nott smiled. ‘I worked in a farming village long enough to recognise the smell of dung, so don’t try to offer me some. You sneak out in search of a whore and almost get yourself killed, then, on your return, yell at Karia. Now, I know you are not a complete idiot, so there must be something bothering you.’
Martil did not know what to say.
‘Bellic,’ he said thickly. ‘I am haunted by dreams of Bellic.’
Nott nodded. ‘What makes these different?’
Martil hesitated again. If he told the priest everything, would he be sympathetic, or disappointed?
‘You need to talk—whatever it is, it is obviously eating you up inside,’ Nott said softly.
The lack of sleep, the fear, the anguish, it all seemed to well up inside Martil and he had to get it out. ‘Every night I am back there—in Bellic. The dead hunt me through the streets, led by a woman and a boy—both of whom I killed. I run over piles of bodies, not Berellians but Rallorans and Norstalines who have died under my command. The other four war captains are there; they blame me for their torture. But when I try to escape, the thing that stops me is this woman from Rallora—she and her baby were killed by the Berellians. They did…terrible things to her, then left her to die, just letting her stay alive long enough to see her baby murdered.’ He looked into Nott’s kindly face, trying to make him understand.
‘My regiment was the one guarding the border when the Berellians crossed and destroyed her village. She says it’s all my fault—and she’s right! If we had stopped them at the border, she and her baby would be alive, there would be no Bellic…’ Martil’s voice trailed off. He looked away.
Nott patted Martil’s shoulder gently. Now was not the time to tell the man that, without Bellic, Martil would not be here now and Norstalos would have no Champion to take up the Dragon Sword. Sometimes he felt the weight of his years and, more importantly, the weight of responsibility that he bore. But he had faith that what he was doing was right; he had to.
‘A guilty conscience is a good thing,’ he told Martil. ‘But this is more than that. You need to fight back against this dream.’
‘How?’ Martil looke
d up, a desperate hope in his eyes.
Nott scratched his chin. ‘I believe the Dragon Sword is behind these dreams.’
‘The Dragon Sword?’ Martil stared down at the hilt in revulsion.
‘To have such strong, vivid dreams—it smacks of the Sword’s magic.’
‘Bastard dragons!’ Martil growled but Nott laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘Relax, my son. It is trying to help you.’
‘Help me? If this is its help, I’d be bloody terrified if it doesn’t like me!’ Martil spat.
Nott smiled. ‘I think it wants you to overcome your past, so you can become its true wielder. It is forcing you to face your deepest fears, the darkest parts within you. To overcome it, you need to find your best parts.’
Martil just looked at him blankly.
‘Your love for Karia. You need to bring her into the dream,’ Nott explained.
‘But I don’t want her anywhere near that place!’
‘I know,’ Nott said patiently. ‘She won’t be. She will be your weapon against the dream—you must make her your way out. To escape from your past, you have to escape from this dream. Do that, and not only will the dreams stop, but you will become the true wielder of the Sword.’
Martil ignored Nott’s final words; his only thought was making the dreams stop.
‘But how can I get out of the dream?’
Nott sighed. ‘It is not my dream. It is your mind that is trapped in Bellic—only your mind can find a way out of it. Besides, if I tell you the way out, how does that help you? The dream, the memories, the past—however you want to describe it—will only catch up with you again.’
Martil wished the bloody priest would just tell him how to do it or, better yet, pray up some magical solution from Aroaril. No, of course it could never be that easy. It had to be a mysterious puzzle to solve, just like in those cursed sagas. Still, there was a shred of hope. He could make the dreams stop. He sat up straighter. Since Nott had tried to help him, he thought he should be magnanimous.
‘Father, about the brothel business, I’m sorry…’ he began.
Nott waved him to silence. ‘That is in the past. It is the future I am worried about. That you escaped from Gello’s men will have warned him that you are in the capital. No doubt he will think firstly about himself but his thoughts will eventually turn to other avenues. It is only a matter of time before he discovers you are here to free the Archbishop and the other imprisoned priests. With the advantage of surprise, we should be successful. Without it, we are lost.’
‘But we have to wait for Father Quiller to let us know Barrett and the Queen are back with the rangers. Without Barrett, we have no escape,’ Martil argued.
‘I have heard from Father Quiller—there has been no word from Barrett or the Queen,’ Nott said. ‘That might mean they are still with the rangers, trying to get them all north. Or it might mean something more ominous. Nevertheless, it matters not. We must free the Archbishop tonight.’
‘And what then?’
‘We can wait here, once we have control of the building, and hope to hear from the north, or we can try to get out of the city by ourselves. We can decide once we have the Archbishop free and Prent in our power.’
Martil looked into the priest’s eyes and saw there was no persuading him.
‘Fine. We’d better tell that servant girl. Get a message to the prisoners and we’ll strike after that.’
‘There is one more task…’
Martil sighed. ‘I know. I’ll apologise to Karia.’
Merren looked around and tried to think. They had stepped out of the oak tree into a small wood, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It was getting dark and she had wounded men, as well as the dazed Rocus and Sendric and the unconscious Barrett. The wizard had saved them but would they be able to save him?
Barrett lay on the ground, along with Rocus and Sendric, while the two wounded men sat beside them, pain etched on their faces.
‘Where in Aroaril’s name are we?’ one man cried.
‘This is not the north—I can’t even see the hills! We’re just in another part of the country!’ another man, one of Rocus’s former guardsmen, groaned. ‘We’re all dead men!’
No one seemed immediately willing to disagree with that pronouncement until Jaret stepped forwards.
‘We won’t die. You can’t lose hope,’ he declared.
‘That’s great coming from you! You were nearly pissing yourself back in the barracks—and you can’t fight if we are found—you and your mates were about as useful as tits on a bull!’ the guardsman snorted. ‘Bloody militia! I knew we couldn’t trust you bastards!’
‘I left my mates dead back there! Don’t you tell me they weren’t worthy!’ Jaret snarled.
‘If they’d been any good, we wouldn’t be in this mess!’ the guardsman growled. ‘Don’t you understand? Gello’s going to hunt us down and kill us all!’
‘Afraid, are you?’ Jaret was drawing strength from the other militiamen, not just his companion from Gerrin but the remnants of Wime’s men, who were now behind him, looking grim. The other men, all guardsmen, lined up behind their spokesman.
Romon was amazed to see these men still seemed ready to fight. He prepared to run. Surely nothing could stop a bloodbath now.
‘Why, you little…!’ The guardsman drew his sword and instantly other men went for their blades.
Then Merren stepped in between the two groups, Barrett’s staff in her hands. She rammed one end into the guardsman’s stomach and then reversed it, swinging it in a sharp arc that made Jaret step back and let go of his sword hilt.
‘Enough!’ she bellowed.
They all stared at her in shock.
‘Put your blades down! We will not fight amongst ourselves! And we will not die!’ she roared. Part of her thought she should be afraid, but this was swamped by her anger and determination not to be defeated, especially not like this.
‘Our real enemies planned a trap to kill us all and they failed! We escaped! This is a victory, not a reason to fight among ourselves! Sheathe your blades or face me!’
Romon watched in awe. She was half the size of many of the men, all of whom were blood-spattered and had both sword and shield. All she had was a staff and her will. But she turned them from warriors into small boys, abashed at being caught doing something wrong. Blades disappeared into scabbards.
‘Good! Now, do you want to know how we shall get back home, or do you want me to send you away, and then tell your families you were too scared to see them again?’
The men, their rage swiftly cooling, were all looking at her, hope, fear and not a little desperation in their faces. They clearly expected her to come up with a way to save them. Romon eased a parchment out of his belt pouch and began to take notes.
Merren had acted to stop a fight without thinking about consequences, much less how they were to escape from here. All the men who might have offered her help were either dead, not there or incapable of speech or thought. It was all up to her. She took a deep breath. Just think this through aloud, she told herself.
‘Right. They’ll think we have escaped to the north, so we won’t have to worry about pursuit,’ she mused. ‘We just have to stay hidden until Barrett has recovered his strength, then we can resume our trip home. So we will need shelter, warmth and food, as well as help for the men with wounds. Jaret?’
‘Here, your majesty,’ the man said.
‘I told you, call me Merren.’ She smiled.
‘What is your name, guardsman?’ She turned to the man who was only now regaining his feet.
‘Wilsen, your majesty,’ he gasped.
‘Give me your hands, both of you!’
They held out their hands, looking like boys about to receive the punishment cane from a teacher.
Merren drew her dagger with her free hand and made a small cut on each man’s palm. Both flinched but, with her watching, neither said anything nor drew his hand away.
‘You two are now
sword-brothers. It is on your honour to see that your companion stays alive. Now shake on it!’
Sheepishly, the two men clasped hands, wrist to wrist in the warrior’s grip, their blood mingling.
‘If I see one of you without the other, you will answer to me,’ she told them. ‘As your first duty, I want the pair of you to find a village. Go there and buy us some supplies, enough for, say, two days. We shall not stay here long. After what we have all been through, there is no need for us to fight. Every man has proved their worth. We must not give in to despair. Our friends gave their lives so we might live and breathe now. To use that to argue with each other is a betrayal of their memory. Understand?’
The men nodded, and Merren could feel the mood had changed. They were thinking about what they had escaped, and how they might make it home. She dug into her belt pouch and produced a pair of gold coins, which she dropped into Jaret’s and Wilsen’s hands. ‘That should be enough for food and maybe an old horse or a donkey to help carry it. You can even keep the change! But make sure you bring back a skin of wine.’
They stared at her, wondering why, until she smiled.
‘We must send our friends off. A toast to the dead and thanks for our survival.’
‘Aye.’ Wilsen nodded. ‘You are right, your majesty. Come on, Jaret. Sooner we start, the sooner we’re back. How good are you at bargaining?’
That was the way, she told herself. Instead of thinking about their fight, or even how far they would have to walk, or what sort of reception they would get from a strange village, they would be thinking about how much money they could come back with. Now for the rest of them.
‘You and you.’ She pointed to a pair of big guardsmen. ‘Find a stream and refill the waterskins. The rest of you, we need to make some sort of shelter for the wounded, and a place where we can light a fire without being seen. We don’t have much daylight left, so let’s get moving!’
Romon the bard walked over and gave a short bow.
‘Your majesty, may I compliment you. I thought we would all be dead!’